Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.







THE

NURSERY


_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XXI.--No. 6.

          BOSTON:
          JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET,
          1877.



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by

JOHN L. SHOREY,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

FRANKLIN PRESS: RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 117 FRANKLIN STREET, BOSTON.




[Illustration: Contents]

IN PROSE.

  Arthur's New Sloop                      161
  A True Story                            164
  Playing Soldier                         167
  Madie's Visit at Grandma's              168
  What I overheard                        170
  The Encounter                           173
  Jamie's Letter to a Little Uncle        174
  The Disappointed Kitty                  175
  The Mare and her Colt                   177
  The Fisherman's Return                  180
  More about Crickets                     183
  Fifth Lesson in Astronomy               185


IN VERSE.

  Tot's Turnover                          163
  The Kingfisher                          166
  Bye-Lo-Land                             171
  Kissing a Sunbeam                       179
  The Puppy and the Wasp                  182
  June                                    187

[Illustration: Birds]




[Illustration: ARTHUR'S NEW SLOOP.]





ARTHUR'S NEW SLOOP.


"[Illustration: N]OW, boys," said Uncle Martin, "if you were at sea in a
vessel like this, what should you do when you saw a squall coming up?"

"I should take in all sail, and scud under bare poles," said Arthur.

"But what if you did not want to be blown ashore?"

"Then I should leave out the first reef, so as to catch as much wind as
I could risk, and steer for the sea, the sea, the open sea."

"Well, that's pretty well said, though not just as a sailor would say
it. Look here, Henry, where is the stern?"

"You have your left hand on it, sir."

"That's true. And where's the rudder?"

"Your little finger is resting on it."

"What sort of a craft do you call this?"

"I call it a sloop; for it has but one mast."

"If you were holding the tiller, and I were to say, 'Larboard' or
'port,' what should you do?"

"If I stood looking forward, I should move the tiller to the left side
of the vessel."

"That's right; and, if I said 'Starboard,' you would move the tiller to
the right side.--Now, boys, which of you can tell me the difference
between a tiller and a helm?"

"I always thought," said Arthur, "that they meant pretty much the same
thing."

"No: the difference is this," said Uncle Martin: "A tiller is this
little bar or handle by which I move the rudder. The helm is the whole
of the things for steering, consisting of a rudder, a tiller, and, in
large vessels, a wheel by which the tiller is moved. So a tiller is only
a part of the helm."

"Yes, now I understand," said Arthur. "How jolly it is to have an Uncle
Martin to explain things!"

"You rogue, you expect me to be at the launch, eh?"

"Yes, uncle: I've got a bottle of hard cider to smash, on the occasion.
It ought to be rum, by the old rule."

"The best thing to do with rum is to pour it into the sea," said Uncle
Martin. "But what's the name of the new sloop?"

"Ah! that you will hear at the launch," said Arthur.

"It's the 'Artful Dodger,'" whispered brother Henry.

                                                ALFRED SELWYN.

[Illustration]




TOT'S TURNOVER.


          SUGARED and scalloped and cut as you see,
          With juicy red wreath and name, T-O-T,
          This is the turnover dear little Tot
          Set in the window there all piping hot:
          Proud of her work, she has left it to cool:
          Benny must share it when he's out of school.
          Scenting its flavor, Prince happens that way,
          Wonders if Tot will give him some to-day.
          Benny is coming, he's now at the gate--
          Prince for himself decides not to wait.
          Oh, pity! 'tis gone, and here you and I
          See the last that Tot saw of that pretty pie.

                                                      M. A. C.




A TRUE STORY.


ONCE, when I lived in the country, some robins built a nest in a
lilac-bush in the garden. One day I looked in the nest, and saw one
little green egg. Two or three days after, I saw three more little green
eggs, and pretty soon what did I see there but four little cunning
baby-birdies?

The old birds seemed so happy as they fed their little ones, who opened
their mouths wide to take the food in, that I loved dearly to watch
them.

One night there came a terrible storm of wind and rain. When I awoke in
the morning, and opened my window, there were the old robins flying
about the garden in great distress, making such a dreadful cry, that I
went out to see what was the matter. What do you think I saw?

The pretty nest was on the ground, torn in pieces by the wind; and the
little baby-birds lay in the cold wet grass, crying pitifully. The old
birds were flying about, and beating the grass with their wings.

I ran to the house, and found an old tin pail. I lined this with nice
hay from Billy's stable, picked up the poor little robins, and put them
in the warm dry hay. Then I hung the pail on a branch of the bush, tied
it firmly with some twine, and went into the house to watch the old
birds from my window.

They looked first on one side, then on the other, to see that there was
nobody near. At last they flew to the old pail, and stood on its edge.
Pretty soon they began to sing as if they were just as happy as they
could be.

I think they liked the old pail just as well as their pretty nest; for
they lived in it till the little baby-birdies were able to fly, and to
feed themselves.

One day I looked in the pail, and it was empty. The birdies had grown
up, and had flown away.

                                              HANNAH PAULDING.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE KINGFISHER.


          WHERE the white lilies quiver
          By the sedge in the river,
              I fly in and out,
              I hunt all about;
          For I am the daring kingfisher,
            kingfisher!

          Rod and line have not I,
          But, a fish when I spy,
          From the tree-top I start,
          And down, down, I dart;
          For I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher!

          My dinner I make,
          My pleasure I take,
          And the fish must be quick
          That would parry my trick;
          For I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher!

          Now summer is near,
          And the boys will be here;
          But I fly or I run,
          When I look on a gun,
          Tho' I am the daring kingfisher, kingfisher!

                                                 EMILY CARTER.

[Illustration]




PLAYING SOLDIER.


LITTLE Mary lives in Boston. She has no brothers or sisters to play with
her, and no mother. But her papa plays with her a great deal.

There is one game she has with him that is very entertaining to others
who are looking on. At least so her aunts and uncles thought on
Thanksgiving evening, when it was played for their amusement. I have
called the game "Playing soldier." Mary was the captain; and her papa
was the soldier.

This is the way it was done: Mary went to her papa, who was standing,
and placed herself in front of him, with her back against him. "Shoulder
arms!" shouted the little captain; and her tall soldier immediately put
her on his left shoulder, in imitation of the real soldier, who holds
his musket or gun against that place.

"Forward march!" shouted our little captain again; and her soldier
marched forward with a quick step.

"Halt!" cried she after he had marched back; and he stopped at once.

"Ground arms!" was the next command; and the soldier put his captain
down on the floor in front of him just as she had stood before--and the
play was over.

                                                            M.




MADIE'S VISIT AT GRANDMA'S.


MADIE is a dear little girl who lives in a pretty village in the State
of New York. Every summer she goes to visit her grandmother, whose home
is at Bay View, near a beautiful body of water called Henderson Bay, a
part of Lake Ontario.

She is very happy at Bay View; for, besides grandma, there are an uncle
and two aunts, who are never too busy to swing her in the hammock, out
under the maples, or play croquet with her on the lawn.

Sometimes she drives out with her uncle behind his black ponies; and, if
the road is smooth and level, he lets Madie hold the reins. But she
likes better to go with him on the water, in his fine sail-boat,
"Ildrian," which is a Spanish name, and means "fleet as lightning."

When the weather is fine, and the water is calm, her aunts take her out
rowing in their pretty row-boat, "Echo." As they row along by the shore,
stopping now and then to gather water-lilies, Madie looks at the pretty
cottages and white tents nestled among the green trees, where the city
people are spending their summer.

They pass many boats on the way, filled with ladies and gentlemen, who
give them a gay salute; and Madie waves her handkerchief in one hand,
and her little flag in the other, as they go by. Sometimes they go
ashore in a shady cove; and Aunt Clara fills her basket with ferns and
moss, while Madie picks up shells and gay-colored stones on the beach.

[Illustration]

But these lovely summer-days go by quickly. October comes, and with it
Madie's mamma, to claim her little girl, who is so tanned and rosy, that
mamma calls her, "Gypsy," and thinks papa will hardly know his little
"sunbeam" now.

So Madie kisses everybody "good-by" a great many times,--even the
bay-colt in the pasture, and the four smutty kittens at the barn,--and
goes back to her own home. But, when the sweet June roses bloom again,
she will go once more to Bay View, which she thinks is the nicest place
in the world.

                                                 MERLE ARMOUR.




WHAT I OVERHEARD.


ONE day last summer, at the great Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia,
I overheard a conversation that interested me very much. The subject of
it was a queer little animal called a "gopher," which sat stuck up in a
case with its comical little head perched up in the air; for it wasn't
even _alive_, but was a poor little stuffed gopher.

In front of the case I noticed two farmers, who were talking about my
little friend in a very earnest way: so I listened to their remarks.

"Yes," said one, "I tell you he is a dreadful creature to dig. Why, he
makes us a sight of trouble out our way! can't keep anything that he can
dig for, away from him."

"Is that so?" said the other man.

"Yes. Why, I pay my boys five cents for every one of 'em they catch; and
it's lively work getting 'em, I tell you! See his nose, now! doesn't
that look sharp? I tell you, when that fellow gets hold of a job, he
_keeps right at it_! There is no _giving up_ in him."

"Dear me!" thought I, "how nice of little gopher! Ugly as he is, I quite
fall in love with him." And I drew nearer, and showed, I suppose, my
interest in my face; for the speaker turned around, and addressed me.

"Yes, ma'am, he steals my potatoes, and does lots of mischief. Just look
at those paws of his! Doesn't he keep them busy, though!"

"Are gophers so very industrious, then?" I asked.

"Industrious, ma'am! Well, yes: they've got the _work_ in them, that's
true; and, if they begin any thing, they'll see it through. They don't
sit down discouraged, and give up; but they keep right on, even when
there's no hope. Oh, they're brave little fellows!" And the honest old
farmer beamed in admiration upon the stiff, little unconscious specimen
before us in the case.

"It is very interesting," I said, "to know of such patience in a little
animal like this."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded: "you would think so if you could see one.
Why, _working_ is their _life_. If they couldn't work, they'd die. I
know, 'cause I've proved it. Once, we caught one, and I put him in a
box, and my boys and I threw in some sand. The box was considerably big,
and the little fellow went right to work. He dug, and threw it all back
of him over to the other side; then back of him again, till he went
through that sand I don't know how many times. Well, he was as lively as
a cricket, and, to try what he would do, I took away the sand, and 'twas
but a few hours before he was dead. Yes, dead, ma'am! just as dead as
this one, here!" pointing with his finger to our friend in the case, who
preserved a stolid indifference to the fate of his gopher-cousin.

I stopped to take a further look at "little gopher," with whom I felt
pretty well acquainted by this time.

                                                      H. M. S.

[Illustration]




BYE-LO-LAND.


          BABY is going to Bye-lo-land,
          Going to see the sights so grand:
          Out of the sky the wee stars peep,
          Watching to see her fast asleep.
                  Swing so,
                  Bye-lo!
          Over the hills to Bye-lo-land.

          Oh the bright dreams in Bye-lo-land,
          All by the loving angels planned!
          Soft little lashes downward close,
          Just like the petals of a rose.
                  Swing so,
                  Bye-lo!
          Prettiest eyes in Bye-lo-land!

[Illustration]

          Sweet is the way to Bye-lo-land,
          Guided by mother's gentle hand.
          Little lambs now are in the fold,
          Little birds nestle from the cold.
                  Swing so,
                  Bye-lo!
          Baby is safe in Bye-lo-land!

                                                GEORGE COOPER.

[Illustration]




THE ENCOUNTER.


_Mr. Jones._--Good-morning, madam. It is a fine day. Are you going out
for a walk?

_Mrs. Smith._--I was just taking my little Aldabella out for an airing.
Poor child! She has been kept in the house so long by the bad weather,
that she has lost all her color.

_Mr. Jones._--Be careful, and don't let her catch the whooping-cough.

_Mrs. Smith._--O sir! you alarm me. Is it much about?

_Mr. Jones._--Yes, ma'am: so is the measles. I know two gentlemen who
were kept away from their base-ball last Saturday afternoon by the
measles.

_Mrs. Smith._--What an affliction! Is that horse of yours safe? Does he
ever kick?

_Mr. Jones._--I never knew him to kick in my life; but, as you see, he
is a little restive: he may step on your toes.

_Mrs. Smith._--Oh, pray hold him in, Mr. Jones! Don't let him be so gay.

_Mr. Jones._--Madam, my horse seems to be of the opinion that we have
talked long enough: so I will wish you a very good-morning.

_Mrs. Smith._--Good-morning, Mr. Jones. Pray don't run over any little
boys in the street.

_Mr. Jones._--Little boys must not come in my way. Good-by, Mrs. Smith!
Good-by, Miss Aldabella!




JAMIE'S LETTER TO A LITTLE UNCLE.


_My dear little Uncle_,--You see I have not forgotten that long ago you
wrote me a letter. My mamma told me to-night that she would answer it
for me, because something happened yesterday that I want you to know.

You remember it was May-day. Mamma said, "Jamie, you are too little a
boy to go out in the fields and woods Maying." That made me feel badly,
because the sun was shining so brightly, and the grass looked so green,
that I was sure there were plenty of flowers hidden away in the fields.

So I thought, "What can a little boy do? I am so little, I can't walk. I
am so little, I can't talk much. I can creep, but when I get to a nice
bit on the floor and put it into my mouth, mamma jumps, and takes it
away, and says, 'No, no, baby!' What can I do? what can I do to please
everybody?"

At last I thought of something. I was sitting in mamma's lap, when, all
at once, she called out, "Aunt Fanny, come here and put your thimble in
the baby's mouth. I'm sure that's a tooth." And, sure enough, one little
tooth had just peeped out. Then everybody said, "Baby has a tooth!" I
didn't tell them that I went Maying all by myself, and found that little
tooth; but I tell you as a secret, little uncle.

Dear little uncle, I am growing very big. Next summer I can run on the
beach with you, and dig in the sand.

Now you must kiss my grandmamma for me; give her a kiss on her right
eye, her left cheek, her nose, and her lips, and whisper in her ear that
I love her very much; then pull my grandpapa's whiskers, and give him
two kisses; then give a kiss to all my uncles and aunts, and take one
for yourself from your little nephew,

                                                        JAMIE.




THE DISAPPOINTED KITTY.


[Illustration]

THE name of my kitten is Breezy. I gave her that name because she is
never quiet. When she cannot frolic, she mews; but, as she is frolicking
all the time when she is not asleep, she does not make much of an
outcry, after all.

It has been the height of Breezy's ambition to catch a mouse. The other
day, I was sitting in my little arm-chair, studying my spelling-lesson,
when what should come forth from under the cupboard but a wee mouse not
much bigger than the bowl of a teaspoon.

Breezy, for a wonder, was asleep on the rug. Mousie looked around, as if
in search of some crumbs. I put down my book, and kept very still. Which
did I favor in my heart,--Mousie, or Breezy?

To tell the truth, my sympathies were divided. The little bright-eyed
mouse was so cunning and swift, that I thought to myself, "What a pity
to kill such a bright little fellow!" But then I knew how disappointed
poor Breezy would be, if she should wake, and learn somehow that a mouse
had run over the floor while she was indulging in inglorious slumber.

Out came mousie quite boldly, and, finding some crumbs under the table,
nibbled at them in great haste. Poor little fellow, if I had had a bit
of cheese, I should have been tempted to give it to him, there and then.

But, all at once, Breezy woke, and saw what was going on. Mousie,
however, had not been so stupid, while making his meal, as not to keep
one eye open on his enemy. Quick as a flash he ran for the little crack
that led under the cupboard, and thus made his escape.

Poor Breezy! She seemed really ashamed of herself. She had her nose at
that crack a full hour after mousie had escaped. It seemed as if she
could not get over her disappointment. Every day since then she has
patiently watched the cupboard. Will mousie give her another chance?
That remains to be seen.

                                                FANNY EVERTON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE MARE AND HER COLT.

V. XXI.--NO. 6.]




THE MARE AND HER COLT.


HERE is a picture of the mare and her colt. The old mare is almost
white; but the colt is jet black. He is a bright little fellow, and I am
sure that his mother is proud of him.

Our Willie likes to stand at the bars of the pasture and look at the
colt. He often comes so near that the little boy pats him on the head.

Willie has named the colt "Frisky," because he is so very lively. He is
so nimble with his heels, that it is not safe for a small boy to go very
near him now; but Willie expects to ride him by and by.

                                                      A. B. C.

[Illustration]




KISSING A SUNBEAM.


          LITTLE Baby Brown-Eyes
            Sitting on the floor,
          Every thing around him
            Ready to explore,
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes
              Sitting on the floor!

          Flutters in a sunbeam
            Through the open door,
          Like a golden butterfly
            Silently before
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes
              Sitting on the floor.

          See his little fingers
            Eager for a prize,
          And the hungry gladness
            Laughing in his eyes!
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes
              Capturing a prize!

          Plucking at the sunbeam
            With his finger-tips,
          Tenderly he lifts them
            To his rosy lips;
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes
              Kissing the pink tips!

          Brother of the sunbeam,
            With your browny eyes,
          Greet your silent sister,
            Stealing from the skies;
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes
              Kiss her as she flies!

          Mamma catches sunbeams
            In your laughing eye,
          Hiding in your dimples,
            Peeping very sly:
          Plumpy, dumpy, roly-poly,
            Pretty Baby Brown-Eyes,
          She'll kiss them on the fly!

                                           GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.




THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN HOME.


"FATHER is coming! Father is coming!" was little Tim's cry, as he sat at
the window of the little house by the seashore.

"How do you know he is coming?" said mother, who was tending the baby,
and at the same time trying to sew up the seams of a dress for Miss
Bella, the second child.

"I know he is coming, because I can see him in his boat," cried Tim.
"Hurrah, hurrah! I'll be the first one at the landing."

Mamma was by this time satisfied that her husband, Mr. Payson, was
indeed in sight. He was a fisherman, and had been absent, on a trip to
the Banks of Newfoundland, more than six weeks. There had been many
storms during that time, and she had passed some anxious moments.

But now there he was before her eyes, safe and sound. "Come, Bella," she
said, "let us see if we can't get the first kiss."

"No, no, I'll get it!" cried Tim, starting on the run for the
landing-place.

Sure enough, Tim got the first kiss; but mother's and baby's and
Bella's soon followed; and so there was no complaint.

[Illustration]

Mr. Payson had made a prosperous trip. His schooner lay off the point,
and he had sold his fish at a good profit.

How glad he was to get home, and find his family well! Tim brought him
his primer, and proudly pointed to the pages he could read. Bella showed
her first attempts at sewing; and, as for baby, she showed how well she
could crow and frolic.

"I've found the first violet, papa," cried Bella.

"But I saw it first," said Tim.

"And I smelt of it first," said mother.

"And baby pulled it to pieces first," added Bella.

It was a happy meeting; and father and mother agreed that to come home
and find all the little ones well and happy was better even than to sell
his fish at a good price.

                                                UNCLE CHARLES.




THE PUPPY AND THE WASP.


[Illustration]

          AS asleep I was lying,
            My ear on the ground,
          A queer thing came flying
            And humming around.
          Humming and coming
            Close to my ear:
          Shall I never be quiet?
            O dear, and O dear!

[Illustration]

          You bold little teaser,
            Now take yourself off;
          Of your buzzing and fussing
            I've had quite enough.
          You will not? Tormentor,
            I mean to rest here,
          So mind how you vex me,
            And come not too near.

[Illustration]

          You dare to defy me?
            You come all the bolder?
          I'll punish you, rash one,
            Ere I'm a breath older.
          With my big paw uplifted
            I'll crush you to dust:
          Shoo! What a dodger!
            Leave me--you must!

[Illustration]

          I'll bite you, I'll kill you,
            I snap and I spring:
          If I only could catch you,
            You rude saucy thing!
          If you were not so little,
            So cunning and spry,
          I'd punish you quickly,
            Pert wretch! you should die.

[Illustration]

          It darts quick as lightning,--
            O woe, and O woe!
          On the nose it has stung me:
            O, it burns and smarts so!
          It pains like a needle,
            It gives me no rest;
          Oh, the wasp is a creature
            I hate and detest.

[Illustration]

          He knows he has hurt me,
            Away now he darts;
          Oh, poor little puppy!
            It smarts and it smarts!
          To think such an insect
            Should worry a dog!
          He could not have hurt me,
            If I'd been a log!




MORE ABOUT CRICKETS.


WE keep crickets in a box, and find them very interesting. They are very
active, and occupy themselves in laying eggs, digging holes, eating,
singing, and running. Only the males sing, and their wings are very
rough, and curiously marked.

Crickets have four different kinds of wings,--yellow, brown, black, and
brownish-red. Those that have yellow wings seem to be less hardy than
the others. They do not sing so well, but lay and eat more.

The brown-winged crickets are quite common, but not so common as the
black-winged, which are the most common of all kinds. Brownish-red
crickets are very rare. Those that are black with yellow spots where
the wings come out, sing the best.

The eggs are yellow, about an eighth of an inch long, and of an oval
shape.

When we were in Lynn, a very handsome yellow-winged singer came into the
box, and ate three crickets. We put him in another box with his mate,
which he brought with him. In the same box were a large female, and a
common sized white-winged cricket, both of which he ate.

[Illustration]

Afterwards we found in his place a black-winged singer, somewhat smaller
than the yellow-winged one was; but his mate remained the same as
before.

Some spiders make holes in the ground, and, when the crickets go into
them, the spiders eat them.

The male crickets fight with each other, singing all the while; and the
one that beats sings on, all the louder.

There is another kind of cricket that is a great deal smaller, and sings
much longer, in an undertone. Its wings are always yellow or brown; but
we do not know much about crickets of this kind, except that their
habits are similar to those of the large ones, and that they are very
numerous.

                                       HERBERT AND ELLA LYMAN.

[Illustration]




FIFTH LESSON IN ASTRONOMY.


          "A little boy was dreaming,
            Upon his nurse's lap,
          That the pins fell out of all the stars,
            And the stars fell into his cap.

          So, when his dream was over,
            What should that little boy do?
          Why, he went and looked inside his cap--
            And found it wasn't true."

IF that little boy had been wide awake, and out of doors, with his cap
on his head, instead of dreaming in his nurse's lap, don't you think he
might really have seen a star fall out of the sky? Haven't you all seen
one many a time?

But you would never dream that those blazing suns, the stars, are pinned
into the sky, and that they might tumble into your cap if the pins fell
out. You know better than that; but do you know what does happen when a
star falls?

We say, "A star falls," because what we see falling looks to us like a
star; but it really is no more like a star than a lump of coal. If we
should see a piece of blazing coal falling through the air, we might be
foolish enough to think that, too, was a star. And what we call a
shooting star is, perhaps, more like a lump of coal on fire than like
any thing else you know of.

Sometimes these shooting stars fall to the ground, and are picked up and
found to be rocks. How do you suppose they take fire? It is by striking
against the air which is around our earth. They come from nobody knows
where, and are no more on fire than any rock is, until they fall into
our air; and that sets them blazing, just as a match lights when you rub
it against something.

These meteors, as they are called, do not often fall to the ground; only
the very large ones last until they reach the earth; most of them burn
up on their way down. I think that is lucky, because they might at any
time fall into some little boy's cap and spoil it, and might even fall
on his head, if they were in the habit of falling anywhere.

That little boy who thought the stars were only pinned in their places
must have felt very uneasy. I don't wonder that he dreamed about them.

Once in a great while, a shower of meteors rains down upon the earth;
and sometimes many of them can be seen falling from the sky, and burning
up in the air.

The fall of the year is the best time for meteors; but you will be
pretty sure to see one any evening you choose to look for it, and,
perhaps, on the Fourth of July one of them will celebrate the day by
bursting like a rocket, as they sometimes do.

                                                      M. E. R.

[Illustration]




JUNE.


          THE pretty flowers have come again,
            The roses and the daisies;
          And from the trees, oh, hear how plain
            The birds are singing praises!

          The grass is fresh and green once more;
            The sky is clear and sunny;
          And bees are laying in a store
            Of pure and golden honey.

          The little modest buttercup,
            The dandelion splendid,
          Their heads are bravely holding up,
            Now winter's reign is ended.

          How charming now our walks will be
            By meadows full of clover,
          Through shady lanes, where we can see
            The branches bending over!

          The flowers are blooming fresh and bright
            In just the same old places,
          And oh, it fills me with delight
            To see their charming faces.

          The air is sweet, the sky is blue,
            The woods with songs are ringing;
          And I'm so happy, that I, too,
            Can hardly keep from singing.

                                            JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

[Illustration]


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

The January edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the first
six issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific
issue. A title page copied from the January edition was also used for
this number.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Nursery, June 1877, Vol. XXI. No. 6, by Various