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NO. 165. SEPTEMBER, 1880. Vol. XXVIII.

THE NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

BOSTON:

THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO.,
36 BROMFIELD STREET.
American News Co., 39 &amp; 41 Chambers St., New York.
New-England News Co., 14 Franklin St., Boston,
Central News Company, Philadelphia.
Western News Company, Chicago.

$1.50 a Year, in advance. A single copy, 15 cents.

Entered at the Post Office at Boston as Second-Class Matter.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE,

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                            PAGE
ROSA BONHEUR                   By _Alfred Selwyn_            65
PIP AND POP                    By _Uncle Charles_            67
WHAT CAME OF A DIRTY FACE      By _H._                       69
WATERING THE FLOWERS           By _Uncle Sam_                70
BABY TO HER DOLL               By _W. G._                    72
PETER AND TOMMY                By _Uncle Charles_            73
IF I WERE A FAIRY              By _George S. Burleigh_       74
A CHILD FASCINATING BIRDS      By _Emily Carter_             77
DADDY FROG                     By _George Cooper_            79
THE FIRST CATCH                By _G.T.T._                   81
TALKING WITH THE FINGERS       By _S.A.E._                   82
A DAY ON GRANDPA'S FARM        By _S.J.P._                   83
EMMA AND ETTA                  By _A.B.C._                   85
BROWNIE'S ADVENTURE            By _Mrs B. P, Sibley_         87
A MISJUDGED FRIEND             By _Marian Douglas_           90
A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE       By _Mrs. Henrietta R. Eliot_  92
SONG OF THE BIRDS              _(Music by T. Crampton)_      96

       *       *       *       *       *

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36 Bromfield Street, Boston, Mass.

[Illustration: Oxen]




ROSA BONHEUR.


About forty years ago, at an exhibition of paintings in Paris, two small
pictures attracted great attention. One was called "Goats and Sheep;"
the other, "Two Rabbits."

They were wonderfully true to life; and what made them still more
remarkable was, that they were the production of a girl only nineteen
years old. That young French girl, Rosalie Bonheur, is now the famous
artist known the world over as "Rosa Bonheur."

She was born in Bordeaux in 1822. Her father, Raymond Bonheur, was an
artist of much merit, and he was her first teacher. From earliest youth
she had a great fondness for animals, and delighted in studying their
habits.

So, naturally enough, she made animals the subjects of her pictures, and
it is in this peculiar department of art that she has become eminent.
Her works are quite numerous and widely known. One of the most famous is
her "Horse-Fair," which was the chief attraction of the Paris Exhibition
in 1853.

She is still practising her art; and in addition to that she is the
directress of a gratuitous "School of Design" for young girls. When
Paris was besieged by the Prussians, the studio and residence of Rosa
Bonheur were spared and respected by special order of the crown prince.

Auguste Bonheur, a younger sister of Rosa, and one of her pupils, has
also gained a high reputation as an artist. She, too, excels as a
painter of animals.

We give as a frontispiece to this number an engraving of one of her
pictures, and we will let the picture tell its own story. It is a work
that would do credit to the famous Rosa herself.

ALFRED SELWYN.




PIP AND POP.

[Illustration: Pip And Pop.]


_Pip_.--Well, cousin Pop, how goes the world with you? Do you find any
worms?

_Pop_.--Not a sign of one! What is to become of the race of sparrows, I
don't know. The spring is late and chilly. There is still frost in the
ground.

_Pip_.--Not even a fly have I caught this blessed day.

_Pop_.--Just my luck, friend Pop! If it weren't for the crumbs a little
girl throws out for me every day, I should starve.

_Pip_.--I should like to know that little girl. Where does she live?

_Pop_.--She is at school now. But come with me about two o'clock, and
you shall be fed.

_Pip_.--Thank you, cousin. I'll do as much for you one of these days. I
have heard of a little girl in Ohio, who feeds the birds so well, that
they follow her into the house, light on her head, and play with her.

_Pop_.--A thought strikes me, cousin. The little girl who feeds me is
just as good as the Ohio girl; but I am not as good as the Ohio birds. I
have not trusted her as I ought to. I have not lighted on her head. I
have not followed her into the house.

_Pip_.--That was a fault, my dear Pop. I do not think she will put us in
a cage. I think she will be good to us.

_Pop_.--Then I'll tell you what we'll do. After she has had her dinner,
we'll fly in at the window, and light on the table.

_Pip_.--A good idea! I agree to it. Now, don't you be afraid, Pop, and
back out.

_Pop_.--That I won't. First we'll go and have a good wash in the brook,
so that our feathers shall be all clean.

_Pip_.--Another good idea! Hunger sharpens your wits, cousin.

_Pop_.--It sharpens my appetite: I know that.

_Pip_.--Come on, then! Let us see who will fly the faster to the brook.
[_They fly off_.]

UNCLE CHARLES

[Illustration: Birds Drinking]




WHAT CAME OF A DIRTY FACE.

[Illustration: What Came of a Dirty Face.]


    A little boy I used to know,
      Who went to a district school.
    He learned to read, and he learned to write,
      And to whisper against the rule.
    What fun it was with his marbles to play
      When the teacher was busy, and looking away!

    This little boy, one day, was sent
      A pail of water to bring,
    And like Jack and Jill away he ran,
      And back he came with a swing.
    But, just as he entered the schoolroom door,
    Both he and the water went down on the floor.

    Oh, then, what a noise there was in the room!
      The school-ma'am fetched a mop;
    But, the more she tried the water to check,
      The more it wouldn't stop.
    There never was such water to run:
      It seemed, with the children, to like the fun.

    What was it that made the little boy fall,
      And show such a lack of grace?
    I'll tell you all, for I happen to know:
      It was only a dirty face!
    He looked at himself in the water-pail,
    And that made the little boy's footstep fail.




WATERING THE FLOWERS.


"Why is it that flowers always grow so nicely for Mary? I often plant
seeds; but nothing comes from them. They won't grow for me. But blossoms
seem to spring right up wherever she goes. They must have a particular
liking for her."

That's what Master Tom said, one day, as he saw Mary watering the
flowers.

Well, it is no wonder, Tom, if flowers do have a liking for such a
lovable little girl. There's nothing so very strange about that. How
could they help liking her?

[Illustration: Watering the Flowers.]

But, after all, perhaps the secret of the matter is, that Mary loves the
flowers, and never forgets to take care of them. She looks after them
every day, and not by fits and starts, as some people do.

So she has good luck with her flowers, and is always able to make up a
nice bouquet. And she not only enjoys the flowers herself, but, what is
better still, she takes delight in having others enjoy them with her.

She does not forget to send a liberal share to the Flower Mission; and
many a poor sufferer has been cheered by the sight of Mary's flowers.

UNCLE SAM.




BABY TO HER DOLL.

[Illustration: Baby to Her Doll.]


    I wonder what you are thinking about
      While you look so smiling at me.
    You never frown, and you never pout;
      Your eyes are as clear as can be,
    And though you are often hurt, no doubt,
      Not a tear do I ever see!

W.G.




PETER AND TOMMY.

[Illustration: Peter and Tommy.]


_Peter._--I say, Tommy, where did you get that new hat you have on your
head?

_Tommy._--What business is that of yours?

_Peter._--Oh, I want to learn, that's all. I may be wanting to get a hat
of that kind myself, you know. Is it the latest style?

_Tommy._--Look here, young one: I sha'n't stand any of your chaffing. As
soon as I get through with my bread and butter, I shall take hold of
you.

_Peter._--Your bark is worse than your bite, Tommy. I shouldn't wonder
if you were to come off second best in a square fight.

_Tommy._--Be off, Peter, and let me eat my bread and butter in peace.

_Peter._--It seems to me it would be good manners to offer me a bite.

_Tommy._--You'll provoke me, Peter, to give you a thrashing.

_Peter._--My advice is that you don't try it on.

_Tommy._--Peter, you are a little upstart. I should leave nothing of
you, if I once took hold of you in earnest.

_Peter._--It's a hot day, Tommy, and the wisest thing you can do is to
share your slice with me. I am very hungry.

_Tommy._--Oh, if you're hungry, that alters the case. Sit down, Peter,
and you shall have a good bite.

_Peter._--Ah! That tastes nice. Now, Tommy, explain about that hat of
yours.

_Tommy._--That's my secret, Peter. I sha'n't tell it.

_Peter._--I can guess it. It's only a basket.

_Tommy._--What a wise Peter you are! And to think you've had no
schooling as yet!

UNCLE CHARLES.




IF I WERE A FAIRY.


    If I were a fairy slight and small,
        Say, about as tall
    As a span-worm forming the letter O,
    What do you think I would do? I know!
    In the bell of the lily I'd rock and swing,
        Twitter and sing;
    And, taking the gold-dust under me,
    I'd splash the hips of the buzzing bee,
    That he might have meal to make his bread,
        With honey spread,
    For his thousand babies all in rows,
    Each in a bandbox up to his nose.

    I'd count the curls of the hyacinth
        By the fallen plinth,
    And make them glossy with morning dew
    By sunrise tinted with purple and blue;
    And out of the sunset sky I'd get
        For the violet
    Yellow and red, and dark marine,
    And purples deep, and a tender green;
    And all night long, as they lay in sleep,
      I would paint and steep
    Their velvet cheeks in a hundred dyes,
    That well they might open great staring eyes.

    Unseen I would come where the tired ants tug
        At a heavy slug,
    With my rye-beard lance I'd push it along,
    And they'd think, "All at once we are wondrous strong!"
    In the nest of the robin, under the eaves
        Of the apple-leaves,
    I'd drop a worm in the gaping throats
    That answer my chirp of the mother's notes.
    When bonny Miss Harebell thirsts in vain
       For a drop of rain,
    I would fill at the brook my shining cap,
    And lay it all dripping in her lap.

    Oh, what would I do as a fairy small?
        I cannot tell all;
    But I would do much with a right good will:
    To all things good, and to nothing ill.
    And I'd laugh and skip, like a bird on wing,
        Twitter and sing,
    And make boys and girls, and birds and flowers,
    All say, "What a lovely world is ours!"

    Well, what if I am not quite so small?
         I can do it all
    In my own sweet home by the same good will,
    No fairy, but something nobler still.

GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

[Illustration: If I Were a Fairy.]




A CHILD FASCINATING BIRDS.

[Illustration: A Child Fascinating Birds.]


There is a little girl in Ohio, five years old, who has the power of
charming birds at will. Her mother was the first to notice the exercise
of this strange power.

The little Girl was playing in the yard where some snowbirds were
hopping about. When she spoke to them, they would come, twittering with
glee, and light upon her shoulders.

On her taking them in her hands and stroking them, the birds did not
care to get away. They seemed to be highly pleased, and, when let loose,
would fly a short distance, and soon return to the child again.

She took several of them into the house to show to her mother. The
mother, thinking the little girl might hurt the birds, put them out of
doors. But the little birds were not to be cheated in this way. No
sooner was the door opened than they flew into the room again, and
alighted upon the girl's head, and began to chirp.

The birds staid about the house all winter. Whenever the door was
opened, they would fly to the little girl. The parents feared that this
might be a bad omen, and that the little girl would die.

But she kept her health, and did not die. She still makes pets of the
birds, and they come and play with her. She handles them so gently, that
even a humming-bird has been known to come to her several times.

Last winter a whole flock of birds kept near the house all the season.
She would feed them, and then play with them for hours at a time. Every
morning the birds would fly to her window, and chirp, as much as to say,
"Good-morning, little mistress! Wake up, wake up!"

I think the child must be a near relation of that "Little Bell," of whom
the poet Westwood sang,--

    "Whom God's creatures love," the angels fair
    Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care:
        Child, thy bed shall be
    Folded safe from harm; love deep and kind
    Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind,
        Little Bell, for thee!"

EMILY CARTER.




DADDY FROG.

[Illustration: Daddy Frog & Children]


    Old Daddy Frog lives in a bog,
      And his coat is bottle-green;
    Yellow his vest; handsomely dressed,
      His pretty shape is seen.
    Puffing with pride, there at his side
      His dame is sure to be:
    Smiling, she says, "No one could raise
        A finer family!
      Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!"

    Old Daddy Frog leaps on a log
      In a spry and jaunty way:
    Calling his boys--oh, what a noise!
      He joins them in their play.
    Hippety hop! under they pop,
      And Daddy Frog says he,
    "Isn't it fine? How they will shine,
      This polished family!
    Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!"

    Old Daddy Frog lives in the bog
      Till the summer days are done:
    Little boys grow; dressed like a beau
      Now is each model son.
    Daddy Frog's eyes wink with surprise,
      Filled with delight is he;
    Dame at his side chuckles with pride,
      "There's no such family!
    Singing Coa, coa, coa, kerchunk!"

GEORGE COOPER.

[Illustration: Daddy Frog]




THE FIRST CATCH.


    One.
    Two.
    Three.
    Four.
    Five.

[Illustration: Fish in Hat]

    I
    caught
    a
    fish
    alive.

    Why
    did
    You
    let
    him
    go?

[Illustration: Boy Bit]

    He
    bit
    my
    little
    finger
    so.




TALKING WITH THE FINGERS.


No doubt, many of the little readers of "The Nursery" go to school; yet
not many of them, I think, can ever have been in such a school as the
one in which I am teaching. The walls of the room are hung with pictures
of birds, animals, insects, fishes, and flowers. The blackboard is
covered with drawings of many familiar objects.

While I am writing this, seven little boys and nine little girls (how
many does that make in all?) are busy writing on their slates. These
children do not have any books to study. I tell them what I wish to
teach them, and they write it down, and try to remember it. But I teach
them without speaking a word. I talk to them with my fingers.

You have guessed already, I dare say, that these dear little children
are deaf and dumb; that is, they can neither hear nor speak. They cannot
go to school and live at home, and see papa and mamma night and morning,
as you can; for there are no schools for them near their homes. They
have to go a long way from home, and stay in school many long weeks
without seeing father or mother, brother or sister. So, when vacation
comes, how glad and happy they are! Some of them are even now writing on
their slates, "In sixteen weeks we shall go home."

I have said that these children cannot speak; but that is not quite
true, for many of them are learning to speak. When I talk to them, they
look very closely at my lips, and so learn to tell what I am saying.
Some of them have very sweet and pleasant voices, the sound of which
they have never heard in all their lives.

And now let me say that I hope you will learn the finger-alphabet; so
that, if you visit any of my little pupils, you can talk to them.

If you ask them, they will spell very slowly,--how fast they _can_
spell!--so that you can read what they say. Perhaps you can get "The
Nursery" to print the alphabet for you.

S.A.E.

ROCHESTER, N.Y., March, 1880.




A DAY ON GRANDPA'S FARM.

[Illustration: A Day on Grandpa's Farm]


"Arlington!" cried the conductor, as the train stopped at a little
station in Central Wisconsin. We got out of the car just in time to see
grandpa driving up in his big double wagon.

We climbed in, and grandpa said, "Get up, Bill! Go along, Jip!" and
away we started for the farm.

When we got there, the first thing we saw was grandma making cookies
with holes in them. She said she would give us some if we would be sure
and not eat the holes.

After dinner, my sister Ally, cousin Johnny, and I, went out to take a
ramble in the barn and hunt for eggs. Pretty soon we heard Johnny
calling, "Oh, come quick, and see what I have found!"

We ran quickly to the place where he was, and there we saw a hen with a
brood of chickens. One of the chicks was on its mother's back, one was
on the floor in front of her, and the others were peeping out from under
her wings. It was a pretty sight.

After naming each of the chickens, we all made a search for eggs. We
found one nest with five eggs in it, another with three, and another
with two. Johnny put the eggs in his cap, and carried them into the
house.

He soon came running back, saying, "Now, let us go and have a swing." So
we all went to the swing, and swung till we were tired. Then Ally said,
"Oh, come and see the ducks swimming on the pond!" but Johnny said,
"Wait till I get my boat, that uncle Sam made for me."

So we all went to the pond, and Johnny put in his boat. It sailed right
out among the ducks, and they were much afraid of it, and swam away as
fast as they could, saying, "Quack, quack, quack!"

Johnny went to the other side of the pond to get his boat, which had
sailed across, and he had just got back when we heard grandma calling,
"Children, come in to supper." After supper, mamma read us a story from
"The Nursery," and then tucked us snugly in bed, and we went to sleep to
dream of cookies, and hunting eggs.

S.H.P.




EMMA AND ETTA.

[Illustration: Emma and Etta]


Emma and Etta are sisters. They have a doll whose name is Clara.

They are very fond of Clara, and it would be hard to tell which of the
two Clara likes best. It is not often that one doll has two such
mothers.

In the picture you may see Emma dressing the doll. She has curled the
sweet little thing's hair, and Etta has a nice, clean gown all ready for
her to put on.

It is to be hoped that this doll with two mothers will not be too much
petted. It would be a pity if she should become a spoiled child.

A.B.C.

[Illustration: Child and Doll]




BROWNIE'S ADVENTURE.

[Illustration: Brownie's Adventure]


Grace and Willie named him Brownie, because all his brothers and sisters
were white, and he was such a funny little brown puff-ball of a chicken.

Mrs. Speckle (that was his mother) was just as proud of him as she could
be; but foolish Brownie thought her too strict. She would never consent
to let one of the downy things out of her sight for a moment, and told
them fearful stories of hawks and weasels, to say nothing of bad boys
and big dogs.

But Brownie kept thinking that some day, when he was a little older and
stronger, he would leave the yard, and see whether there were really
such dangers in the fields and woods as his mother said there was.

After a while the pretty brown feathers all dropped out, one after
another, until Brownie looked more like a chicken which had been plucked
than any thing else. Grace could not keep from laughing at the sight of
him; and it was very droll when he popped up on a log, and tried a weak,
quavering crow.

To be sure, Mrs. Speckle did not keep a looking-glass, and I suppose
poor Brownie had no idea how very absurd he looked. To tell the truth,
he thought he was almost grown up, and began to watch for a chance to
begin his journey to see the world. He had not the least doubt that he
would see something fine, if he could only get out of the sight of his
mother, who was so very strict, and had such foolish notions, as he
thought.

So, one day, as Mrs. Speckle was having a friendly chat with Dame
Top-Knot, he took the chance to creep slyly under the fence, and was off
all alone.

"How silly mothers are! And such cowards too!" he said to himself. "I am
sure there's nothing here to hurt me. I would like to see any one meddle
with me!"

At this instant he felt a sharp peck; and a voice said close to his ear,
"Halloo, little one, you had better start for home!"

He looked up, and saw young Green-Wing, who was two months older, and
boasted a comb of good size, to say nothing of his sharp spurs.

Brownie thought it best to say nothing after the first "peep," and hid,
trembling with fright, under the first leaf he could find. But the sun
shone, the sky was a lovely blue, the ground was bright with flowers,
and there were many bugs crawling about. Brownie had quite a feast, and
was beginning to regain his spirits, when something happened which
turned all his thoughts topsy-turvy.

The sky grew dark all at once. Something caught hold of him, and
Brownie felt himself going up, up, so swiftly, that it quite took his
breath away. "It must be a thousand miles," he thought.

Crack! went a gun. Then the hawk let go and Brownie went down, down to
the ground, where he lay for a long time as if he were dead.

When he opened his eyes it was almost dark. The sun had set, and he had
forgotten the way home. "I shall never see mamma again," he sobbed. "I
wish I had been good and not run away."

"Why, here's Brownie!" cried Grace's voice. "The hawk did not get him
after all. Come, Willie, and help me drive him to the hen-house."

"I hope, my dear, you will never be so very naughty again," said Mrs.
Speckle, as he crept under her wing.

MRS. B.P. SIBLEY.

[Illustration: Hen and Chicks]




A MISJUDGED FRIEND.


    The gardener shut the garden gate,
    And went to weed the onion-bed:
    The growing plants stood tall and straight;
    "But what is this?" surprised he said.
    Some broken bricks, some stones and sticks,
    And underneath them, crushed and dead,
    A large brown toad! "James, Martin, Fred!"
    He called three little boys, who played
    Near by, beneath a pear-tree's shade,
    And sternly asked, "What cruel play
    Is this you've been about to-day?"

    "'Tis very hard we should be blamed,
    I'm sure!" poor little James exclaimed:
    "We only killed the toad because
    An ugly-looking thing he was,--
    So very ugly, that we knew
    He surely would some mischief do.
    He had great warts upon his back,
    And curious blotches, greenish black,
    And darting tongue, and strange flat head"--
    "And how he sprawled his legs!" cried Fred.
    "His mouth," said Martin, "was so wide,
    It reached far round on either side;
    And queer winks with his eyes he'd give:
    We did not dare to let him live.
    We had to kill that toad because
    An ugly-looking thing he was."

    The gardener gravely shook his head;
    "It was a heartless act," he said;
    "And, more than that, you may depend
    Upon my word, you've killed a friend;
    For often, at my work, I've found
    This same toad near me, hopping round,
    And, watching him, I've learned that he
    My constant helper used to be,--
    A second gardener, with no pay,
    Who still was busy every day.

    "He killed the young potato-bugs,
    The caterpillars, and the slugs,
    The beetles striped with yellow lines,
    That spoil the tender melon-vines,
    And looked round with his blinking eyes
    For cabbage-worms and turnip-flies,
    Low-flying moths with downy wings,
    And slimy snails in shady nooks.
    It was the cruellest of things
    To kill poor Hop Toad for his looks.

    "And if, when you shall older grow,
    You strangers judge by outward show,
    You'll be as foolish as unjust:
    In worthless men you'll put your trust,
    And often sorrow, in the end,
    For having wronged some honest friend.

MARIAN DOUGLAS.




A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE.


Our Ned is a brave little fellow about eight years old. He is full of
fun, and loves to play out of doors in all kinds of weather.

But what little boy can be merry when he has a raging toothache! Ned
bore it like a hero; but he had to give up at last, and he was glad to
take refuge in his mother's lap, and be a baby again for a while.

With his head pillowed on his mother's breast, the little boy found some
relief; but still he was in great pain. His sister stood by, trying to
think of some way to help him. Ned could hardly keep from crying; but he
said to his mother, "I should like to have you tell me a story."

"What shall it be, darling?" said his mother.

"Tell me about Harry and his dog Jack." This story had been told to Ned
when he was a very, very little boy, and a good many times since then.
It seemed odd to his mother that he had chosen such an old story. But he
wanted to hear it; and so she told it all over again. This is the
story:--

"There was once a little boy named Harry, and he had a little dog named
Jack. Jack was a queer-looking dog. He was nearly all black; but he had
a white tail, and his front-feet were white.

"Harry loved Jack very much, and as he never forgot to feed him, and
never teased him, the dog loved Harry very much. When Harry went to
school, Jack went too,--not into the schoolroom (for dogs can't learn to
read, you know), but into the school-yard, where he played about till
Harry came out again. At recess, he used to play with the boys, and have
almost as much fun as if he were a boy too.

"The yard wasn't very large, and, when the boys played ball, they would
often throw the ball over the fence. Then it was Jack's part of the play
to run after the ball. The boys would call, 'Jack, Jack!' and Jack would
run under the fence, seize the ball in his mouth, and bring it back to
the boys.

[Illustration: Mother, Son, & Daughter]

"But, one day, the ball rolled off the pavement out into the street. A
wagon was passing just then; and Jack was in such a hurry to get the
ball, that he ran right in its way, and the wheel went over his leg.

"The boys all ran out to help Jack; and one of them said, 'O Harry! I'm
afraid that he is badly hurt; for see, he runs on three legs, and lets
the other one hang.' Harry took Jack up in his arms, and said, 'Poor
Jack, poor little Jack.' Then he felt very gently of the dog's leg, and
found that it was broken.

"Oh, how sorry Harry and all the other boys felt! Harry couldn't keep
from crying, and they all said that if little Jack got well they
wouldn't send him out after the ball any more.

"As soon as they were back in the yard, Harry ran into the school-house
with Jack in his arms, and said to the teacher, 'Please, sir, may I go
home now? My poor little dog Jack has broken his leg, and I want to show
him to my mother, and try and make it better.' The teacher said, 'Yes,
Harry, you are a good boy, and Jack is a good little dog, and you may
take him home.' So Harry started at once.

"When Harry's mother saw him coming home, she was afraid he was sick.
She ran out to the gate, and said, 'Why, Harry! What makes you come home
so early to-day?'--'O mamma!' said Harry, 'my poor little Jack has
broken his leg!' Then Harry's mother looked at Jack, and, after thinking
a minute said, 'My dear Harry, I am very sorry; but I think we shall
have to kill little Jack to save him from suffering. A dog's broken leg
cannot be made whole again.'

"Oh, how sad little Harry felt when his mother said that! It made him
cry very hard. But in a little while something made him stop crying: and
what do you guess it was? Why, he began to think that perhaps his mamma
was mistaken when she said that dogs couldn't have their legs mended;
and he thought he would go to the doctor who cured him when he was sick,
and ask about it.

"So he said, 'Dear mamma, please let me go and ask Dr. Stratton if he
won't try to fix Jack's leg.' And his mother said, 'Well, Harry, you may
go; but I don't think the doctor will do it.'

"So Harry put on his hat, and went over to Dr. Stratton's. Harry knocked
on the doctor's door. 'Come in!' said the doctor. 'Why, Harry! What do
you want? Anybody sick at your house?'

"'N-no, sir,' said Harry, 'not exactly anybody, but my little dog Jack
has a broken leg, and mamma says you can't mend it; but please try. My
dear little dog is such a good dog, and mamma says he will have to be
killed. Will you please try?'

"Now, the doctor was a very kind man. He smiled, and said, 'Well, Harry,
I never mended a dog's leg; but I'll try for your sake--but won't he
bite me?'

"'Oh, no!' said Harry. 'My dog Jack always minds me, and he will do just
as I tell him.'

"So the good doctor put on his hat, and went with Harry. When they were
in Harry's house, the doctor said that he must have some very smooth
pieces of wood. Harry said, 'I think the cover to my broken paint-box
would do if it was whittled.' So he brought it, and the doctor said it
was just the thing.

"Then the doctor said, 'Now I must have some white cotton-cloth.'
Harry's mother gave the doctor an old shirt, and he tore it into strips.
Then he said, 'Now, Harry, I am ready.'

"So Harry brought the little dog Jack, and said to him, 'Now, Jack, lie
still!' And the good dog didn't move or bite while the doctor set his
leg, and bound it up with the pieces of wood and the cloth. Then the
doctor said, 'Now, Harry, you must take good care of Jack and keep him
in the house till his leg is quite well.'

"'I will,' said Harry. Then he made a nice soft bed and laid Jack in it,
and took good care of him, and in a few weeks, what do you think? Jack
was well!

"I tell you, the boys were glad to see him back at school; and one of
them made a rhyme about him that they used to sing every morning when
they saw him coming,--

    "'Little dog Jack, he broke his leg;
    But now he's come back, peg-a-ty-peg!'"

This was the end of the story, and Ned was so quiet that his mother
thought he was asleep. But, all of a sudden, he looked up, with a smile,
and said, "I'm going out now to have a game of foot-ball."

"Why, what has become of that toothache?"

"All gone," said Ned.

"Why, that is a most wonderful cure. We will go and tell the dentist
about it to-morrow."

MRS. HENRIETTA R. ELIOT.

[Illustration: Children Playing]




SONG OF THE BIRDS.


Words from the Nursery.

Music by T. CRAMPTON.

[Illustration: Music]

    1.

    Chipper, chipper, chip! come, clear the way!
      We must be at work to day.
    See us swiftly fly along,
      Hear outbursts of merry song;
    Watch us in our busy flight
      Glancing in your window bright;
    Save your bits of yarn for me;
      Just think what a help 'twould be!

    2.

    Chipper, chipper, chip! Hark, how he sings,
      As he comes for threads and strings,
    Which he is not slow to see,
      From the budding lilac tree!
    Now with cunning saucy pranks,
      See him nod his hearty thanks:
    "These are just the thing," says he;
      "What a help they'll be to me!"

    3.

    Chipper, chipper, chip! Now see him go,
      Now so fast and now so slow;
    Working ever at the nest,
      Never stopping once to rest,
    Getting bits of straw and things
      For his good wife, while he sings,
    "Chip, chip, chip, so gay are we,
      Singing in the lilac tree."

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[Illustration: (RECLINING)]

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[Illustration: Invalid Rolling Chair]

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Bound Volumes of "The Nursery"--Half-Yearly                  $1.00
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Address, THE NURSERY PUBLISHING CO.,

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Ninety Beautiful Illustrations

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