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THE

NURSERY


_A Monthly Magazine_


FOR YOUNGEST READERS.


VOLUME XXIII.--No. 3.




Contents


In Prose

                                          PAGE
  In the Swing                             67
  How My Boys Helped Their Mother          69
  "Stop That Quarrelling."                 71
  A Letter from Calcutta                   73
  Prairie Dogs                             75
  The Catbird                              79
  How to Draw a Cat                        80
  Playing Cook                             81
  How a Boy Caught a Fish with His Nose    82
  An Old Fable                             83
  Our Fly                                  84
  Grandpa's Watch                          85
  Helen's Bird                             87
  The Geese and the Hawk                   90
  Mabel's Secrets                          91
  The Snow Country                         94


In Verse

                                          PAGE
  Nobody's Dog                             66
  The New Moon                             68
  The Girl Who is Always Good              72
  The Street-Player                        77
  Three Little Chicks Born in a Shoe       89
  The Little Student                       93
  The Froggie's Party (_with music_)       96




[Illustration: NOBODY'S DOG.]




NOBODY'S DOG.


  [Illustration: O]NLY a dirty black-and-white dog!
                   You can see him any day,
                 Trotting meekly from street to street:
                   He almost seems to say,
                 As he looks in your face with wistful eyes,
                   "I don't mean to be in your way."

                 His tail hangs drooping between his legs;
                   His body is thin and spare:
                 How he envies the sleek and well-fed dogs,
                   That thrive on their masters' care!
                 And he wonders what they must think of him,
                   And grieves at his own hard fare.

                 Sometimes he sees a friendly face,--
                   A face that he seems to know;
                 And thinks it may be the master
                   That he lost so long ago;
                 And even dares to follow him home,
                   For he loved his master so!

                 Poor Jack! He's only mistaken again,
                   And stoned and driven back;
                 But he's used to disappointments now,
                   And takes up his beaten track;
                 Nobody's dog, for whom nobody cares,--
                   Poor unfortunate Jack!

                                                 FRED B. KING.

[Illustration]




IN THE SWING.


THE swing was hung from an old oak-tree in grandmother's grove. There
Mabel and I used to go every fine summer morning before breakfast, and
swing for five minutes. We did not swing longer than that because too
much of this kind of exercise is not healthy.

Once, when I had swung her very high, Mabel had a fall, but it did not
hurt her, for she fell among some tufts of soft grass; but, if her head
had struck a stone, it might have done her great harm. After that we
were both more careful.

Five years have gone by since those days. We both go to school, and I do
not think you would know us, from the likenesses in the picture. But
next summer we hope to visit grandmother once more, and we shall revive
old times in the swing under the old oak-tree.

The sly squirrels will come out and look at us; the birds will twitter,
and try to make us think that they have no nests in the trees and bushes
thereabouts: but we shall say, "We shall do you no harm, birds,
squirrels, beetles--no harm--for we love you all! So play on, and please
let us play too."

                                                        EDITH.




THE NEW MOON.


          PRETTY new moon, white new moon,
            What do you bring in your horn?
          Silver light to paint black night
            As fair as the early dawn?

          Sweet new moon, pretty new moon,
            Where did you harvest your rays?
          In the deeps of dark were you but a spark
            Till the sun shone along your ways?

          Fair new moon, kind new moon,
            Will my wish come true some day,
          When you're but a ghost of yourself, at the most,
            And your glory passes away?

                                             MARY N. PRESCOTT.




HOW MY BOYS HELPED THEIR MOTHER.


WHEN we first came here to live, the lot next to ours was vacant; but
afterwards a house was built on it, and the boys were very much
interested in the progress of the building. Often, when obliged to stay
in doors, they would sit by the window, watching the work on the "new
house," as they called it.

[Illustration]

Mr. Little, the owner of the house, was an old acquaintance of ours, and
very fond of children. So occasionally, when he came to oversee the
work, I would allow the boys to go up and see him; and he would give
them a few nails, or some blocks to play with.

One day, Mr. Little called their attention to the wood which the
carpenters had thrown aside as rubbish, and told them he was going to
pick up some of it, and send it home to burn; "and now, boys," said Mr.
Little, "if you would like to help your mother, here is a chance to get
her some kindling-wood. You may come every day, and get all you can
carry home."

They came home delighted with the plan; and the next morning, as soon as
breakfast was done, they were ready to begin their work. The two oldest
boys took their wheelbarrows, and the youngest one his cart, and off
they started. I could see them from my window, working very diligently,
and they soon came back, each with a good-sized load.

They knocked at the back-door, and asked me where I would have my wood
put. I told them they could put it in the cellar, and opened the outside
cellar-door for them. Each one threw out his load, and started for
another; and so they kept at work nearly the whole forenoon.

They continued to work in this way for a week, sometimes getting one
load a day, and sometimes four or five; and every night, when their papa
came home, they invited him down cellar to see how much wood they had.

In a little room back of the parlor, there was an old-fashioned
fireplace, in which, when the evenings began to grow cool, papa would
build up a nice fire, just after supper. Then he would sit down in the
firelight with the boys, and tell them stories till their bed-time,
greatly to their delight.

So you see they had a reward for their labor, besides having the
satisfaction of knowing that they helped their mother.

                                                         H. L.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




"STOP THAT QUARRELLING."


IN England recently, a curious incident of geese-life was witnessed. A
number of very fine geese, belonging to a Mr. Woodford were having their
morning ramble, when suddenly a strange noise was heard.

Two of the geese had begun quarrelling, probably over some choice
morsel of food. They fought each other furiously, when they were
suddenly stopped in a way that caused no little surprise to the
beholders.

An old goose came flying across the road, and cackling in tones that
must have meant, "Stop that quarrelling!" for they seemed to be well
understood by the combatants. Having chided them well, the old goose
proceeded to punish them.

Instantly the quarrelsome geese obeyed the command of the old goose; and
the whole flock, that had been witnesses of the fight, began to gobble
their approval of the peace that had been brought about. How much wiser
they were than some bad boys, who like to see a fight, and do not try to
stop it!

                                                UNCLE CHARLES.




THE GIRL WHO IS ALWAYS GOOD.


          SHE never sighs;
            She never grumbles;
          She never cries
            When down she tumbles.

          She never soils
            Her pretty dresses;
          She never spoils
            Her silken tresses.

          With cap on head,
            And wee hands folded,
          She's put to bed,
            And never scolded.

          Oh, she's a pearl!
            No mischief scheming;
          There's such a girl,--
            Don't think I'm dreaming.

          But not to tell
            Her name were folly:
          You know her well,
            For she's your Dolly!

                                                GEORGE COOPER.

[Illustration]




A LETTER FROM CALCUTTA.


_Dear "Nursery,"_--Way out here, a long distance from my real home,
which is not far from Boston, my grandmamma sends you; and I am so fond
of hearing the stories read, that I think some of your children would
like to read a story about this country.

There are many things here which would be new and strange to most of
them; but few things are more funny than the crows playing their pranks.
The crows are very like those at home, except that these little fellows
have slate-colored necks, and are much more bold.

If a window or door is left open, it will not be a minute before one or
more crows will arrive and look about in search of food. If you chance
to leave any thing about that is eatable, it is seized and carried off
in an instant.

There is a great park here, known as the Maidan, where dogs run with
bones to pick; and this habit of the dogs suits the crows perfectly, for
they always try to get away the bones, and often succeed too. This is
the way they usually go to work. The first crow that sees a dog with a
bone calls all his friends, and off they fly to where the dog is. There
they alight, and stand around him.

Then they talk to one another. Perhaps one says, in crow language, "This
is an ugly cur;" another says, "He has crooked legs;" another, "His tail
is cut off;" and so they keep talking until the dog gets angry, and with
a snap and a bark, tries to drive them away. This only makes them laugh;
and they begin again to torment the dog by talking, and even by jumping
upon his back, and pulling his tail.

Now, no dog of any spirit will stand this insult. So he springs up in a
rage, to punish the saucy birds. That is precisely what the crows want;
for, as soon as he turns his head around to bite one crow, another darts
down, seizes the bone, and carries it away. Then how they do laugh at
the poor dog! and isn't he angry!

We have also a bird commonly called a "kite," but often called the
"Indian swallow," as it sails about in the air just as our home swallows
do. It does not seize its food with its bill, as the crow does, but with
its claws or talons, and eats as it flies. Now, the crow can't help
tormenting something; and the kite often gets his share of their
attention.

I have seen crows sit on a fence on both sides of a kite, and provoke
him by their talk, just as one boy often provokes another by saying
saucy little things. At first the kite pretends not to care; but very
soon his feathers ruffle, and he flies at a crow, as if to tear him in
pieces. The crow is quick and darts away, but returns just as soon as
the kite flies at another crow. And in this way the crows amuse
themselves for a long time.

It is believed here that crows hold meetings, and decide upon the
punishment due to other crows that have been bad; for they have often
been seen to gather in large numbers, and, after chattering like magpies
for a time, take one of their number, and peck him severely, sometimes
even killing him.

Good-by, dear old "Nursery." Your little friend,

                                                LEON K. DAVIS.




PRAIRIE DOGS.


HOW many of the bright-eyed boys and girls who read "The Nursery," or
hear it read, month after month, ever saw a prairie-dog village? Ah! I
see several little hands up. "The Nursery" has many readers in Western
Kansas; and there is the very place where prairie-dog villages are
found.

I will tell you about my first visit to one of them. As we were riding
over the beautiful green prairie, we came to a place dotted here and
there with hillocks about a foot high, and on each sat a funny little
yellow dog.

These little hills, which have a hole in the top for a door, are the
houses of the prairie-dogs. They would let us come quite close to them,
when, with a comical squeak, intended, I suppose, for a bark, down they
would go, head first, into the holes, giving their tails a "good-by"
shake.

The noise they make sounds exactly like the noise made by toy-animals
when you press them in your hands. Fifty prairie-dogs all barking
together could not be heard very far.

On a number of the hills sat solemn old owls, trying to look very wise.
Most of these owls sat perfectly still as we drove by; but I saw two or
three fly slowly away, as if half asleep. I wonder if these sober old
birds teach the little prairie-dogs any of their wisdom.

All the prairies in this part of Kansas are covered with a short, thick
grass, called "buffalo-grass," and the dogs live on its roots. These
roots are little bulbs, and make nice rich food for the funny little
fellows.

A gentleman who has lived here for many years tells me that all their
houses are connected underground by halls or passages, so that they can
travel a mile or so without coming to the top of the ground.

Wherever you see a prairie-dog village, there you will find good water
by digging a few feet. Sometimes boys capture these queer little dogs,
and they become quite tame and make cunning pets.

                                            MARY MAXWELL RYAN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE STREET-PLAYER.


          UNDER my window I hear a sound,
            The scrape of a fiddle, the clatter of feet;
          And a curious crowd of boys and men
            Has gathered there in the street.

          And in their midst is a little child,
            With ragged shoes and a brimless hat,
          Not bigger than Hop-O'-my-Thumb, at most,
            And wan and thin at that.

          I see his fingers like little claws,
            His berry-brown eyes, and wistful smile,
          As he plies the bow of his fiddle fast,
            And tries to sing meanwhile.

          And when his shrill brief song is done,
            He plucks the hat from his curly head,
          And begs a penny from every one,
            Though not a word is said.

          Just fit for a mother's arms to fold,
          Yet here alone in the heat and dust,
          Doing his poor, tired, baby best
          To earn for himself a crust.

          He looks like Teddy, for all the world;
            Just such a tanned and rosy skin;
          Only he lacks the apple cheeks,
            The dimples, and double-chin.

          And I think if Teddy were motherless,
            And had to wander from place to place,
          How quickly the twinkle would leave his eye,
            And the dimples leave his face.

          So, Teddy, open the little bank,
            And give him the pennies kept for toys,
          And under my window let me see
            Two little nut-brown boys!

                                        MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

[Illustration: ]




THE CATBIRD.


THE catbird belongs to the family of thrushes, and is one of the most
peculiar of our American birds. It is dark colored, with brown head and
neck, and greenish-black tail. The bird is fond of society, and usually
builds its nest near the dwellings of men, rather than in the quiet of
the forest.

Its voice, when angry or disturbed, is harsh and shrill, but at other
times, soft and sweet. It has also a cry like the mewing of a cat, from
which it derives its name. It is very courageous, and will defend its
young until it falls exhausted.

The catbird can be tamed, but is as mischievous as a young
monkey,--meddlesome, full of curiosity, and so jealous, that it will
drive any other pet bird out of the house. It dislikes to be caged,
preferring the freedom of the room, so that it may look in the
looking-glass, take pins off from the cushion, or perch on the plants in
the window.

                                                   AUNT ALICE.




[Illustration: HOW TO DRAW A CAT.]

          When Ellen makes up dough for bread,
          A roll like this you see.

          One turnover she puts on top,
          Because it pleases me.

          Now when I saw Miss Pussy's back
          As she lay upon the mat,
          I thought of Ellen's bread and pie
          It surely looks like that,
          So adding ears and tail I had,
          The rear view of my cat.

[Illustration]




PLAYING COOK.


JENNY was at her little table, making a pudding for her doll's dinner,
when brother Albert came in with Snap the dog, and said, "Let me be the
cook, sister: I know how to make a pudding. First I will break these
three eggs into the dish."

"But I can see no eggs," said Jenny.

"Look sharp," said Albert, going through the motion of breaking an egg.
"Good and fresh."

"I see no eggs," said Jenny.

"You must be losing your eyesight," said the cook, taking a spoon. "Now,
then, I will stir up the eggs; and now I will put in a little flour; and
now I will grate in some nutmeg."

"I think you had better put in some milk," said Jenny.

"Of course, I shall," replied the cook. "Where's the basin of milk?"

"You will find it on the floor," said Jenny.

Albert looked, and cried out, "Go away, Snap!--See, Jenny, that greedy
dog has lapped up all the milk!"

"No matter," said Jenny. "You can get some more where you got the eggs."

So Albert seized the little pitcher, went through the motion of emptying
it, stirred the pudding once more, and then placed it on the little
doll-stove.

"Oh, what a fine cook you are!" said Jenny. "But, when I am very hungry,
I think I shall not come to you for my dinner."

                                                      IDA FAY.




HOW A BOY CAUGHT A FISH WITH HIS NOSE.


A FEW years ago, a little boy was out fishing with his mother, on
Crooked Lake, in the western part of New York; or perhaps I should say,
_she_ was fishing, and he was looking over the side of the boat. He
could see the fish darting about here and there, and liked to watch
them, and he put his face as close down to the water as he could to see
them more plainly.

A big trout came along, and saw something smooth and round and white
close to the top of the water. It was the boy's nose. The trout was
hungry, and I suppose he thought it was a piece of meat, or something
else good to eat: so he gave a spring out of the lake, and caught fast
hold of it with his teeth.

Very much startled, the boy jerked his head back suddenly, and landed
Mr. Trout in the boat. He was a fine large fellow, and weighed several
pounds. I hope he did not bite off the end of the boy's nose. I wonder
if the boy would like to try to catch another trout in the same way.

Everybody thought this so funny, that the boy became, for a while, quite
famous, and had his photograph taken, with the mark of the bite on his
nose. This may seem a very tough story, but it is true. The thing took
place only a few miles from where I live.

                                               ELIZABETH SILL.

[Illustration]




AN OLD FABLE.


AN ass, having put on a lion's skin, roamed about in the forest, and
amused himself by frightening all the animals he met with in his
wanderings. At last he met a fox, and tried to frighten him also; but
the fox no sooner heard the sound of his voice than he exclaimed, "I
might have been afraid, if I had not heard you bray."

This fable was written by Æsop, a famous Grecian who lived nearly three
thousand years ago.

A fable is a fictitious story designed to enforce some useful lesson or
moral. See if you can tell the moral of this one.

                                                UNCLE CHARLES.




OUR FLY.


[Illustration]

I WANT to tell "The Nursery" readers about a fly who has lived in my
mamma's room all winter. At night he hides away in some warm place; but,
when the sun shines, he flies all about the room, and acts as if he were
very happy.

When my mamma was sick, he used to fly about her, and make a great
buzzing; and, when the girl brought up her dinner, he would crawl about
the tray as if he were hungry. Mamma would give him some sugar, which he
liked very much.

We missed him once for a whole week. We looked all over the room, but
could not find him anywhere. At last, one day, we saw him on the window
trying to fly, and what do you think? The poor fellow had lost one of
his wings. Mamma said that he must have flown into the gas-light, and
got burnt. She gave him some sugar, and he seemed to feel better for
eating it.

I watched him a long time, and when he had eaten enough he crawled on to
my hand. I took him off, and put him on the window again; but he kept
coming back to my hand, and I think, if he could have spoken, he would
have said, "Thank you, little girl, for my nice dinner."

I will tell you more about him some time.

                                                        VIOLA.

[Illustration]




GRANDPA'S WATCH.


GEORGE is never so happy as when he is on grandpa's knee; and the first
thing that grandpa has to do, when little George is seated there, is to
pull out his watch.

"Watch, watch!" cries little George; and grandpa takes it out, opens it,
and lets him see all the queer little wheels and the bright works, that
shine and glitter so, and keep up the quick movements, and make the
watch say, "Tick, tick!"

Grandpa and George are good friends, because grandpa tries to explain
things to him. One day he brought home a watch and gave it to the little
boy for his own, and showed him how to wind it up, and make it tick.

George is very proud of it, and will soon learn to tell the time of day.
He knows now how to count ten.

                                                      A. B. C.

[Illustration]




HELEN'S BIRD.


WHEN Helen was eight years old, a pretty little canary-bird was given to
her as a birthday present. She named it "Chirp;" and she and Chirp soon
got to be very fond of each other.

Helen took the whole care of him; and he grew so tame that he would
perch on her hand, and take seeds from her finger, and even from her
lips. He was a fine singer, and Helen liked to be waked in the morning
by his music.

His cage was placed on her table near her bed, and she always began the
day by having a little talk with Chirp. There was not the least risk in
opening the cage, and letting him out into the room; for he would fly to
Helen as soon as she called him.

So for years the little bird and the little girl lived happily together.
One November day, when Helen was almost eleven years old, she had been
out making a call, and, on her return, Chirp was missing. Helen saw that
a window had been left open, and knew that he must have flown out.

"Oh, dear!" said she, in great distress, "my poor little Chirp is gone,
and I shall never see him again."

Her mother tried to comfort her by saying that he had not been gone
long, and could not be far away. "But," said Helen, "it is cold weather,
and is snowing too, and he must be chilled to death."

However, without wasting time in talk, she snatched up a handful of
canary-seed, and ran out of doors at once in search of her little pet.
She looked up into the vine that grew on the side of the house, and
called, "Chirp, Chirp!"

She could see nothing of him; but Chirp saw her, and in a moment came
fluttering down among the snowflakes, and perched upon her hand. Oh, how
delighted Helen was to see him! The first thing she did was to give him
some seeds to eat; for she knew he must be half starved.

"You dear little venturesome thing," she said. "You wanted to see the
world, didn't you? But why couldn't you wait for warmer weather? You
have given me a dreadful fright. Come into the house now and be
contented, and next summer you shall go out with me."

                                                  JANE OLIVER.

[Illustration]




THREE LITTLE CHICKS BORN IN A SHOE.


          THREE little chickens,
            Born in a shoe,
          When the freshet came,
            Didn't know what to do:
          One went on deck,
            Just to watch the weather,
          While down below
            The others sat together.

          "Oh, what shall we do!
            Mother is not here:
          Captain there on deck!
            Oh, what cheer? what cheer?"
          "Water everywhere,
            Far as I can see!
          But the wind is fair;
            Let us easy be."

          "Oh, we want our mother,"
            Cried the other two:
          "Stop that!" said the captain,--
            Captain of the shoe:
          "We are lucky chickens
            In our little boat;
          Water-tight it is,
            And it keeps afloat.

          "I hear mother calling
            From the barn-yard wall:
          Courage, little sisters!
            Don't you hear her call?"
          Yes, they heard it plainly;
            Oh, how glad they were!
          "Now blow fair, thou gentle wind,
            Bear us all to her!"

          And the wind kept blowing,
            Fair and fair it blew,
          Bearing to the barn-yard wall
            All that little crew.
          When their mother saw them,
            She flew down apace;
          On her back she bore them
            To a nice dry place.

                                                 EMILY CARTER.




THE GEESE AND THE HAWK.


ONE day in May as Charles walked through the fields, he saw a large hawk
hovering in the air, and heard a noise as of geese cackling. Soon an old
mother-goose with a troop of little ones came running towards him.

She knew that Charles would protect her and her fledglings from the
cruel hawk; and she was not mistaken. He took up a stick, and, looking
up at the hawk, said, "Now come on if you dare, you old thief!"

The hawk made a swoop down to the top of a tree near by, caught sight of
the goslings, and would, no doubt, have liked to clutch one of them, and
carry it off; but the robber-bird was not quite bold enough to do this
while Charles stood by.

At last the hawk flew off out of sight, and Charles called his good dog
Fido, and pointed at the geese, and said, "Take care of them, sir." So
Fido sat down near by, and watched the geese. I think if the hawk had
come then, Fido would have been more than a match for him.

[Illustration]

                                                UNCLE CHARLES.




MABEL'S SECRETS.


AND what were her secrets? She was one of the children allowed to make
Christmas-gifts to their friends.

But it was hard for Mabel to keep her secrets. When her papa came home
at night, she always climbed upon his knee to tell him every thing that
had happened in her little world during the day; and her papa always
listened to her prattle with a great deal of interest.

Now, that there was something she must not tell, Mabel could think of
nothing else. She climbed upon his knee, and sat so silent, that her
papa said, "Well, puss, have you nothing to tell papa to-night?"

"Oh, I mustn't tell you my secrets, papa," said wise little Mabel: "I've
lots of 'em, and one is for you; and, if I tell, you will know all about
it."

Now that the ice was broken, Mabel chatted on, innocently thinking that
her secrets were safe in her wise little head. "Mamma knows," she
continued; "but you mustn't know; and we are going to have a
Christmas-tree to put 'em on, and everybody will be so _sprised_."

Sure enough, when Christmas Eve came, every one was surprised, but, most
of all, little Mabel; for a beautiful doll and many other pretty things
hung upon the tree for her. "Why, mamma," she exclaimed, "somebody else
must have had secrets too!"

                                                      M. B. L.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE LITTLE STUDENT.


          IN the sun by the wall, with Lion close by,
          With her book in her hand, little Ruth you may spy:
          She is getting her lesson as fast as she can,
          While the birds sing their song and the soft breezes fan.

          See, that is her slate lying there on the ground:
          She can make a square figure, and then make a round;
          She can add up a sum, if it's not very big;
          But she cannot yet draw me a cat or a pig.

          But she tries to learn something, though little it be,
          Each day of her life,--something useful, you see:
          And in two or three years you will find she can spell,
          Read, cipher, and write, and do it all well.

                                                ELLEN SIMPSON.




THE SNOW-COUNTRY.


"WHAT a funny looking man!" cried Harry, running to me with his book
open, to show me a picture. "Where does he live, aunty? and why does he
wear such clothes?"

"He is an Esquimau, and lives in the snow-country, and his clothes are
made of fur."

"Tell me about the snow-country, aunty."

"Up in the far north, near the north pole, it is winter all the time.
There the snow is always on the ground; and instead of having, as we do,
many days and nights, they have only one day and one night in all the
year.

"You will wonder if the people sleep all through the long night, and if
they do not get tired of the long day. No; for they go to bed and get up
about as often as we do.

"During the night they have the stars to light them, and bright flashing
colors in the sky, such as we call the 'Northern Lights.' When the sun
comes back, he makes them a long visit; but never gets so high in the
sky as he does with us, and never makes the weather warm."

[Illustration]

"What are those things in the picture that look like bee-hives?" said
Harry.

"The picture shows you an Esquimaux village, and those are the houses.
They are made of blocks of snow. Some of the houses have pieces of clear
ice for windows. Others have no windows at all; only a small hole for a
door, which is closed up with snow after the family have all gone in."

"A snow-house with ice windows!" said Harry. "Why, how do they keep
warm?"

"They warm the houses with oil lamps, and get them very warm and very
smoky too."

"Well," said Harry, "the Esquimaux are a queer people. I should like to
hear more about them."

"I will tell you more some other time."

                                                      G. D. Y.




THE FROGGIE'S PARTY.


[Illustration: Music]

          1. The frog who would a-wooing go,
          Gave a party, you must know;
          And his bride dress'd all in green,
          Look'd as fine as any queen.
          Their reception number'd some
          Of the best in Froggiedom:
          Four gray froggies play'd the fiddle,--
          Hands all round and down the middle;
          Oh! oh! oh! oh! away we go!
          Hopping and jumping away we go!

          2. Some stern old croakers there did come,
          In white chokers to the room;
          While the belles with rush-leaf fans,
          Danc'd with beaux in green brogans,
          Flirted in the bowers there,
          Hidden from the ball-room's glare:
          Three old froggies tried a reel,--
          Twist 'em, turn 'em, toe and heel,
          With a oh! oh! oh! away we go!
          Hopping and jumping away we go!

          3. One little Miss was ask'd to sing,
          But she had a cold that spring;
          Little frogs were sound asleep,
          Late hours--bad for them to keep.
          Each one wish'd the couple joy,
          No bad boys came to annoy:
          This next fall the news is spreading
          They will have their silver wedding!
          Oh! oh! oh! oh! away we go!
          Hopping and jumping away we go!

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

The title page and table of contents were created for this issue
following the pattern from the 1877 issues.

Page 70, period added at end of paragraph (a good-sized load)

Page 75, extra comma removed. Original read (crow, is quick)

Page 95, single quotation mark changed to double quotation mark (more
about them.")