NOON-DAY FANCIES FOR OUR LITTLE PETS

On one side of our house was a high grape trellis. One morning kitty went out and began to climb this trellis. She put one little paw before the other, and went bravely up, up, up, till she reached the top. Then she looked down to the ground and mewed piteously. I suppose when she looked down and saw very far off the ground was, she was frightened and dizzy.

When I heard her cry, I ran out to see what was the matter. Their stood kitty on the very top of the trellis, clinging to the slats with her little paws. The fur stood up all over her back and tail, she was so frightened. "Mew I mew!" she cried.

I saw how badly she felt and how afraid she was of falling.

I tried to think of some way to help her. I got a basket and tied the handle to a long pole. Then I took hold of the pole and held the basket up as high as I could reach. Then I called, "Kitty, Kitty," and with a spring, down she came into the basket.

I took her down and into the house. She seemed so glad to be safely on the ground once more that I thought she would never do that foolish thing again.

But every morning this stupid little kitten would climb the trellis just the same, and have to be taken down in the basket. I suppose she thought it fun to climb up, and rather enjoyed the ride down in the basket.

—FANNIE G. DOWSE.

TIME.

Sixty seconds make a minute;

Use them well, you will win it

Sixty minutes miles an hour;

Use them well while in your power.

THANKSGIVING AT GRANDPA'S.

Where we live, it snowed from morning till night on the day before Thanksgiving. Papa and John, our hired man, got the double sleigh down from the loft, where it had been resting all summer. I don't think it was tired, but it rested all the same.

Old Kate and Charley were harnessed, and they were as frisky as young lambs. They seemed to know it was Thanksgiving, and were as happy as the children. We were all wrapped up in thick, warm clothes, and packed in the sleigh. Large as it was, we filled it quite full.

We all went to church first. Do you know what Thanksgiving means? The good people who first came to make their homes in New England set apart a day and called it by this name. In the autumn, after the corn had been gathered, the apples picked, and the vegetables put in the cellar, they felt very thankful to God for all these good things. They fixed a time to meet in the churches to give thanks to God. They gave thanks in prayers, in hymns, and in sermons. They had a good dinner on that day, and were as happy as they could be. The children and the children's children went home to spend the day. It was the home festival.

People do not go to church so much as they did, but it is still the home festival. We went to church; and after that we all had a long sleigh-ride to Grandpa's. Uncle George and Aunt Lucy were there, and cousins were almost as plenty as the snowflakes the day before.

We played "blind-man's buff" before dinner. We laughed and screamed, and rolled and tumbled on the floor. Grandpa and Grandma sat laughing at us, as happy as we were.

The great event of the day was the dinner. Grandpa sat at the head of the table in his arm-chair. Some of the children thought he never would get his knife sharp enough to carve the turkey. Flora, the maid, brought it in. All the little ones screamed when she put it on the table. It was a very large turkey, and was nicely browned. We never saw anything that looked so good.

The turkey tasted as good as it looked. For ten minutes the children did not scream or laugh out loud. I suppose their mouths were too full. Then we had to eat plum pudding and four kinds of pies. We did not feel so much like it as we did. I am afraid we ate all we could rather than all we needed.

After dinner Grandma told us about her little ones. We all wanted to know where they were now. Grandma laughed, and pointed to Uncle George, Papa, and Aunt Lucy. We could hardly believe they were ever little things like us. Then Grandpa told us how he killed a great bear near the old house ever so many years before.

Uncle George showed us how to play "London Bridge." Some of us were parts of the bridge, and some of us went under it. After that we played "snap-apple." Aunt Lucy tied an apple by a string to the ceiling, and we bit at it Every time we bit, the apple flew away from us. It was great fun.

After supper the "day was over" with the little ones. We could not keep our eyes open, and some of us slept all the way home in that double sleigh. I know I dreamed about that long table at dinner, and thought we were playing "snap-apple" with the big roast turkey.

That Thanksgiving was many, many years ago, and some of those mites of little ones that played "London Bridge" are grandpas and grandmas now.

—UNCLE FRED.

A QUEER PLACE FOR A BIRD'S HOME.

One evening last summer a tramp, who had travelled many miles, lay down on the leaves in a pleasant wood. Before he went to sleep he pulled off one shoe, for it had chafed his foot till it was very sore.

In the morning he rose, and prepared to go on to beg his morning meal. When he tried to put his shoe on, it hurt his foot so badly that he groaned aloud. He gave up trying to wear it, and threw it into the bushes.

The shoe caught in the fork of a young maple-tree, and hung fast by the heel, with the toe downward. The tramp limped away on his journey, and went I don't know where.

Before many days a bright-eyed little bird spied the shoe. She thought it would be a fine place to build a home in. So she and her mate brought fine twigs and straw and leaves in their bills. They placed them in the shoe in pretty nest-shape, and lined their new house with soft hair and wool.

Beth and her papa were out searching for wood-flowers one day. The shadow of the shoe fell on the moss beneath the little maple.

Looking up, Beth saw the nest. Her papa bent the maple down, and Beth looked in. She saw five cunning little blue eggs lying cosily against the gray lining.

Beth is a tiny girl, just past being rocked to sleep in mamma's lap. She laughed aloud, and clapped her fat little hands for joy, when she saw this dainty sight.

I think there were some little birdies in that shoe before long, don't you?—

—J. G. FORD.

LITTLE FIDGET.

My restless little boy,

You can't sit still a minute;

Your mug is upside down,

And not a drop is in it.

—LOUIE BRINE=.

THE GOOD LITTLE MILKMAN.

One morning last week I was walking along the street, and I saw a kitten on the pavement. It was white, with black spots on its head and neck. It sat as close to the fence as it could get, and looked very lonesome, as if it did not belong to anybody.

Every time a person went by the kitten would lift up its head and mew. I knew quite well that it was hungry and did not know where to get any breakfast. I wished that I had something with me to give it to eat. Just then a boy came along with a milk-can in his hand. He looked like a good boy. He had pleasant blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He was whistling a lively tune, as if he was very merry and happy. When Kitty saw him, she lifted up her head and gave a loud mew. The boy stopped and noticed her.

"Kitty!" said he; "I believe you are hungry, and are asking me to feed you. I wish I had a dish, and I would give you some milk."

He looked all around. By and by he saw a little hollow place in one of the stones of the pavement. Then he said, "Come here, Kitty; I have found a basin for you."

He poured some milk out of his can into the hollow, and Kitty ran and lapped it up as fast as she could.

Then he poured in some more, till Kitty had eaten all she wanted. When he had done this, he said, "Good-morning, Kitty," and he went on his way whistling.

Was n't he a good boy? I watched him till he was out of sight, because I was so glad that I had seen him. It is so pleasant to meet people that are kind and thoughtful, whether they are old or young.

I was very glad for Kitty, too. When I left her she was washing her face and stretching herself in the warm sunshine. She seemed to feel so comfortable now that she had eaten a nice breakfast. It was a real pleasure to look at her.

I hope Kitty will find such a good friend as this little milkman every day.

—HATTIE WAY.

SIX NICE DUCKS

There were six nice ducks that I once knew,

Fat ducks and pretty ducks they were too.

And one had a feather curled up on his back,

And he ruled the others with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

Across the green fields those ducks would go,

Widdle, waddle, wuddle, all in a row;

But the one with a feather curled up on his back

Was always ahead, with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

Hero a fat bug, and there a small toad,

They snapped up quickly while on the road;

But his broad bill would smack

As he ate with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

Into the brook they went with a dash,

They swam through the water with many a splash;

But the one with a feather curled up on his back

He swam the fastest, with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

Some dove to the bottom, pink feet in air,

And grubbed in the mud for fat worms rare.

But the one with a feather of worms had no lack;

For he stayed the longest, with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

If I told you all that these ducks did,

What nice times they had in the meadow hid,

The one with a feather curled up on his back

Would fill half the story with his

"Quack! Quack! Quack!"

—AUNT SALLY.=

ROBBIE'S DRUM.

One afternoon little Robbie Fales came home with a very sober face. Charley Allen, one of the school-boys, had just had a present of a handsome drum. Robbie wanted one, too. He wanted one so much that he could not think of any thing else all the evening. At last Grandma began to wonder if he was sick; so he had to tell her what he was thinking about.

"I wish father could buy one for me; but I know he can't afford it," said Robbie, with a long sigh.

"Perhaps I can fix up one for you," said Grandma.

"Oh, I should be so glad if you could!" said Robbie. "I know you can fix lots of things; but I don't believe you could make a drum."

"Well, I can try," said Grandma; "and I think I can fix something for you that will make a noise, if it should n't be like a real drum."

So the next day, when Robbie was away at school, Grandma Fales went to work to make a drum for him in a way she had thought of. She found a wooden box that was light but strong, and about the right size.

She put some straps of red cloth around it to make it look gay. Then she fastened a long strap to it so that Robbie could hang it on his neck. For the drum-sticks she found some spokes that had been broken out of an old wheel.

When Robbie came home and saw what Grandma had done for him he was quite delighted.

"Why, this is a first-rate drum!" he exclaimed. "And it did n't cost a cent, either. I did n't think you could make any thing so good," and he thanked her over and over. He hung the box on his neck, and beat a lively rub-a-dub on the ends.

He liked the sticks very much, because they were so round and smooth. The homemade drum was greatly admired by the school-boys. Each one of them took his turn at playing on it; and they all agreed, that if it did not look just like a real drum, it did make a splendid noise.

Robbie said he was sure that he enjoyed it as much as he should if it had cost several dollars; and Grandma was very glad that she had been able to make him so happy.

—MARY E. NATHE.

LITTLE MISS SONNET.

Prim little Miss Sonnet

Once ordered a bonnet;

The biggest and grandest that ever was seen.

And little Miss Sonnet

She said, "I will don it,

For I am quite sure it is fit for the Queen."

Then little Miss Sonnet

She put on lier bonnet,

And tied a true lover's knot under her chin;

And this wonderful bonnet

Had red roses on it,

With all of them fastened in place with a pin.

So little Miss Sonnet

Went out with her bonnet,

And strutted about for a while in the park;

When the wind took the bonnet

With little Miss Sonnet,

And blew them both up in the sky, like a spark.

—ALBERT H. HARDY.

THE PIPPIN-TREE.

Karl and Christina were little German children. It was summer when they came to live in the house by the bridge. As soon as they were settled in their new home they began to go to school. The road that led to the school went by Farmer Grün's orchard. The trees in the orchard were full of apples. Karl and Christina would look at them when they were going past, and they longed to have some of them to eat.

"You must never go into the orchard," their mother said; "but if any of the apples should fall into the road, it would not be wrong for you to pick them up."

There was one tree that stood nearer the roadside wall than the others did, and it had bright red pippins on it. The children called this their tree, and every time they went by it they would say, "Pretty pippins, please to fall into the road."

Several weeks passed, and the pippins grew larger and redder; but they did not fall into the road. Some of them dropped off; but they fell into the orchard. By and by the harvest-time came, and Karl Sind Christina began to think their tree would never give them anything.

One day Farmer Grün was in the orchard as they were going by. He heard them say, "Pretty pippins, please to fall into the road." So when they were looking the other way he threw a number of the pippins over the wall. The children were delighted to see them, and ran to pick them up. Then they said, "Thank you, good tree."

Farmer Grün laughed to hear them, and wondered who these queer little folks were. He inquired about them, and found that they belonged to a poor but honest family that had lately moved into the town. After this he was often in the orchard gathering the apples for market. When he saw the little brother and sister coming, he would always toss some of the pippins over the wall where they could get them.

At last he spoke to them, and told them they might come into the orchard on Saturdays, and pick up as many apples as they could carry home. So Karl and Christina went many times, and worked as busily as two bees till they got a barrel of apples for winter. Farmer Grün liked the children because they were so honest and so willing to work.

—M. E. N. HATHEWAY.

MOUSIE'S MATCH.

A little gray mouse was out on his travels. He wanted to see the world and get some supper. It was late in the afternoon. It was growing dark, and mousie lighted a match.

You don't believe it?

Mousie really did it, though he did not mean to; and this is the way it happened: Mousie crept through a little hole into a nice, cosy room. It was very quiet and warm. Grandpa West sat there writing. There was a little pile of chips and bits of paper on the hearth, ready to light the fire next morning.

Mousie smelt crumbs of cake in one of the papers. He crept in and found them. They were very nice, but he wanted something more to eat. He nibbled some of the chips. There was a match among them.

Mousie found the match. He did not know what it was. Mousie never smoked, and never lighted fires. So he thought matches were of no use; that is, unless they were good to eat. He would try and see; so he nibbled the match.

Snap! went his wee white teeth. Up jumped a little flame right in his face.

"Quee!" screamed mousie, and ran back to his hole.

If no one had been in the room, mousie's match might have set the house on fire. It caught the papers and chips, and they blazed up in a second. But Grandpa took them up on a shovel, and threw them into the fireplace. Then he sat down in his easy-chair, and laughed to think how fast mousie ran. Mousie reached his nest in safety; and very likely he told his wife that the world was burning up.

—MRS. MARY JOHNSON.

DENNY O'TOOLE.

Have you seen Denny,

My dear children all?

With lips like a rose,

And head like a ball,

With eyes like the sky,

When they sparkle in

school,

O, a prince among boys

Is Denny O'Toole.

His hat is in tatters,

But his young heart is sound,

And his shoes, though his

best,

Let his toes on the ground;

But who cares for tatters!

He keeps every rule,

And is kind to the smallest,

Our Denny O'Toole.

Then cheer for young Denny,

And cheer, too, for all

Who are honest and true,

Who defend weak and small

Cheer on and cheer ever,

At home or at school,

Each manly young hero

Like Denny O'Toole.

AFRAID OF SPIDERS.

Carrie jumped from her seat because a spider was spinning-down before her from the ceiling. "They are such hateful black things!" she said.

"They are curious things," said Aunt Nellie. "They have eight fixed eyes."

"Dear me! And maybe she's looking at me with all eight of them," groaned Carrie.

"They are very fond of music,"

"I shall never dare to sing again, for fear they 'll be spinning down to listen."

"They can tell you whether the weather is going to be fine or not. If it is going to storm, they spin a short thread; if it will clear, they spin a long one."

"That's funny."

"They are an odd family," Aunt Nellie went on. "I saw one on the window-pane the other day. She carrieed a little gray silk bag about with her wherever she ran. She had spun the bag herself. When it burst open, ever so many tiny baby spiders tumbled out, like birds from a nest, and ran along with her. Perhaps you did n't know that the spider can spin and sew, too? She spins her web, and she sews leaves together for her summer house."

"What a queer thing a spider is," said Carrie, beginning to forget her dislike.

"Yes, and she has a queerer sister in England, who makes a raft, and floats on pools of water upon it in search of flies for her dinner."

"I should like to know what it's made of."

"She binds together a ball of weeds with the thread she spins."

"I wish we could go to England."

"And there's another of the family who lives under water in a diving-bell, which she weaves herself."

"How I should like to see her!"

"Maybe you would rather see the one in the West Indies who digs a hole in the earth. She lines it with silk of her own making, and fits a door to it, which opens and closes when the family go in and out."

"Yes, yes," said Carrie, "how delightful!"

"But you would be afraid of the inmates?"

"Perhaps not, now I know their family affairs."

—MARY N. PRESCOTT.

WHAT BECAME OF THE SUGAR-PLUM?

Little Fannie said she did wish her aunt wouldn't have a headache when mamma was busy, for then there was nobody to play with her. Perhaps the headache was better. She would go and see. So she tiptoed softly up the stairs, and rapped at aunty's door with the back of her hand; but it was just like rapping with a little pink cushion. No answer; and then she rapped with her finger-nails.

Aunty raised herself on one elbow and listened. She thought it might be a mouse nibbling at her Albert biscuits in the closet. Then she heard the noise again, and it seemed like two mice.

"O," said she, laughing, "I do believe it's Fannie. Come in."

"How you do?" said the little girl, walking up to her and looking very sorry. "How do you do? I have n't seen you since day 'fore yes' d'y to-mor' mornin'."

Then she searched in her pocket a long time, and at last found a red sugar-plum.

She gave it to aunty to cure the headache.

"Don't you think," said she, tucking it into her aunt's hand, "that will make you mos' pretty well, and you can comed down nex' week las' year?"

Aunty said she hoped so, and laid the sugar-plum on the table. But, strange to say, she never saw it again. Perhaps a mouse may have got it. What do you think?

—ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.

GOOD WORK FOR LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS.

I am the mother of three little children, not three chickens. I am quite sure the little chickens would be easier to take care of, for all they wish is plenty to eat and drink, and a warm nest to sleep in.

I never heard of a chicken that wished to be amused or played with. They never say, "Mamma, what can I do no!" I wish to help the little girls and boys, who, like my own, are sometimes at a loss what to do. I must first of all ask one question. Can you use scissors?

I wish you to make a book, not to write it, but to make it all of pictures. This is the way to go about it. Ask your mother and friends for illustrated papers and books which they would be willing to give you to cut the pictures from. Black and white pictures are as good as colored, and the two look well together.

Cut these out neatly and carefully, with smooth edges. Torn and worn-out picture-books usually have something left which will do to cut out, and thus save from being wholly lost. Then there are the Christmas, New-Year, and Birthday cards, of which nearly all of us have some.

Take for the pages of your book paper, muslin, or common glazed cambric; cut this into pieces ten inches long and eight inches wide. Three or four pages will make a book large enough to begin with. The cambric may be all white, or any color you prefer; pink, blue, red, or a part of each color.

On these pages paste the pictures neatly, on both sides, using your taste as to which pictures look well together and fit in nicely.

For the covers, take light pasteboard covered on both sides with cambric and sewed together over and over, or, what is better, in buttonhole stitch with colored worsted.

Then with the scissors make holes through all, and tie the covers and pages together with a narrow ribbon or twisted worsted. Children like this kind of book very much, as it is full of variety, and every page gives many a new thought.

It is also very strong, so that mischievous little hands cannot easily tear it, and so light that feeble and weary little hands can easily hold it. To the poor little children in hospitals nothing could be more welcome.

All it costs is patient and loving work. Then there is the pleasure of doing it. There are the happy moments spent in making a really useful and pretty thing. To this may be added the well-known pleasure of giving.

For God has placed us side by side

In this wide world of ill,

And that Thy followers may be tried,

The poor are with us still.

Mean are all offerings we can make;

But thou hast taught us, Lord,

If given for the Saviour's sake,

They lose not their reward.

—M. F. K.

THE WREN'S NEST.

"Come, come, Mrs. Brownie," says young Mr. Wren,

"'T is time to be building our nest;.

For the winter has gone, the spring blossoms have come,

And the trees in green beauty are dressed,

Dressed, dressed,

And the trees in green beauty are dressed.

"O, where shall we build it, my dear little wife,

O, where shall we build it?" says he,

"In the sweet woodbine bower, in the rose by the door,

Or way up in the old apple-tree,

Tree, tree,

Or way up in the old apple-tree?"

"From woodbine," says Brownie, "my dear Mr. Wren,

The sparrows would drive us away,

In the rose by the door cats would eat us, I'm sure;

Let us build in the apple-tree, pray,

Pray, pray,

Let us build in the apple-tree, pray."

So away high up in the old apple-tree

Mr. Wren built Brownie a nest,

And't is there she sits now, in the white-blossomed bough,

With the baby birds under her breast,

Breast, breast,

With the baby birds under her breast.

—NELLIE M. GARABRANT.

BE GOOD, PAPA.

Two voices cry, "Be good, papa,

Don't work too hard to-day!"

And I turn to see the waving hands

Of my little Beth and Faye.

Two girls of bright and sunny hair,

Of deep and thoughtful eyes;

And in their voices, touched with love,

What tender magic lies!

All day, along the crowded street,

Within the busy town,

I seem to hear their voices sweet;

They chase me up and down.

And their dear words of

warning love

Pursue, where'er I

go;

They mean far more,

far more to me

Than those who speak

them know.

Have I no helping hand to reach

Out to my brother's need?

Do I seek my gain by others' loss?

Am I led to some wrong deed?

Do temptations press, within, without?

Do wrong impulses urge?

Of some dishonorable act

Stand I upon the verge?

Then comes that message, soft and clear,

From the dear home, miles away.

"Be good, papa! be good, papa!"

The childish voices say.

There rise before my faltering eyes

My little Beth and Faye.

I feel I dare not do the wrong;

I dare not go astray.

—FRANK FOXCROFT.

THE SNOW FAMILY.

It was a very small family, only three; Mr. Snow, Mrs. Snow, and the baby. Mr. Snow did not look like other men. Mamma Snow did not look like your mamma. And their baby was such a funny one!

Where do you think I saw this strange family? It was in our school-yard, last winter. There had been a long snow-storm. Great piles of soft white snow were in the yard. Boys like to play in the snow. They are not afraid of the cold.

Well, my boys made a great snow-man. This they called Mr. Snow. Then they made a lady out of the snow. They called her Mrs. Snow. They said she was Mr. Snow's wife. At last they made a baby out of the snow. The baby stood beside Papa and Mamma Snow.

Then they called me out to see this family. I told them Mr. Snow was very pale for such a large man. One boy said, "Yes; it is a very pale family. We think they are not very well." Another boy said he was sure they would not live long.

Every day I asked my boys about Mr. Snow and his wife and baby. But one morning every one of the Snow family was gone. Where was Mr. Snow? Where was Mrs. Snow? And where was the funny little baby? They had lived in our yard just one week. No one knew where they had gone. No one but the south wind and the sun, and they would not tell.

—S. E. SPRAGUE.

CROSSING THE BROOK.

O dear little rill!

Why don't you keep still!

I never can cross,

To that bank of moss,

With you racing past

The smooth stones so fast.

Are you ever still,

You swift little rill?

Don't you sometimes stay

In cool nooks to play,

For days or for hours,

With bees, birds, and flowers?

If only I knew,

I'd come and play too,

I don't think you'd mind,

Your voice sounds so kind.

Who taught you to sing,

You dear little thing!

And now for the moss!

I 'll toss you a bit,

You good-natured chit.

There! bear it away—

Since you will not stay—

And give it, for mo,

Dear rill, to the sea,—

The great sea so wide,

With ships on its tide!

Now please don't be rude,

Though I must intrude,

And wade fairly through

Your ruffles so blue.

How pretty they look,

You dear little brook!

Come on, Snip; don't fear!

You can't drown in here;

And, if you do get

Your dainty toes wet,

'T will not make you sick:

So come along, quick!

Thanks, kind little rill!

Though you can't keep still,

You did n't get cross.

—Mrs. M. J. TAYLOR.

GRANDFATHER'S SPECTACLES.

One day Grandfather Shriff lost his spectacles. "Where can they be? Maybe they are on the mantel." So he hunted, but could not find them on the mantel.

"Where can they be? Perhaps they are among the books." So he hunted and hunted, but could not find them among the books.

"Perhaps they are in the other room." So he hunted and hunted and hunted, but could not find them in the other room.

"Perhaps they are up-stairs." So he hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted, but could not find them up-stairs. "Perhaps I dropped them somewhere in the front yard." So he hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted, but could not find them anywhere in the front yard.

"Perhaps they are out in the dining-room." So he hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted and hunted, but could not find them in the dining-room.

At last he asked old Aunt Harriet, the cook. "Why marster, there they is, right square on the top of your head." And, sure enough, there they were. Did n't we all laugh at grandfather!

—R. W. L.

FINDING BABY'S DIMPLES.

See my baby brother

Sitting in mamma's lap;

He's just getting ready

To take a little nap.

But before to dreamland

My baby brother goes,

I want to count his fingers,

And see his chubby toes.

Mamma, can't you make him

Just talk and laugh again,

So we can find the dimples

In his sweet cheeks and chin?

His eyes shine like diamonds

When he looks up so glad.

O, he's the dearest brother

A sister ever had.

Now he talks a little,

And laughs, come quick,

and see

My baby brother's dimples,

As cunning as can be.

The angels love our baby,

He is so very fair;

And so they came and kissed

him,

And left the dimples there.

—MRS. T. S. LOVEJOY.

KITTY'S FRIEND TOAD.

A great fat toad and Prim, my white kitten, are very good friends. He stays in the barn shed, where her milk-saucer is kept.

When the cows are milked, Prim always expects her saucer will be filled. If Fred forgets to give her any, she cries, "Mee-ow!" Then he remembers and gives her some milk.

Kit's friend, the toad, gets into her saucer and sits, and she doesn't mind it at all. She laps what milk she wants, and leaves the rest for him.

One day, when she went to eat her dinner, the toad put his foot up on her face lovingly, as you would pat and smooth your dear mamma's face.

Sometimes I bring the saucer and Toady into the parlor to show my visitors. He likes it, and winks his bright eyes at them.

He never tried to get out but once. Then he swung his long legs over the side of the dish, and was just going to jump, when I put my hand on him.

The ladies all screamed and ran. Then they all laughed.

—MRS. J. A. MELVIN.

PLAYING HORSE.

Out in the fields to have some fun

With the soft green grass, the breezes and sun,

And the sweet new flowers, and birdies gay,

On this frolicksome, sunny, glad spring day.

Sister Nell is willing, you see,

A steady, gentle "old horse" to be.

She has carried her driver far and fast,

And now she is ready for rest at last.

Give her some grass, and take good care

Of your pretty horse with the golden hair;

Then off she'll go for another run

With her little driver, till play is done.

O, the breezes, how soft they blow!

Through the tree-tops singing they go:

And, chasing Maudie adown the hill,

Play with her glowing hair at will.

Hither and thither the birdies fly,

Glad in the freedom of earth and sky;

And blossoms open their eyes to see

How joyous and fair the day can be.

But there are no things so glad and gay

As our little ones at their merry play,

When sister Nell a pony will be,

And "make good times" for her darlings three.

—M. D. BRINE.

NINE LITTLE PIGS.

We have nine little pigs. One is all white. One is light brown. The rest are spotted. These nine pigs live in a pen. It is in a yard near the barn. The pigs like to run in the yard. They turn up the soft dirt with their noses.

One day they made a hole under the fence. Piggy White got out of the yard first. The little brown pig came out next. Then all the spotted ones came out. Piggy White stopped to look around him. "Wee! wee! what a big world this is!" he said. Then all the other little pigs said "Wee! wee!" just like Piggy White.

Piggy White was larger than any of the others; so of course he knew all about it."

"Where shall we go?" said the little brown pig.

"Let us go up the hill," said a spotted one. The other little pigs said "Wee! wee!" again. That is the way they said yes.

So they started up the hill. It was a very small hill; but the pigs said, "What a large hill this is!" They were only baby pigs, you know. This was their first walk, out of their yard. By and by they came to the top of the hill. They saw a large house in a large yard "What a big pen!" said all the little pigs. "Do you think we shall find more pigs there?" said the brown pig. "Wee! wee!" said the others. You see, a pig thinks the whole world was made for pigs. Some one had left the gate open. The nine pigs went into the yard, one after another. No one was in sight, so they went on. They were still looking for pigs.

Before they got to the door, the cook came out. The pigs gave her one look. "That is no pig," said Piggy White.

Then they all ran back to their pen. But they knew more than when they left it. They had seen the world, and they had found that there are more than pigs in it.

—S. E. SPRAGUE.

CONFIDENTIAL

O yes, it was lovely down there at

Cape May,

And I s'posed I should never be

tired of play;

And Auntie was sweet as an auntie

could be;

But some one was homesick, you

s'pose it was me?

Such elegant ladies and beautiful

girls

All asking for kisses and praising

my curls;

But no precious papa to hug me, and say,

"Has dear little Kitty been good all the day!"

And mamma, dear, when they turned out the light,

And no blessed mamma to kiss me good-night,

Cuddled down in the pillow, with no one to see,

Was a little girl crying you guess it was me?

—EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

A ROSE THAT WILL GROW FOREVER.

Roger Daland was sick. He was just sick enough to be cross.

His picture-books fell off the bed. His playthings hid under the bedclothes, and Roger cried. His mother read aloud to him, but he did not like the story. Then she told him a true story about the "Mission for the Sick."

"Kind ladies met in a hall," she said, "and took with them fruit, flowers, and good things for sick men, women, and dear little children."

Roger was pleased. He thought about the mission some time; then he said, "I wish I could send my rose-bush in the little red pot."

"You can if you wish," said his mother, "and I will write a note for you."

Roger's eyes grew bright. His mother wrote, "Roger Daland sends this rose to some sick child."

Then it was sent away in a nice basket. Three days after, the postman brought Roger a note; it said:—

"Dear Little Boy, I am lame. I can never walk. My mother goes out washing. I am alone all day. I used to cry. I never cry since the rose-bush came. I sit in my chair and watch it. I thank you, and my mother does too. I learned to write before I fell down on the ice. My mother cannot write, but she says she will ask God to bless you. She can work better, for the rose keeps me company. She used to cry too, when I was all alone.

"'The rose will grow forever,' she says. I hope it will not die.

"My mother says 'if it does die in the pretty pot, the goodness will keep on growing.' I shall not let it die.

"Your friend,

"Mary Brennan."

When Roger's mother finished reading the note her little boy looked very happy. After that he sent little Mary some of his toys. He is well now; but he never forgets the Mission for the Sick.

—KATE TANNATT WOODS.

THE SIGNS OF THE SEASONS

What does it mean chirp,

And away to the south-land the wild-geese steer?

When apples are falling and nuts are brown?

These are the signs that autumn is here.

What does it mean when the days are short?

When the leaves are gone and the brooks are dumb?

When the fields are white with the drifting snows?

These are the signs that winter has come.

The old stars set, and the new ones rise,

And skies that were stormy grow bright and clear;

And so the beautiful, wonderful signs

Go round and round with the changing year.

—M. E. N. HATHEWAY.

SEEING FOR GRANDMA.

Grandma Farn is getting old, and has a disease of the eye. She will be seventy at her next birthday. She cannot see to read or to sew as well as she used to. But she has a number of grandchildren.

She calls them her eyes. She says that they must do her seeing for her; and they do, for they are good boys and girls, and love her very much.

The boys are larger and older, and they read aloud in the evening by the light of the lamp. The girls are younger, and cannot read yet; though Lucy, the eldest of the four girls, is now going to school.

The girls have found out a nice way for seeing for grandma. They take a spool of cotton and a paper of large needles. They thread every needle and leave it hanging on the spool. This saves their grandmother's eyes. All she then has to do is to put away the needle when she has used all the cotton. Then she takes another, and another, till the whole twenty-four are used.

Then the girls thread the twenty-four again. In this way they "see for grandma."

Grandma makes clothing for the poor. She can see enough to sew, but not enough, even with glasses, to thread her needle.

—R. W. LOWRIE.

Such a little woman,

Busy little fingers,

Gravely shelling beans,

Eyes of sweetest blue;

Kitty looks as she would say,

"Don't you bother, kitty,

"Tell me what it means!"

I have work to do.

"You may sit and watch me

While I'm shelling beans;

I am helping mother,

That is what it means."

—LUCY R. FLEMING.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Come, cheerful and gay

As the glad sun in May,

Let us carol away

The bright Christmas Day.

The star of His birth

Shines white o'er the earth.

Then in transports henceforth

Let us shout of His worth.

Our griefs we will fling

To the winds as we sing,

And our voices shall ring

With the name of our King.

MRS. C. F. MONTAGUE.

ZIP IN TROUBLE.

As Uncle Will was going home one noon, he saw a crowd in the street near his house. There were about fifty boys, and they were standing about something that seemed to please them. Their shouts of glee could be heard a long way off.

Uncle Will walked up to find out what was the matter. What did he see but his tame crane, Zip. He was perched on one foot in the midst of the boys, pecking at them right and left. Not a boy could come within six feet of him without feeling the point of his sharp bill.

The boys thought this was great fun. They never had seen so strange a bird. But poor Zip did not enjoy it. When he saw Uncle Will he ran to him, and tucked his head under his arm. He was glad enough to be taken home.

Zip was very fond of music. When the piano was played, he would stalk into the house, if the door stood open. If the door was closed, he would tap on the window till he was let in. Then he would dance up to the piano, and strike upon the keys with his beak. If the tune was a lively one, he seemed to enjoy it all 'the more; he would tap faster and faster; his bill would come down, pounce, between the fingers of the player, but it never hit them.

It as good as "man's-buff" to But Zip grew lie got up at day-the garden. Some-night, when the clock struck. His voice was loud, but it was not sweet. He was not Jenny Lind; he was only Zip. The neighbors did not enjoy his songs. They said he waked up the babies. So poor Zip was sent to the country. There he was very sad, and sang a great deal. But there was only one baby to hear him, and that baby was deaf.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

When Charlie woke up one morning and looked from the window, he saw that the ground was deeply covered with snow. The wind had blown it in great drifts against the fence and the trees.

Charlie's little sister Rosey said it looked like hills and valleys. On the side of the house nearest the kitchen the snow was piled higher than Charlie's head. Mamma said she did not know how black Aunt Patsey could get through it to bring in the breakfast.

"There must be a path cleared through this snow," said papa. "I would do it myself, if I had time. But I must be at my office early this morning." Then he looked at Charlie. "Do you think you could do it, my son?"

"I, papa! Why, it is higher than my head! How could a little boy like me cut a path through that deep snow?"

"How? Why, by doing it little by little. Suppose you try; and if I find a nice path cleared when I come home to dinner, you shall have the sled you wished for."

So Charlie got his wooden snow-shovel and set to work. He threw up first one shovelful, and then another; but it was slow work.

"I don't think I can do it' mamma," he said. "A shovelful is so little, and there is such a heap of snow to be cleared away!"

"Little by little, Charlie," said his mamma. "That snow fell in tiny bits, flake by flake, but you see what a great pile it has made."

"Yes, mamma; and if I throw it away shovelful by shovelful, it will all be gone at last. So I will keep on trying."

Charlie soon had a space cleared from the snow, and as he worked on the path grew longer. By and by it reached quite up to the kitchen door. It looked like a little street between snow-white walls.

When papa came home to dinner, he was pleased to see what his little boy had done. Next day he gave Charlie a fine blue sled, and on it was painted its name, in yellow letters, "Little by Little."

The boys all wanted to know it came to have such a name.

And when they learned about it, I think it was a lesson to them as well as to Charlie.

—MRS. SUSAN ARCHER WEISS

WHAT THE SNOW-FLAKES SAY.

Bright, beautiful snow crystals,

Filling the air,

Why do you come dancing,

From homes so fair,

To fall and be trodden on everywhere?

"We hurry, we scurry down,

From regions bright,

To clothe the murky old town,

And bare hills, bleak and brown,

In garments white.

"And when we are trod on and black,

Our sweet task o'er,

We joyously hasten back,

Dance o'er the homeward track,

More glad than before."

—M. J. T.

A DANGEROUS FRIEND.

A TRUE STORY.

Once there was a little boy named Charley, who was not afraid of anything. He would pick up frogs or bugs, or walk up to a dog or goat and pat him just as if he was an old friend. But he was a good boy, and never hurt any creature.

He drove the cows home every evening. Charley loved the cows that gave him such good milk, and he used to talk to them as he drove them along.

One day Charley thought he would cut across a lot that was fenced in. He had only walked a little way when he saw a big bull trotting towards him. Do you think Charley was frightened? Not a bit. He knew it was of no use to run. As quick as he could, he pulled up a handful of grass and held it out to the bull.

The bull was feeling very ugly, for the men who put him in the field had beaten him, and choked him with the rope around his neck. But when he saw Charley standing there so bravely, he knew the little boy did not want to hurt him. He stopped, looked at Charley a moment, and then quietly ate the grass, from his hand.

Charley pulled some more grass and gave him, and then some more, and more, until the bull had enough. Charley walked away, with the bull following him to the fence.

The next evening he pulled some turnips and carried them to the bull. He liked them very much. Every day after that Charley carried something good to his big friend.

But one day Charley's father passed by the field. He was terribly frightened to see his little boy on the bull's back, riding around the lot. He shouted to him, but turned pale when he saw Charley take hold of the horns and let himself down over the bull's head. He expected to see the animal toss the little fellow in the air; but he only rubbed his black nose against Charley and let him run to his papa.

The next day the bull was taken away, for Charley's papa did not want him to have such a dangerous friend.

I do not believe the bull would ever have hurt the kind little boy; do you?

C. H. B.

THE PET FOX.

Hardie had a funny present once. It was a little fox. The man who gave it to him found it when it was a small cub. He tried to tame it as it grew older, but he could not make it very tame.

The man belonged to the army, and soon he had to go away. Then he gave his fox to Hardie, who was glad to have it for a pet. He wanted to keep it in the house. But his mamma said Foxy was not a nice pet to keep in the house. So Hardie made him a kennel out doors. Foxy had a collar on, with a strong chain.

His young master fastened him by this chain; and then he gave him chicken bones, and other good things, to eat.

Foxy seemed quite happy for a time; but one day the dogs found him, and they teased him so that poor Foxy worked out of his collar and ran and hid in the house. Hardie was sorry for his pet, but he knew he must not stay in the house.

So he made the collar and chain fast once more, and put the fox back in his kennel. Then he fenced it up so that the dogs could not get in, and said, "There, poor fellow! You need not be afraid!"

But when Foxy heard the dogs bark he was afraid. He was sure they would get at him, and he worked so hard at his collar that he got it off again. Then he ran away to the woods, Hardie was very sorry to lose his fox; he asked all the boys if they had seen it.

Down the road there lived a blacksmith who had two pet raccoons. They were tame, very tame. They had a place to live in which they had fixed as they liked it. They used to run across the road from their home to a spring, to drink.

A boy who did not know about the blacksmith's raccoons saw one of them as it ran to get a drink. He chased it and caught it Then he came up to find Hardie.

"Hardie, I 've found your fox!" cried the boy. Hardie ran in haste to look; but when he saw what the boy had brought he said, "O dear! That is no fox at all. It is one of Mr. Gunn's raccoons."

The boy took the raccoon back, and Hardie never found his fox.

—MRS. D. P. SANFORD.

PLAY-TIME.

The boys were in the garden,

Digging little wells;

The girls were at the sea-side,

Hunting pretty shells.

The boys were in the schoolroom,

Sitting all in rows;

The girls were in the ball-room,

Standing on their toes.

The boys were in the wild woods,

Picking sweet red berries;

The girls were 'neath the fruit-trees,

Shaking down the cherries.

VACATION TRIALS.

JOHNIE'S STORY.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to have lots of fun.

When I got up in the morning I said, "Here's another long day, and no school." I did n't have to hurry up. Mamma let me take as long as I liked to eat my breakfast.

After breakfast was the worst. We wanted to do the biggest lot of things you ever knew, but we could n't.

We began to play store. That was fun for a little while. Then Susan scolded because we took her new pie-pans for our angleworms. We sold the worms ten for a cent for the boys to fish with.

When we were tired of the store, we had to put things all back in their places.

We wanted a circus. Wo made a good one with our cat Mopsy for a tiger. Six boys gave us five pins each to see it. They found the pins in their mothers' cushions.

Edgar Lane's mother bought a ticket. We made tickets out of pretty colored paper.

I lost mother's best scissors somehow. It took all the money in my bank to pay for them.

When we were having some jolly fun Susan called out, "You bad, wicked children, you've got your ma's best shawl for a curtain."

We did n't know it was her best shawl. It didn't look nice. Papa said it was camel's hair. We never thought camels had such queer hair.

We didn't play circus any more.

We went in the garden and camped out. We played the trees were high mountains. I was on the Alps. My sister in the grammar school told me about the Alps.

Edgar was in the same tree on another limb.

He called his "The Catskills." He went to those mountains once. We had a splendid time. Pretty soon Grandpa came out and said, "Here, you young rascals, come down, you will shake off all my nice fruit!"

There don't seem to be any place for boys.

I told Susan so, and she said boys were always in the way.

If we could only leave things around it would be better.

It spoils vacation when some one keeps saying, "Don't do that!" or, "O, dear, those boys!"

Edgar says clothes are hateful things. His mother wants him to look pretty. He wants to roll on the grass, but he can't. My mother lets me. I have some overalls and stout shoes, and I roll.

My papa says boys have to climb and roll and keep busy if they want to grow strong.

When we got tired of our mountains we went fishing. I tumbled in and spoiled my straw hat. It was not deep, only the mud.

Vacations would be nice if it wasn't for the big folks. They want you to do as they do.

My papa and mamma don't, but grandma and aunties and my big cousins do. They make you feel prickly all over telling you about proper things.

I tell you it's real hard to feel full of fun and not let it out. It's hard to be a boy in vacation unless you can go off in the country or down by the sea.

—KATE TANNATT WOODS.

THE VOYAGE OF THE BLUEBELL.

One rainy day papa made two ships for his little girls. They were about a foot long. They had little white sails, and tiny flags floating from the tops of the masts. They were gayly painted.

Sixon put his nose into the paint pail, so he was painted too. But it soon wore off.

Mabel's ship was decorated with blue, so she called it "The Bluebell."

Nelly's was bright with scarlet trimmings. A fine sounding name would be best she thought She named hers "The Pride of the Seas."

When the pleasant weather came again, they had fine times sailing them. As they were always careful they were allowed to go down to the lake. There was a little cove, with a bright sandy beach where they played. They sent the ships across this cove from one side to the other. Back and forth they went, in safety, for a while.

There is sometimes danger for ships, however. This the children soon realized. One day a stray breeze caught the little "Bluebell."

She did not sail across to the other side as she had done before, but out by the point, and away into the great, wide lake.

The wind was strong; the blue streamers fluttered bravely in the sunshine. She sailed far away, and at last was quite out of sight.

"Let's play she has gone to California," said Kelly, as they stood watching her.

"She will come back some time with a load of gold," added Mabel.

"The Pride of the Seas" stuck fast on a mud bank. John, the hired man, rescued her.

THE TWINS.

Do you know our Peter and Polly,

So pretty, so plump, and so jolly!

One with merry blue eyes and lips like a cherry,

And one with dark hair, and cheeks brown as a berry!

Then this is our Peter and Polly!

Do you know our Polly and Peter?

One a little and one a great eater;

One with jews-harp and whistle and hammer

Just making a houseful of clamor;

Noon-Day Fancies for Our Little Pets / Fully Illustrated

NOON-DAY FANCIES FOR OUR LITTLE PETS

By Various

Edited by O. M. Dunham

Fully Illustrated

Cassell Publishing Company

1888

KITTY'S BASKET RIDE.

—FANNIE G. DOWSE.

TIME.

THANKSGIVING AT GRANDPA'S.

—UNCLE FRED.

A QUEER PLACE FOR A BIRD'S HOME.

—J. G. FORD.

LITTLE FIDGET.

—LOUIE BRINE=.

THE GOOD LITTLE MILKMAN.

—HATTIE WAY.

SIX NICE DUCKS

—AUNT SALLY.=

ROBBIE'S DRUM.

—MARY E. NATHE.

LITTLE MISS SONNET.

—ALBERT H. HARDY.

THE PIPPIN-TREE.

—M. E. N. HATHEWAY.

MOUSIE'S MATCH.

—MRS. MARY JOHNSON.

DENNY O'TOOLE.

AFRAID OF SPIDERS.

—MARY N. PRESCOTT.

WHAT BECAME OF THE SUGAR-PLUM?

—ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.

GOOD WORK FOR LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS.

—M. F. K.

THE WREN'S NEST.

—NELLIE M. GARABRANT.

BE GOOD, PAPA.

—FRANK FOXCROFT.

THE SNOW FAMILY.

—S. E. SPRAGUE.

CROSSING THE BROOK.

GRANDFATHER'S SPECTACLES.

—R. W. L.

FINDING BABY'S DIMPLES.

—MRS. T. S. LOVEJOY.

KITTY'S FRIEND TOAD.

—MRS. J. A. MELVIN.

PLAYING HORSE.

—M. D. BRINE.

NINE LITTLE PIGS.

—S. E. SPRAGUE.

CONFIDENTIAL

—EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

A ROSE THAT WILL GROW FOREVER.

—KATE TANNATT WOODS.

THE SIGNS OF THE SEASONS

—M. E. N. HATHEWAY.

SEEING FOR GRANDMA.

—R. W. LOWRIE.

—LUCY R. FLEMING.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

MRS. C. F. MONTAGUE.

ZIP IN TROUBLE.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

—MRS. SUSAN ARCHER WEISS

WHAT THE SNOW-FLAKES SAY.

—M. J. T.

A DANGEROUS FRIEND.

A TRUE STORY.

C. H. B.

THE PET FOX.

—MRS. D. P. SANFORD.

PLAY-TIME.

VACATION TRIALS.

JOHNIE'S STORY.

—KATE TANNATT WOODS.

THE VOYAGE OF THE BLUEBELL.

THE TWINS.