path: root/52044-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52044 ***

THE WIDE AWAKE THIRD READER




The Wide Awake Series


    THE WIDE AWAKE PRIMER, 30 cents
    THE WIDE AWAKE FIRST READER, 30 cents
    THE WIDE AWAKE SECOND READER, 35 cents
    THE WIDE AWAKE THIRD READER, 40 cents

[Illustration: THE CHILDREN SCRUB THEIR WOODEN SHOES.

(From “Dutch Children.”)]




    THE WIDE AWAKE

    THIRD READER


    BY

    CLARA MURRAY

    AUTHOR OF “THE WIDE AWAKE PRIMER,” “THE WIDE AWAKE FIRST
    READER,” “THE WIDE AWAKE SECOND READER,” ETC.


    [Illustration]


    BOSTON
    LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
    1912




    COPYRIGHT, 1908,
    BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

    _All rights reserved._


    Printers
    S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.




PREFACE


IN this, the third reader of the series, great care has been taken,
not only in selecting material suited to the needs and ability of the
pupil, but also to arrange the selections so that he may develop the
habit of acquiring interesting facts as he reads.

In the first two grades the children need to learn the mechanics of
reading,—the recognition of words, the ability to find out _new_ words
for themselves by means of phonics, correct pronunciation, enunciation,
inflection, expression, etc., but in this grade especial stress may be
laid on _learning by reading_,—getting the fact and remembering it.
This prepares the pupil for the actual work of studying, when he is
given a book and asked for the first time to “learn the lessons.” The
questions at the end of many of the lessons should be read and answered
by the pupil after he has read the selection. His answers should be
thoughtfully prepared and correctly stated.

Especial attention is called to the fact that the selections in this
book are almost exclusively copyrighted material, and have never been
and cannot be used in other series of readers. This avoids the tiresome
repetition of stories, read first in one book and then again and again
in others.

Many of the selections are valuable from a literary standpoint, and the
pupils will read with real enjoyment stories by Laura Richards, Mary E.
Wilkins, Anna von Rydingsvärd, Helen Hunt Jackson, and other authors,
noted for their skill in writing stories for children.

The selections which deal especially with child life and interests in
other countries will broaden the child’s view of the world, prepare him
for the study of geography, and help him to be a wide awake child, just
the child whom this Wide Awake Series is intended to develop.

       *       *       *       *       *

The selections, “Little Grandmother’s Shoes,” “Children of
a Sunny Land,” “The Little Plant,” “The Little Goatherds,”
“Great-Great-Grandma’s Christmas in England,” “The Whipping Boy,”
“The Christmas Spruce Tree,” “The Eve of St. Nicholas,” “The Little
Turkeys,” “The Children of Armenia,” “Ahmow,—the Wolf,” “The Emperor
and the Peasant,” and “The Christmas Monks,” are used by arrangement
with the Lothrop, Lee and Shepard Company.




CONTENTS


                                                                     PAGE
 ALL THE CHILDREN OF ALL THE WORLD                                      9
 THE SONG SPARROW’S WORK                      _Etta Austin Blaisdell_  15
 DUTCH CHILDREN                                                        20
 A LITTLE DUTCH GIRL                          _Edith Colby Banfield_   25
 THE GREAT FEAST                              _Laura E. Richards_      26
 LITTLE GRANDMOTHER’S SHOES                                            30
 LITTLE-FOLK LAND                             _Edith Colby Banfield_   33
 CHILDREN OF A SUNNY LAND
     A STRANGE MILK WAGON                                              35
     A RIDE IN A CHAIR                                                 36
     THE CARNIVAL                                                      39
 THE LITTLE PLANT                             _Anna von Rydingsvärd_   42
 TWO WAYS                                     _Laura E. Richards_      44
 A SONG IN THE WOODS                          _Louise C. Moulton_      46
 HOW THE CORN GREW                            _Julia Dalrymple_        47
 “DO YOU KNOW?”                               _Edith Colby Banfield_   51
 THE LITTLE GOATHERDS                                                  52
 SWISS CHILDREN                                                        56
 LULLABY-LAND                                 _Edith Colby Banfield_   60
 THE STONE BLOCKS                             _Laura E. Richards_      61
 GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMA’S CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND                            63
 THE WHIPPING BOY                                                      69
 THE CHRISTMAS SPRUCE TREE                    _Anna von Rydingsvärd_   72
 A ROSE                                       _Emily Dickinson_        76
 THE EVE OF ST. NICHOLAS                                               77
 ROBIN REDBREAST                              _William Allingham_      81
 “THE LITTLE TURKEYS”
     IN SCHOOL                                                         83
     AT HOME                                                           88
 “GILLYFLOWER GENTLEMAN”                      _Laura E. Richards_      91
 THE RULER                                    _Laura E. Richards_      93
 THE MOON                                     _Edith Colby Banfield_   95
 THE CHILDREN OF ARMENIA                                               96
 ARMENIAN HOMES                                                       100
 THE NEST                                     _Helen Hunt Jackson_    104
 AHMOW—THE WOLF                               _Frederick Schwatka_    106
 ESKIMO CHILDREN                                                      113
 THE DREAM-SHIP                               _Blanche M. Channing_   117
 A TRIP TO JAPAN                          _Charlotte Chaffee Gibson_  118
 URASHIMA                                 _Charlotte Chaffee Gibson_  125
 A DAY                                        _Emily Dickinson_       130
 THE ANTS’ MONDAY DINNER                      _Helen Hunt Jackson_    131
 MY ANT’S COW                                 _Helen Hunt Jackson_    139
 COLORADO SNOW-BIRDS                          _Helen Hunt Jackson_    148
 THE PETERKINS’ EXCURSION AFTER MAPLE SYRUP   _Lucretia P. Hale_      153
 THE GRASS                                    _Emily Dickinson_       164
 SUNSET                                       _Emily Dickinson_       165
 THE BABY SQUIRRELS                           _Julia A. Schwartz_     166
 THE BABY THAT SLEEPS IN A POCKET             _Julia A. Schwartz_     180
 THE EMPEROR AND THE PEASANT                  _Anna von Rydingsvärd_  194
 THE CHRISTMAS MONKS                          _Mary E. Wilkins_
     THE GARDEN                                                       203
     PETER AND THE PRINCE                                             206
     THE PRETTIEST DOLL                                               210
     CHRISTMAS GIFTS                                                  214




THE WIDE AWAKE THIRD READER




ALL THE CHILDREN OF ALL THE WORLD


I wish you would try to think this morning about all the children in
all the world.

[Illustration]

There are thousands and thousands of them, and they are doing all sorts
of things this very minute.

Some of them are wide awake and some are in bed and fast asleep. Some
are in school and some are playing out of doors.

Some live in such hot countries that they lie in the shade of big palm
trees to keep cool. Others are in such a cold country that they see
nothing but ice and snow, and they are dressed in furs from head to
foot.

When you read stories about the children in other lands, do they seem
to you like fairy stories?

I want you to know that all these children are real boys and girls, and
they work and play and have happy times together, just as you do.

Perhaps when you read about the children in the far North you will wish
that you were an Eskimo boy, living in a snow hut, wearing thick furs,
and riding over the fields of snow in a sled drawn by dogs.

Or perhaps you would rather be a little Indian and live in a wigwam in
the forest, learning to paddle a canoe, and to fish and hunt.

While you are here in this beautiful schoolroom, learning to read and
write and draw and sing, there are thousands of other children who
never saw a schoolhouse, and who will grow up to be men and women
without even learning to read.

You can read stories about these people, and as you grow older perhaps
you will know more about them, but they will probably never hear of you.

Of course, there are many thousands of children everywhere who are in
school this morning.

Think of all the boys and girls in every town in the whole United
States, who see the flag with its stars and stripes floating over their
schoolhouses, and who learn to sing “America.”

In France the children wave a flag of red, white and blue, and learn
a song about their country, but their flag is not like yours, and you
could not understand one word of their French song.

The little English children sing a song about their country and their
king which you could understand, and they read in books like yours. But
then, there are the children who live in Germany, and learn to read in
German, and the children who live in Italy and read Italian books, and
many, many others.

Oh, there are so many children in the world!

In Japan and China the children use the queerest books that you ever
saw. The words go up and down the page, and the stories begin at the
end of the book, and at the bottom of the page. The words look like
this:—

[Illustration]

Did you ever see such funny words?

The boys and girls in these other countries do not go to school all of
the time. They have holidays and vacations, and they play out of doors
in the long summer days and the cold winter weather, just as you do.

You would enjoy playing with these children, even if you could not talk
with them. I know you would like to fly big kites with the boys in
Japan, or skate down the canals with the little Dutch boys.

And as for dolls! I am sure there are as many dolls in the world as
there are little girls, and perhaps more, because some little girls
have so many dolls that they cannot play with all of them.

[Illustration]

You would like to play with the queer Chinese dolls in their beautiful
silken robes, or with the Eskimo dolls that are carved out of bone and
are dressed in furs and sealskin.

The Indian girl has wooden dolls dressed in bright blankets, with beads
and feathers. The little French girl has a big wax doll, with blue eyes
that shut when she lies down, and pop open when she sits up again. She
wears beautiful gowns and big hats with feathers and ribbons.

Wouldn’t it be fun to have a dolls’ party to-day, if the dolls from all
over the world could come?

These dolls might be dressed in furs, or silks, or blankets; they might
be made of wax, or bone, or wood. But if they could talk they would
tell you that the little girl who owns them loves them, and that,
whether she lives in a snow hut or a tent in the desert, she has a
loving father and mother and a happy childhood.

       *       *       *       *       *

Are there many children in all the world?

What are some of them doing this very minute?

If you should go to school in Germany, what would you have to do first?

What does a little German child have to do when he first goes to school
in our country?

Tell all the things you can that all the children in the world do
almost every day.




THE SONG SPARROW’S WORK


In the forest where the birds live there is always work to do.

[Illustration]

The woodpecker is a carpenter. He climbs up and down the trees and
chops a hole in the trunk of one of them to make his home.

The crow flies down to the ground, and walks about in the fields.

He is the birds’ farmer. Toward evening, when he cries, “Caw! Caw!” he
means that the earth needs rain.

The owl is the night policeman. He watches the rats and mice, and keeps
them out of the farmer’s fields.

The kingbirds are the soldiers. They fight the birds that come over
from the next forest, and drive them away.

The hawks have sharp eyes, and can see a long way. They are the scouts,
and tell the soldiers when the enemy is coming.

The whip-poor-wills can see in the night, so they are the birds’ night
watchmen.

The orioles are weavers. They weave their nests, and hang them in the
tallest trees.

One of the birds is a thief, and steals eggs from the nests of the
other birds, but I shall not tell you _his_ name.

So all of the birds have work to do in the forest.

What do the song birds do? Ah! they have their work, too. They sing
cheerfully while the other birds work, and make the hours short and the
day happy.

They sing of the goodness of God, and of the beauty in the forest and
sky.

If there were no song birds, the workers might forget all of these
lovely things. Then their hearts would be as hard as the tree the
woodpecker is chopping.

One spring morning the song birds were singing so beautifully that
every one listened.

The woodpeckers cried, “Plitt! plitt!” The crows screamed, “Rah! rah!”
and the blackbirds laughed with glee. This meant that they liked the
songs.

In the nests were many baby birds. They liked to hear the songs, too,
so they stretched up their little heads.

But _they_ could not understand the songs about the sky and the forest.
You see, they had not seen these things yet, and they did not know
what the songs meant.

The poor babies drooped their heads and were very sad.

[Illustration]

There was one bird who thought of the babies in the nests, for he had a
kind heart, and loved little things.

“I will fly down and sing for them,” he thought; “perhaps it will make
them happy.”

So he flew into a little bush, quite near the ground, and sang the
sweetest song he knew. Over and over again he sang it, and the babies
in the nests listened all the time.

“He is singing about the warm sunshine,” said the baby robins.

“He is singing about rocking in this beautiful cradle,” said the baby
orioles.

Then, as the song grew sweeter and sweeter, “Listen, listen!” they
cried. “Now he is singing about our mother. That is the best song of
all.”

So the song sparrow sang in the little bush, telling the babies about
the sun and the breezes and their mothers’ love.

He waked them in the morning; he sang them to sleep at night.

Have you never heard him singing, “Sweet, sweet, sweet, loving little
mother, sweet”?

    —_Etta Austin Blaisdell._




DUTCH CHILDREN


How would you like to go to Holland with me to visit the little Dutch
children?

First we must go to New York City in a railroad train and then get on
board of one of the big ships that cross the ocean.

We shall have to travel over the water five or six days and nights in
this big ship, and then ride a long way, after we come to land.

When the Pilgrims came to this country, nearly three hundred years ago,
they crossed the same ocean, but it took them many weeks. They were in
a small sailing vessel, and had to come very slowly.

On board of this big ship you will find a great many things to do
and see. There are several hundred people on the vessel, and it is
interesting to watch them. There are books to read, and games to play,
and the days will go very swiftly.

Most of the time you will not be able to see land in any direction.
All you can see is the sun and the sky and the ocean with big waves
rolling and tossing about.

I wonder what you will notice the very first thing when you reach
Holland.

[Illustration]

Perhaps you will see a group of children running down the street with
their wooden shoes clacking on the stone walks.

Or perhaps you will see some girls standing at a corner knitting
stockings, or a boy driving a dog harnessed to a little cart.

If you take a train and ride through the country you will see many
strange things.

There are big windmills everywhere, with long arms, and sails to catch
the wind. These mills turn wheels to pump water and grind corn and saw
wood. In Holland there are no rivers with falls and swift currents to
turn the mill wheels.

In some towns there are canals instead of streets, with bridges for the
people to cross from one side to the other.

In summer there are many boats going up and down the canals, but in
winter the water in the canals freezes, and then everybody skates.
Think what fun it must be to skate to church, to skate to market, to
skate to school, and then skate home again!

A great many of the poor children in Holland wear wooden shoes when
they are out of doors. When they go into the house they take off their
shoes and leave them at the door. You can tell, by counting the pairs
of shoes at the door, how many children there are in the house.

Every week the children scrub their wooden shoes with soap and water
until they are almost as white as snow; then they dry them in the sun,
or before the fire in the big open fireplace.

These wooden shoes make fine boats, and sometimes the boys take them
off and sail them in the canals. The little girls use them for doll
carriages, or play they are beds, and tuck their dolls into them for a
nap.

If you were walking down a village street in Holland you might see a
red silk ball, or a pink silk one, hanging at the front door of one
of the houses. This is to show that there is a little new baby in the
house. If the ball is red, the baby is a boy; if it is pink, the baby
is a girl.

There are very good schools in Holland, and all the children go to
school and learn to read and write and sing, just as you do. But their
reading and singing would sound very strange to you, and you could not
read one word of their writing.

The Dutch children have vacations and holidays, of course. The holiday
they like best of all is Santa Claus Day. It comes on the sixth day of
December, and is very much like our Christmas Day.

The boys and girls put their wooden shoes in front of the fireplace,
on the hearth, just as you hang your stocking near the chimney, and
Santa Claus rides over the roofs of the houses on a big horse and drops
presents down the chimney into the little shoes.

       *       *       *       *       *

How would you go from your home to New York City? How long would it
take?

What would you like to see in Holland?

What would you see that you never saw before?

Why do the people in Holland build windmills?

What kind of shoes do many of the children wear?

What season would you like best if you were in Holland? Why?




A LITTLE DUTCH GIRL


    Were you a little Dutch girl
    You’d be, perhaps, as sweet
    As now you are, my darling,
    And very much more neat!

    You’d be a little housewife,
    And even at your play
    You’d take your knitting needles,
    And knit and knit away!

    You’d never be forgetting
    To feed your pussy-cat,
    And she, like Holland pussies,
    Would grow so sleek and fat.

    But were you, dear, a Gretchen,
    You’d live across the sea,
    And so would be, my dearie,
    No kind of use to me.
                 —_Edith Colby Banfield._




THE GREAT FEAST


Once the Play Angel came into a nursery where four little children sat
on the floor with sad and troubled faces.

“What is the matter, children?” asked the Play Angel.

“We wanted to have a great feast,” said the child whose nursery it was.

“Yes, that would be delightful,” said the Play Angel.

“But there is only one cooky!” said the child whose nursery it was.

“And it is a very small cooky!” said his little cousin.

“Not big enough for me!” said the child whose nursery it was.

The other two children said nothing, but they looked at the cooky with
big round eyes, and their mouths went up in the middle and down at the
sides.

“Well,” said the Play Angel, “let us have the feast just the same. I
think we can manage it.”

She broke the cooky into four pieces, and gave one piece to the
littlest child.

[Illustration]

“See,” she said. “This is a roast chicken. It is just as brown and
crisp as it can be. There is cranberry sauce on one side, and on the
other a little mountain of mashed potato. It must be a volcano, it
smokes so. Do you see?”

“Yes,” said the littlest child, and his mouth went down in the middle
and up at the corners.

The Play Angel gave a piece to the next child.

“Here,” she said, “is a little pie. Outside, as you see, it is brown
and crusty, and inside it is all chicken, and ham, and jelly, and
hard-boiled eggs. Did you ever see such a pie?”

“No, I never did,” said the child.

“Now here,” said the Angel to the third child, “is a round cake. The
frosting is half an inch thick, and inside there are chopped nuts and
raisins. It is the prettiest cake I ever saw, and the best.”

“So it is,” said the third child.

Then the Angel gave the last piece to the child whose nursery it was.

“My dear,” she said, “just look! Here is an ice-cream rabbit. He is
snowy white outside, with eyes of red sugar; see his long ears, and his
little tail. Inside, I think you will find he is pink.

“Now, when I clap my hands and count one, two, three, you must eat the
feast all up. One—two,—three!”

So the children ate the feast all up.

“There,” said the Angel, “did you ever see such a grand feast?”

“No, we never did!” said all the four children together.

“And there are some crumbs left over,” said the Angel. “Come, and we
will give them to the brother birds.”

“But you didn’t have any,” said the child whose nursery it was.

“Oh, yes!” said the Angel, “I had it all.”

    —_Laura E. Richards._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Small service is true service while it lasts.
    Of humblest friends, bright creature, scorn not one.
    The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
    Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
                              —_William Wordsworth._




LITTLE GRANDMOTHER’S SHOES


“But, Grandmother,” said little May, holding up the tiny pair of
calf-skin shoes, “were these your very _best_ shoes? Didn’t you have
any shiny black ones, with a tassel on, like mine?

[Illustration]

“And where did you buy them, Grandmother? Did Columbus bring them with
him in his ship?”

“No, dear; Columbus didn’t bring Grandma’s shoes in his ship. He sailed
back to Spain again three hundred years before these shoes were made.

“Bring your chair and sit down by me. I will tell you all about these
little worn-out shoes of mine.

“When I was a little girl,” began Grandmother, “children did not wear
shoes all the time. They went barefoot in the summer, except when they
were dressed up. One pair of shoes had to last a whole year.

“When we went to church we used to go barefoot, carrying our shoes in
our hands. At the foot of the hill we washed our feet in the brook and
put on our shoes and stockings.

“Our shoes did not wear out very fast; and if we lost a shoe, we had to
go barefoot till the shoemaker came again.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed May, “how dreadful! Who was the shoemaker,
Grandmother, and when did he come?”

“The shoemaker,” Grandmother replied, “was a very important man when I
was a little girl. ‘Shoe week’ was a busy week in the family.

“I can remember how glad we all were when father said, ‘The shoemaker
will be here to-morrow.’

“That night the shoe bench was brought down from the attic and placed
in a warm corner of the kitchen.

“Father and mother made a list of the shoes that were needed. We
children talked about our new shoes and the shoemaker until we fell
asleep.

“Early in the morning the shoemaker appeared. He carried his bag of
tools and a roll of leather on his back. By seven o’clock he was seated
at his bench, hard at work.

“We children used to sit on the floor beside him and watch him work.
First he measured our feet and drew some paper patterns. Then he cut
out the leather.

“He punched holes along the edges of the leather with a sharp awl; then
the shoe was ready to sew.

“For his sewing he used a long waxed thread, with a stiff bristle at
each end for a needle. All day long he would sit at his bench, putting
the needles into the holes and pulling the thread through, till the
shoe was sewed firmly.

“When all our shoes were made, he packed his bag and said good-by for
another year.”




LITTLE-FOLK LAND


    The children all go looking
    In vain for Fairyland,
    Where little folk have dwelling,
    And wander hand in hand;
    Where silvery small voices
    Ring clear upon the air,
    Where magic little whispers
    Work wonders everywhere;

    Where flower fields are forests,
    For tiny feet to tread;
    Where one has lived a life-time
    Before the day is fled.
    For this dear wondrous country
    The children look in vain;
    They find but empty flowers,
    Through sun and summer rain.

    It is the grown folks only
    Have eyes for Fairyland,
    Where little people wander,
    And toddle hand in hand;
    Where happy voices prattle,
    And whisper secrets strange;
    Where tiny sprites by magic
    To bigger fairies change;

    Where dancing little figures
    Get lost amid the flowers;
    Where days as years are measured,
    And minutes count for hours.
    It is the grown folk only
    Can find the land of elves;
    How could the children guess it?
    The fairies are themselves.
                        —_Edith Colby Banfield._




CHILDREN OF A SUNNY LAND


I—A STRANGE MILK WAGON

Domingo and his sister Marikena live in a warm, sunny land. It is the
land of Brazil, where there are fruits and flowers all the year, and it
is always summer.

Domingo and Marikena love the sunshine, and the birds and flowers.

They like to play out of doors in the early morning and at night, but
at noon it is too hot, and every one takes a nap.

When they go to the woods they do not see crows and blue jays and
woodpeckers. Instead, there are gorgeous parrots and beautiful
humming-birds that are almost as large as robins.

Perhaps they see monkeys in the palm trees; and, instead of acorns,
they find cocoanuts.

In their schoolroom they sing all their lessons. Is not that a merry
way? But it would seem strange to you because you could not understand
one word they say. You see, they do not speak English, and they could
not talk with you.

Every morning the two children are up very early and out on the balcony
watching for something. Soon they call out, “_leite, leite_,” which
means, “milk, milk.”

And what do you suppose they see? Not a wagon filled with glass jars or
tin cans. Oh, no! It is only two or three cows being driven down the
street by a woman.

The woman stops the cows in front of Domingo’s house, and milks one of
them while the children watch her. How sweet and fresh this milk is! I
wish you could have some every morning, too!


II—A RIDE IN A CHAIR

Domingo and Marikena are going with their mother to visit their cousin.

They have had their afternoon nap and it is not too hot out of doors
now, as it is nearly four o’clock.

If you were going to pay a visit you would walk or ride in a car or
carriage, would you not?

But Domingo and Marikena are not going in either of those ways. It is
too hot to walk, and the streetcars do not go up the hill where their
aunt lives, so they will ride in a chair.

[Illustration]

The chairs are large and have big, soft cushions. They have a cover
overhead and curtains on all sides, and are carried by four men.

The two children ride in one chair; their mother in another. The
curtains are drawn down, but Domingo peeps out as they ride through the
city streets.

When they reach the cousin’s house they do not rap on the door or ring
a bell. The mother claps her hands, and when the aunt sees them she
says, “Enter and welcome. The house and all it contains is yours.”

Is not that a strange way of saying, “I am glad to see you. Will you
come in?”

They sit in the parlor and while they talk they sip coffee from tiny
cups. Before they come away they walk in the garden, where there are
beautiful flowers and fountains, tall palm trees, and rubber trees with
blossoms like yellow lilies.

The chair-men wait and the children ride home again, but it is dark,
and they can see only the lights in the houses. The chair swings back
and forth like a cradle as the men trot down the hill into the city.

They sing as they go, and the song is a low, sweet tune like a lullaby.
Marikena puts her head on the cushions and almost falls asleep.

Domingo nods and dreams of the fruit and the flowers and the funny pet
monkey his cousin had in the garden. Oh! the days are long and happy in
Brazil, and the children have merry times.


III—THE CARNIVAL

“The Carnival, the Carnival,” shouted Domingo one morning. “This is the
first day of the Carnival.”

Then he ran to find Marikena. “Look, Sister,” he cried, “I am a clown
this year. What are you?”

“I am a fairy,” she replied. “See my cap and wand. And here is a bag
full of sugarplums and sweetmeats. I can hang the bag over my shoulder.”

“See these big pockets,” said her brother. “They are bigger than a bag
and they are just full of goodies. I like to be a clown, because I can
have such big pockets. Take that!” and he threw a handful of sugarplums
into her lap.

Just then there was a clapping of hands at the door and the children
ran to the balcony.

In Brazil the Carnival is held on the three days before Lent, and
every one has a holiday. The cities are beautifully decorated, and men,
women and children wear odd costumes and masks.

Some of them are dressed to look like monkeys, some like parrots, and
some like clowns. Some wear gay dresses and funny masks, and others
wear ugly skins of animals and hideous masks.

[Illustration]

The children often carry wreaths and garlands of flowers; and there is
always music and feasting and dancing in the streets.

Every one has pockets, bags, or baskets full of sugarplums, sweetmeats,
bonbons and flowers.

These they throw at every one they meet, laughing merrily if they make
a good hit.

The children think it is great fun to pelt each other with sugarplums
and flowers. It is as good as snow-balling, only they can never have
snow battles because they never have any snow.

The Carnival is the best time of all the year in Brazil, or at least
Domingo and Marikena think so.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where do Domingo and Marikena live?

When do they play out of doors?

What do they see in the woods?

How is the milk brought to their house?

When they go visiting, what do they ride in?

What did their aunt say when they went to call on her? What did they do
at their aunt’s house?

What do some of the people wear on Carnival days?

What do they carry in their pockets? What do they throw at each other?




THE LITTLE PLANT


On the edge of the forest stood a tiny plant. It was only six inches
tall.

The ground around it was so cold and hard that it could not grow
taller. It had stood there many years, sad and sorrowful.

“Grow and be beautiful,” said the forest sternly, but the plant did not
grow.

“Do you not wish to grow?” said the blue jay. Then he began to tell the
little plant how lazy and useless it was. But his words went into one
ear and out of the other.

Still the plant did not grow.

“Grow! grow!” roared the wind. “Grow tall and straight. I will teach
you to obey. Grow! grow!”

Then the wind lashed the tiny plant with its cold wings, and beat its
branches to the ground. But the poor thing came near dying and did not
grow at all.

“Do grow,” said the sun. “Grow and be beautiful. I will help you.”

Then the sun warmed the earth around the plant, and gentle showers fell
on it from the clouds.

[Illustration]

Now the little twigs began to grow, and the tiny plant became a
beautiful birch tree, with green leaves and snow-white bark.

    —_Anna von Rydingsvärd._




TWO WAYS


Two little weeds grew on a bank by the roadside.

All summer they had been drinking the dew and sunshine, and had been
very happy.

But now autumn had come, with gray skies and winds that nipped and
pinched them.

[Illustration]

“We shall die soon,” said one little weed.

“I should like to do something pleasant before I die, just to show what
a happy time I have had. I think I will turn red, and then people will
see how I feel.”

“You will be very foolish to waste your strength in any such nonsense!”
said the other little weed. “I shall live as long as I can, and hug
the brown bank here.”

So the first little weed turned bright scarlet, and was so pretty that
every one looked at it.

By and by there came down the road a most beautiful maiden.

When she saw the scarlet leaves she picked them and put them in her
hair.

This made the little weed so happy that he died for pure joy.

The second little weed lived on, and turned slowly brown, like the bank.

“He was so foolish!” he said, speaking of the weed that turned scarlet.
“He put all his strength into turning red, and so he died.”

“I was proud of him,” said the brown bank. “He did what he could, and
people loved him.”

“Yes, but I am alive, and stay with you!” said the weed.

“Much I care!” said the bank.

    —_Laura E. Richards._




A SONG IN THE WOOD


    I found a shy little violet root
      Half hid in the woods, on a day of spring,
    And a bird flew over, and looked at it, too,
      And for joy, as he looked, he began to sing.

    The sky was the tenderest blue above,—
      And the flower like a bit of the sky below;
    And between them the wonderful winds of God
      On heavenly errands went to and fro.

    Away from the summer, and out of the South
      The bird had followed a whisper true,
    As out from the brown and desolate sod
      Stepped the shy little blossom, with eyes of blue.

    And he sang to her, in the young spring day,
      Of all the joy in the world astir;
    And her beauty and fragrance answered him,
      While the spring and he bent over her.

                        —_Louise Chandler Moulton._




HOW THE CORN GREW


Little Me Too walked to the right, then to the left, along the sidewalk
in front of the house.

As he walked he sang with all his might about the ocean, and the summer
time, and any other pleasant thing that came into his head.

He made it up as he went along, and grew quite out of breath at last,
and had to stop.

Just as he had got his breath and was meaning to begin all over again,
he saw something very small and yellow on the edge of the walk.

Then he began to sing the song of whatever it might be that was so
small and yellow.

This is what he sang:—

    “I wonder what this is.
     I guess it is a kernel of corn.
     I wonder how it came here
     All alone by itself.
     I guess I don’t know.
     I wonder if it can be planted
     In the grass in our yard.
     Yes!”

When he said “Yes!” he stooped down and dug a hole in the ground in the
dooryard with his fingers.

Then he put the kernel of corn in the hole and covered it over with
dirt.

Afterwards he stood up and sang at the top of his voice, “Now I guess
it will grow!”

Of course it grew!

After a few days it poked itself up through the earth to make Little Me
Too remember. For Little Me Too had forgotten all about it.

When he saw it poking its head up through the grass, he didn’t remember
even then that it was the kernel of corn.

It had changed.

When he put it into the ground and covered it with dirt, it was yellow
and hard.

Now it was green and soft. It looked somewhat like the rest of the
grass,—but not _just_ like it, or Little Me Too wouldn’t have noticed
it.

[Illustration]

When he saw it he said, “There’s a grass that wants to be different.
Perhaps it’s the grandfather grass.”

He let it alone, and he got the man with the lawn mower to let it
alone. That gave it a good chance to grow.

It grew just as fast as it could, and as soon as it was big enough it
showed Little Me Too that it was no grandfather grass, but a cornstalk.

The man with the lawn mower said so.

Then it was that Little Me Too remembered. When he remembered, he said,
“Yes, it grew.”

When it had grown to be taller than Little Me Too, people walking along
the sidewalk would look at it, and say, “What a fine garden!”

The mother said, “I am glad it is something that can’t find its way
into the nursery.”

Little Me Too it was who first saw the ear of corn growing on the stalk.

He showed it to some people, and there were others who saw it without
having it shown to them.

Each of them asked for a bite from it when it should be ripe.

Little Me Too said “yes,” to them all.

When he had said “yes” to thirty-one people, his mother said, “Don’t
say ‘yes’ to any more people; you won’t have corn enough for them all.”

Little Me Too promised not to say “yes” again, but sometimes he
forgot, and by the time the corn was ripe he had said “yes” to fifty
people.

But he had plenty of corn, for it was an ear of pop corn.

After it was popped over the nursery fire it filled a big, big bowl.

    —_Julia Dalrymple._




“DO YOU KNOW?”


      Do you know
      That you can go
    In the early morning light
      When the dew is on the grass
      And find the little cobweb tents
    The fairies sleep in all the night?

      But, alas, you’ll find no traces
      Of their little fairy faces!

                          —_Edith Colby Banfield._




THE LITTLE GOATHERDS


Louis and Marie live among the mountains in Switzerland. These
mountains are very high and are called the Swiss Alps.

The cold winds sweep down the mountain-side and rush through the
valleys. Sometimes it blows so hard that it almost blows the thatched
roofs off the houses.

But the mountain people know all about these strong winds. What do you
suppose they do to keep the roof from blowing away? They lay heavy
stones on the roof to keep it in place.

The winters are long and cold; and it snows and snows! You never saw
such deep drifts nor such big fields of ice.

But the summer is beautiful,—the sky is blue and the sun is bright; and
far away the mountain peaks are capped with glistening snow.

Then the grass is green and the flowers blossom everywhere. These are
happy days for the children.

In summer Louis and Marie go out every morning with the goats. Marie
is just a tiny bit of a girl only four years old, but Louis is a big
boy. He is almost nine, and that is very old when one has such a little
sister.

Louis lets the goats out of their yard. They jump and run and caper
about, and Marie hides behind her mother’s dress. She is afraid of the
goats at first.

One of the big goats always runs to the vineyard, he is so fond of
grapes. Louis drives him out with a long stick.

Then the whole herd runs to the wheat field, and Louis runs after them,
shouting at them and driving them away toward the mountain pasture.

Marie runs along with him and Patte Blanche goes, too. Patte Blanche is
their dog, and his name means White Foot.

When the goats reach the pasture land they clamber over the rocks and
eat the moss and the bushes and the sweet, green grass.

Louis and Marie pick the flowers that grow on the mountain-side, and
play little games with the stones. They watch the goats, too, and talk
about them. Sometimes a goat wanders too far away and then Louis sends
White Foot to drive her back to the others.

[Illustration]

At noon the children eat their lunch of barley-bread and cheese, and
White Foot sits beside them and eats the bits they give him.

There is always so much to do and so much to see that the days seem
very short. Soon it is time for White Foot to drive the goats down
from the rocks and the little company starts for home.

One night a very funny thing happened when they were on their way home.

The goats were wandering along, nibbling at the green grass, and the
children were following them down the path, when they saw a strange
man sitting on a log. The man was fast asleep and his head nodded and
bobbed up and down.

Just as Louis saw him, one of the goats spied him, too, and what do
you think she did? She trotted along, ran up behind him and butted him
right off the log. Of course the man waked up and I think he was going
to be very angry, but the goat put her fore feet up on the log and
looked as if she wanted to laugh.

The children laughed, and so the man laughed, too. Then he walked home
with them and helped them drive the goats into their yard.

Louis and Marie will never forget how funny the goat looked trying to
laugh at the man, and they like to tell the story over and over again.




SWISS CHILDREN


You have just read a story about Louis and Marie, who live among the
mountains of Switzerland.

Switzerland is a land of mountains and valleys and many beautiful lakes
and rivers.

Most of the people live in the valleys and keep cattle, sheep, and
goats.

In the springtime thousands of cattle are driven up into the mountains
to stay all summer.

Many of the people go up into the mountains, too, and live in little
huts. The men and boys take care of the cattle, and the women make
butter and cheese.

The cows wear bells which tinkle as they walk, and the music of all the
bells, in the stillness of the mountains, is very beautiful.

In the fall the men drive the cattle down into the valleys again. When
they reach the villages their friends come out to meet them, and every
one has a holiday. The children think this is one of the best days in
all the year. They like to hear the bells ring out their welcome;
they like to see the flags and banners waving from the windows and the
house-tops. They sing and dance and shout and are very merry.

[Illustration]

At night there is a feast in the village square, and perhaps they like
this best of all.

Many of the houses in Switzerland are very small and are made of wood.
These little houses are called chalets.

Louis and Marie live in a tiny chalet on the side of a steep mountain.
Their father owns a farm and has cows and sheep and goats, and ever so
many geese.

You never saw such a farm in all your life. The mountain is so steep
that the fields and pastures seem to be tipped up on edge, and it looks
as if the horses would fall off when the farmer is plowing the fields,
but they never do.

Louis has a pet dog. He harnesses his dog to a little wagon and drives
him up and down the road. Sometimes he gives Marie a ride in the wagon.

Louis goes to the village school, and Marie will have to go as soon as
she is six years old. There are very good schools in Switzerland, and
the children learn the same things that you learn in your school.

These children have many odd playthings and toys carved out of wood.
They have wooden whistles and horns, and little wooden goats and bears.
Marie has a tiny chalet, almost like the one she lives in, which she
calls her “playhouse.”

The toys the children like best are the ones that have a music box
in them. The Swiss people make all kinds of music boxes and put them
in all kinds of things, in chairs and tables and clocks, and even in
plates.

While the boys are learning to carve, the girls learn to embroider on
linen and to make lace.

Very often the Swiss girls sit outside the door of their chalet making
lace which they sell to the people who are travelling through the
mountains.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where do Louis and Marie live?

What does their father do?

Where do the cattle live in the summer?

Who takes care of them?

What do the women make, up in the mountains?

Which holiday do the Swiss children like best?

What do they do on this day?

What is a Swiss cottage called?

Why do people like to travel in Switzerland?

If you should go there, what would you like to see?

What would you like to buy?




LULLABY-LAND


    Where is the road to Lullaby-land?
    Where is the ferry to Dreamland-shore?
    Here, little wanderer, take my hand,
    Mother will show thee to Lullaby-land,
    Mother will ferry her darling o’er
    The sweet rocking waters to Dreamland-shore.

    Soft lie the shadows in Lullaby-land,
    Soft lap the waters by Dreamland-shore,
    Sweet is the sound on that far-away strand
    Of little keels grating along the sand,
    And tenderly stealeth the moonlight o’er
    The dear little children on Dreamland-shore.

    Here, little weary one, take my hand,
    Soon shall my dearie be far afloat;
    Mother’s lap is Lullaby-land,
    Mother’s arms are the empty boat,
    Waiting to carry her darling o’er
    The sweet rocking waters to Dreamland-shore.

                            —_Edith Colby Banfield._




THE STONE BLOCKS


“Why is your little sister crying, dear?” asked the Play Angel. “I
thought you were taking care of her.”

[Illustration]

“So I am, taking beautiful care of her,” said the child. “But the more
beautiful care I take, the more she cries. She does not like to have me
take care of her.”

“Let me see,” said the Play Angel, and she sat down on the nursery
floor. “Now show me what you have been doing.”

“Look,” said the child. “First I showed her all my dolls, and then all
my dolls’ dresses. Now I have given her my new stone blocks to play
with, but she will not play with them. She puts them in her mouth and
cries.”

“Perhaps she is hungry!” said the Play Angel.

So she took a piece of bread and gave it to the baby. The baby stopped
crying and ate the bread, and laughed and crowed.

“See!” said the Angel. “Now she is happy. Remember, dear, that when
babies are hungry, stone blocks do them no good.”

“You are a very clever angel to know that,” said the child.

“You are a rather foolish child,” said the Angel, “or you would have
found it out for yourself.”

    —_Laura E. Richards._




GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMA’S CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND


Betty and Percy sat up until eleven o’clock that Christmas Eve. It was
such a merry time!

They saw the men bring in the Yule log. It was so big that it took
three men to carry it, and then they had to bring it in on their
shoulders.

[Illustration]

At one end of the hall was a large fireplace. I think you never saw one
like it. Pots and kettles hung over the fire, and on each side were
seats where the children could sit and eat apples and tell stories. You
see, it was a very big fireplace.

The men rolled the Yule log into the fireplace and lighted the fire.
How the sparks flew! How the fire roared up the chimney!

It lighted the great hall. It shone on the oak table where the supper
was laid.

On the supper table were two wax candles. These candles were almost as
tall as you are. They were wreathed with holly.

These were the Christmas candles and they burned the whole evening. The
hall was trimmed with holly and mistletoe. The holly had bright green
leaves and red berries, and the mistletoe had white berries.

A big bunch of mistletoe hung down from the ceiling before the fire. If
anyone happened to stand under the mistletoe, she was kissed.

How many times Betty was kissed! First her father caught her under the
mistletoe, then Uncle Edward, and then Grandpa.

At eleven o’clock Nurse said that Betty and Percy must go to bed. They
did not like to go one bit.

There was a fire in the fireplace in Betty’s bedroom, but it was very
cold. In Great-Great-Grandma’s time there were no such things as stoves
and furnaces.

Nurse undressed Betty, and then the little girl climbed up the steps
into her bed. It was so big and high that she had to climb up five
steps to get into it.

Then Nurse drew the curtains of the bed to keep out the cold.

Betty was almost asleep when she heard the Waits singing. The Waits
always sang under the windows on Christmas Eve.

“Open the lattice, please, Nurse,” she said.

So Nurse opened one of the windows. It opened like a door, and had
panes of glass which were small and diamond-shaped.

The house Betty lived in was very, very large, and was called a castle.

This is what the Waits were singing:—

    “God rest ye, merry gentlemen,
     Let nothing you dismay,
     For Jesus Christ our Saviour
     Was born upon this day.”

Betty did not hear the next verse, because her eyes were shut and she
was fast asleep.

When she waked up in the morning, the first thing she heard was another
Christmas carol.

She slid down the side of the bed and ran to the window.

It was a lovely Christmas morning. The trees and ground and walks were
covered with snow. How it glistened in the sunshine!

The singers were standing in a row under the window. There were seven
of them, and they were all children from the village whom Betty had
seen when she was driving with her mother.

How they were bundled up, and their cheeks were as red as roses!

They were singing this Christmas carol:—

    “I saw three ships come sailing in,
       On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
     I saw three ships come sailing in,
       On Christmas Day in the morning.”

“Quick, quick, Nurse,” said Betty. “Please dress me as quickly as you
can. I must run down with the Christmas boxes.”

[Illustration: PLEASE DRESS ME AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN.]

So Nurse hurried, and Betty hurried, and in a little while she was
ready, with a sprig of holly in her dress, and a bit of mistletoe in
her hair.

Percy was ready, too, and they ran down the long staircase into the
wide hall.

The Yule log was still burning,—it had burned all night. The door was
opened, and the little singers came in to warm themselves by the fire.

Betty and Percy gave each of them a “Christmas box.” It wasn’t a box,
it was a gift; but a Christmas gift was called a Christmas box in those
days.

After the singers had looked at their gifts and had eaten a slice of
plum cake, they went home.

I cannot tell you everything that Betty and Percy did that day, but you
may be sure they had a good time.

I must tell you about the Christmas dinner. It was served in the hall,
on the big oak table that stood before the fire.

When dinner was ready they did not ring a bell, but the cook knocked
three times with his rolling-pin on the door.

Two men stood in the hall, and when they heard the three knocks they
sounded their trumpets, the doors were opened, and all the family
marched in to dinner.

I do not know just what they had to eat, but I know they had roast
goose, and a plum pudding just as you do at Christmas time.

After dinner the children played games. And what do you think they
played? First they played “Puss-puss-in-the-corner,” and then
“Blind-man’s-buff.”

Isn’t it strange that Great-Great-Grandma should have played the very
games you play, on that Christmas night more than two hundred years
ago?




THE WHIPPING BOY


Many years ago there was a little boy living in England whose name was
Edward. Of course there have been many boys in England by the name of
Edward, but they are not so well known as this boy, for he was the son
of a king.

[Illustration]

Edward’s father was King Henry the Eighth, and Edward was called Edward
the Sixth when he became King of England.

King Henry was very fond of his children and did not like to have them
punished, so he had a little “whipping boy” for each one of them.

Whenever one of the Princes or Princesses did anything naughty, the
whipping boy was punished.

Sometimes he had to stand in the corner for a whole hour. Sometimes
he was sent to bed without any supper, and sometimes he had to have a
whipping.

Prince Edward’s whipping boy was Edward Brown. He lived in the castle
and played with the Prince every day. The two boys were very fond of
each other, and the Prince did not like to have his friend punished.

So he tried to be good, but there are so many things a Prince must not
do!

A Prince must not throw his toys out of the castle window. He must
never get angry at his brothers and sisters and quarrel with them. He
must learn his lessons every day.

He must be polite and obedient to the King and Queen, to all the
Gentlemen in Waiting and Ladies in Waiting, to the Head Nurse and all
the Under Nurses, and to his Tutor and all his teachers.

Oh! it is very hard to be a good Prince!

Sometimes Edward Brown had to be punished more than once while the
boys were at play, and sometimes Prince Edward was quite good all day
long.

One day the Prince did something that was very wrong; and when his
Tutor would have punished the whipping boy, Edward took the cane from
his hand and said, “Sir, you shall whip me for this. It is my command.
I did wrong. I should be punished.”

When Prince Edward was nine years old, his father died, and the Prince
was made King of England.

Perhaps you would like to know how he was dressed when he went to be
crowned. He wore a suit of white velvet, embroidered with diamonds,
pearls, and rubies. His cap was white velvet, and his coat was cloth of
silver.

He rode on a white horse through the city and the people shouted, “Long
live King Edward.”




THE CHRISTMAS SPRUCE TREE


Among the tall trees in the forest grew a little spruce tree. It was no
taller than a man, and that is very short for a tree.

The other trees near it grew so tall and had such large branches that
the poor little tree could not grow at all.

She liked to listen when the other trees were talking, but it often
made her sad.

“I am king of the forest,” said the oak. “Look at my huge trunk and my
branches. How they reach up toward heaven! I furnish planks for men
from which they build their ships. Then I defy the storm on the ocean
as I did the thunder in the forest.”

“And I go with you over the foaming waves,” said the tall straight
pine. “I hold up the flapping sails when the ships fly over the ocean.”

“And we warm the houses when winter comes and the cold north wind
drives the snow before him,” said the birches.

“We have the same work to do,” said a tall fir tree, and she bowed
gracefully, drooping her branches toward the ground.

[Illustration]

The little spruce tree heard the other trees talking about their work
in the world. This made her sad, and she thought, “What work can I do?
What will become of me?”

But she could not think of any way in which she could be useful. She
decided to ask the other trees in the forest.

So she asked the oak, the pine and the fir, but they were so proud and
stately they did not even hear her.

Then she asked the beautiful white birch that stood near by. “You have
no work to do,” said the birch, “because you can never grow large
enough. Perhaps you might be a Christmas tree, but that is all.”

“What is a Christmas tree?” asked the little spruce.

“I do not know exactly,” replied the birch. “Sometimes when the days
are short and cold, and the ground is covered with snow, men come out
here into the forest. They look at all the little spruce trees and
choose the prettiest, saying, ‘This will do for a Christmas tree.’

“Then they chop it down and carry it away. What they do with it I
cannot tell.”

The little spruce asked the rabbit that hopped over the snow, the owls
that slept in the pines, and the squirrels that came to find nuts and
acorns.

But no one knew more than the birch tree. No one could tell what men
did with the Christmas trees.

Then the little spruce tree wept because she had no work to do and
could not be of any use in the world.

The tears hardened into clear, round drops, which we call gum.

At last a boy came into the forest with an axe in his hand. He looked
the little tree all over. “Perhaps this will do for a Christmas tree,”
he said. So he chopped it down, laid it on a sled, and dragged it home.

The next day the boy sold the tree, and it was taken into a large room
and dressed up with pop corn and gilded nuts and candles. Packages of
all sizes and shapes, and tiny bags filled with candy, were tied on its
branches.

The tree was trembling with the excitement, but she stood as still as
she could. “What if I should drop some of this fruit,” she thought.

When it began to grow dark, every one left the room and the tree was
alone. It began to feel lonely and to think sad thoughts.

Soon the door opened and a lady came in. She lighted all the candles.

How light and glowing it was then!

The tree had never even dreamed of anything so beautiful!

Then the children came and danced about the tree, singing a Christmas
song. The father played on his violin, and the baby sat in her mother’s
arms, smiling and cooing.

“Now I know what I was made for,” thought the spruce tree; “I was
intended to give joy to the little ones, because I, myself, am so small
and humble.”

    —_Anna von Rydingsvärd._




A ROSE


    A sepal, petal, and a thorn
      Upon a common summer’s morn,
    A flash of dew, a bee or two,
    A breeze
    A caper in the trees,—
      And I’m a rose!

                            —_Emily Dickinson._




THE EVE OF ST. NICHOLAS


It was the Eve of St. Nicholas. In Germany St. Nicholas’s Day comes on
the sixth of December.

The children were in the nursery. On the hearth before the fireplace,
were five little sugar shoes.

Thekla was filling her shoe with oats. Max put rye in his shoe. Hans
put an apple in his, and Gretchen filled hers with lumps of sugar.

Betty, the poor little girl who sometimes helped in the kitchen, had
only a bit of brown bread to put in her shoe.

The children were expecting St. Nicholas, who always comes on a white
horse, and the things in the shoes were for the horse to eat.

As the clock struck six there was a loud knock at the door.

Aunt Hilda opened the door, and in came St. Nicholas. He was very tall
and had a long white beard. He wore a long black robe and a red and
white cap, with a big red tassel.

“Dear little children,” he said, “it will soon be Christmas. I have
come to find the good children. I shall bring gifts to them on
Christmas Eve. Has Thekla learned to knit?”

[Illustration]

“Yes, indeed,” said her mother. “See this pair of stockings she has
knit for Hans.”

“They are very well made,” said St. Nicholas. “I shall surely bring a
gift for Thekla. Has Hans learned to get up early?”

“We have not had to call him for six weeks,” said his father.

“Good,” said St. Nicholas. “Has Max learned his multiplication tables?”

“Max is trying very hard,” said Aunt Hilda. “He knows all but the nines
and twelves.”

“And the dear little Gretchen?” said St. Nicholas, patting the baby’s
golden curls.

They all smiled, and the mother said, “The dear little Gretchen is
always sweet and good.”

“Well, well, I shall certainly bring many beautiful gifts to this
house,” said St. Nicholas.

“And don’t forget little Betty,” said Aunt Hilda.

So the good Saint took the oats, the rye and the apple, the lumps of
sugar, and the bit of brown bread out of the sugar shoes and went out
into the night. I suppose he gave them to his horse.

“St. Nicholas has eyes like Uncle Max,” said Thekla.

“He smiled like Uncle Max, too,” said her brother.

St. Nicholas kept his word. On Christmas Eve there was a Christmas tree
in the parlor. On it there were many beautiful gifts, and little Betty
was not forgotten.

The next night the children hung gifts on the same tree for father,
mother, Uncle Max, Aunt Hilda, and the dear Grandfather.

Each one of the children had something of his very own for Grandfather.

Thekla had knit a warm scarf for him. Max can carve in wood, so he had
made a stout cane and had carved it very handsomely.

Hans drew a picture for him, and the dear little Gretchen gave him two
of her very best kisses.

Oh, it was a very happy Christmas!




ROBIN REDBREAST


    Good-by, good-by to summer!
      For summer’s nearly done;
    The garden smiling faintly,
      Cool breezes in the sun;
    Our thrushes now are silent,
      Our swallows flown away,—
    But Robin’s here, in coat of brown,
      And ruddy breast-knot gay,
        Robin, Robin Redbreast,
          O Robin dear!
        Robin sings so sweetly
          In the falling of the year.

    Bright yellow, red, and orange,
      The leaves come down in hosts;
    The trees are Indian princes,
      But soon they’ll turn to ghosts;
    The leathery pears and apples
      Hang russet on the bough;
    It’s autumn, autumn, autumn late,
      ’Twill soon be winter now.
        Robin, Robin Redbreast,
          O Robin dear!
      And what will this poor Robin do?
          For pinching days are near.

    The fireside for the cricket,
      The wheat stack for the mouse,
    When trembling night-winds whistle
      And moan all round the house.
    The frosty ways like iron,
      The branches plumed with snow,—
    Alas! in winter dead and dark,
      Where can poor Robin go?
        Robin, Robin Redbreast,
          O Robin dear!
      And a crumb of bread for Robin,
          His little heart to cheer!

                            —_William Allingham._




“THE LITTLE TURKEYS”

IN SCHOOL


The “little Turkeys” that I am going to tell you about are the children
that live in a far away land called Turkey.

To reach this land you would have to travel many hundreds of miles in
railroad trains and big ships.

In fact it is almost as far away as China, and that, you know, is
farther away than you can imagine.

The “little Turkeys” are very interesting, and they would think your
way of living just as strange as you will think theirs is.

To begin at the very beginning, the tiny baby doesn’t wear any dresses.
He is wrapped round and round, body, legs, and arms, with cloths, until
he looks like a dry-goods bundle.

Every baby wears a gay little bonnet, usually bright green, because the
favorite color of the Turks is green.

The Turkish baby is often hung up in a little cloth hammock, but
sometimes he is rocked to sleep in a wooden cradle.

The cradle is a long wooden box on low rockers with high carved ends.

In the Sultan’s treasure house is a cradle of solid gold, decorated
with pearls, diamonds, and rubies. This is the cradle in which the baby
princes are rocked; and it is very beautiful, as you can easily imagine.

When the boy baby is about a year old he is placed in charge of a man
nurse, if the father is not too poor. This man takes care of him until
he is six years old.

Then the boy is given a new suit of clothes and a pony, and he is ready
to go to school. Almost all of the boys in Turkey ride on horse-back. I
think you would like that.

The new suit may be big baggy trousers, with an embroidered shirt and
short jacket. Or it may be long full trousers of gay striped calico,
and a little jacket, quilted in puffy squares.

Every boy wears on his head a red fez with a black tassel.

In his new suit, the boy starts off for school on his pony, and his
brothers go with him. The bells on the pony jingle, the boys shout and
sing, and it is a very merry procession.

[Illustration]

The schoolhouse stands near the church. Inside, it is very plain. There
is a blackboard hung from the ceiling, a shelf for books and slates,
and one for a water jar.

There is a little shelf for the teacher’s pipe, and a place where he
makes coffee over a tiny lamp. For the teacher smokes and sips coffee
while the children study their lessons.

The children sit cross-legged on mats on the floor, and study out loud,
bending their bodies back and forth all the time. Perhaps they think
this helps them to remember.

They learn their letters, and very queer letters you would think them,
out of the Koran. They have no other book until they know this one by
heart, and can repeat it and write it.

Then they learn a little arithmetic and a very little geography.

In olden times the girls did not go to school at all, but stayed at
home learning to keep house, sew, and embroider. They were also taught
to weave cloth and to make beautiful rugs.

Now there are many schools for girls, as well as high schools and
colleges for both girls and boys.

The noise of the studying is stopped once during the day. At noon the
time for prayer is called out from the tower of the church. Then all
is quiet for a few minutes while teacher and pupils kneel to say the
midday prayer.

Then the candy-man appears with all sorts of sweets on trays. The
candies are called “Turkish delights.” They are “pasty, creamy, crackly
things, made from rose-leaves, violets, nuts, dates and grapes, mixed
with honey, sugar, syrup and spices.”

Doesn’t that sound good enough to eat?

       *       *       *       *       *

Where do the “little Turkeys” live?

How would you reach their country?

Describe the Turkish baby’s cradle.

Describe the princes’ cradle.

How does the Turkish boy go to school?

Tell what you can about the school.

What does the candy-man sell?

What are the candies made of, and what are they called?




“THE LITTLE TURKEYS”

AT HOME


Little boys who like to lie in bed in the morning would not like to
live in Turkey.

All the grown people and all the children have to get up twice every
day.

[Illustration]

They get up first at day-break, wash their faces and hands, and repeat
their morning prayer. Then they go back to bed.

Two hours later they rise, wash, and have their coffee. Breakfast is
served two hours later still.

After breakfast the father goes to work and the mother gets the
children ready for school.

The children have their lunch at school, as I told you. Dinner is
served at night. If there are gentlemen to dine with the father, only
the sons sit at the table. The mother and daughters dine in another
room.

After dinner every one has a good time. The children play games, and
sometimes the older people play with them. They are also fond of story
telling, and tell wonderful stories of battle and adventure.

Then the family goes to bed on the floor. That is, they lay mattresses
on the floor and cover themselves with blankets.

Every one goes to church on Friday. The boys sit with their father, and
the girls sit with their mother in a gallery where they cannot be seen.
At the entrance to the church they wash their hands and feet and put on
a pair of slippers.

After church the children play games of tag, or hide-and-seek. They
have few toys. The girls have dolls, and the boys have marbles or
balls. The marbles are nothing but a kind of round nut.

They do not have the holidays you do, but there are a few feast days,
when they have a very good time. One of the feasts is like our Easter,
only it lasts three days. Then there are merry-go-rounds in the
squares, and ponies to ride on for a penny.

The girls have new dresses of red, blue and yellow silk, and the boys
have gay little uniforms.

The candy-men walk the streets with big trays piled high with sweets,
and every one eats a great deal too much candy.

Should you like to live in Turkey, or do you like your own country best?

       *       *       *       *       *

Tell what the “Little Turkeys” do in the morning.

What do the children do after dinner?

What toys do they have? What games do they play?

Where do the Turkish people sleep?

Would you like to live in Turkey? Why?




“GILLYFLOWER GENTLEMAN”


“Why do you play alone, dear,” asked the Play Angel, “and look so sadly
over your shoulder at the other children?”

[Illustration]

“Because they are so selfish!” said the child. “They will not play with
me.”

“Oh, what a pity!” said the Angel. “Tell me all about it.”

“I want to play one game, and they all want to play another!” said the
child. “It is very unkind of them.”

“Did you ever play Gillyflower Gentleman?” asked the Angel.

“No,” said the child. “What is it?”

“You shall see,” said the Angel. “Let us ask the others if they know
it.”

The other children did not know it, but they were eager to learn, and
soon they were all playing Gillyflower Gentleman. They played till all
their breath was gone, and they had to sit down on the haycocks to rest.

“That was a fine game!” said the first child. “I will play yours now,
if you wish me to.”

“We were just going to tell you that we would play yours,” said the
other children. So they played both the games, and the Play Angel went
back to her work.

    —_Laura E. Richards._




THE RULER


It was time for the Child to have lessons. The father gave him a sheet
of paper, smooth and white; a pencil, and a ruler.

[Illustration]

“Write as well as you can,” he said, “and be sure you keep the lines
straight!”

The Child admired the ruler very much. “I will put it up on the wall,”
he said, “where I can see it always.”

So he put it up on the wall, and the sunbeams sparkled on it.

“It must be pure gold,” said the Child; “there is nothing else so
beautiful in the world.” And then he began his task.

By and by the lesson time was over, and the father came to see what had
been done.

The Child showed him the paper on which he had written his task. Up and
down went the lines, here and there, from side to side of the sheet,
which was covered with sprawling, straggling letters. There were spots,
too, where he had tried to rub out something. It was not a pretty page.

“What is this?” asked the father. “Where is your ruler?”

“There it is,” said the Child. “It is up on the wall. It was so
beautiful that I put it up there where I could see it all the time. See
where it hangs! But it does not seem as bright as it was.”

“No,” said the father. “It would have been brighter if you had used it.”

“But I admired it very much,” said the Child.

“But your lines are crooked,” said the father.

    —_Laura E. Richards (Adapted)._




THE MOON


    There’s a throne in the east and a throne in the west,
    And the royal heavens lie between.
    For the golden sun is a sceptred king,
    And the moon is his crownéd queen.
    A lonely queen is the silver moon,
    Though the dimpling stars her maidens are;
    She passes among them silently
    As she follows her lord afar.
                   —_Edith Colby Banfield._




THE CHILDREN OF ARMENIA


When you were a very little boy did you have a “Noah’s Ark” for a
plaything? And do you remember the story of “Noah and his Ark?”

This story tells, you remember, about a severe storm, when it rained
forty days and forty nights and all the land was flooded.

But Noah had built an ark and invited two animals of every kind, and a
few persons, to live in his ark during the flood.

When the storms were over, the ark rested on a mountain, and this was
Mount Ararat.

Mount Ararat is in the country of Armenia, and in this country lives a
very interesting people.

Armenia is a mountainous country and Mount Ararat is the highest of all
the mountains. It is so high that it has a snow cap all the year round,
even during the hottest part of the summer.

The Armenian children are often very pretty, with black hair, black
eyes, and round, red cheeks. They are bright and anxious to learn, and
they often ride a long way on donkey-back to get to the church schools.

[Illustration]

The schools are not free like the school you go to, and often the
parents have to pay the school with grain and cheese because they have
no money.

There is a free school near every church, and the priest is the
teacher. Here the little boys and girls learn the Armenian alphabet,
and also study reading, writing, geography, and grammar.

The mirigs (mothers) of the little Armenians have to wake them very
early, for they have to go to school at seven.

They sit cross-legged on the floor, and study their lessons aloud. All
the children carry a lunch from home, and they eat together in another
little room, still sitting on the floor.

Boys and girls go to the same school until they are ten or twelve
years old; then the girls go to a different school. Here they learn
dressmaking and embroidery. The materials are supplied by the school,
and at the end of the year the articles are sold and the money goes to
the school.

The boys do not earn money for the school, but they have to sing in the
church on Sunday.

When school closes at night the children form in line, with their hands
folded, and march to their homes. The line stops at each house where a
child lives, while the little one bids his friends good-night.

In winter there are deep snows, and then Hagop (Jacob) and Garabet
(George) and the other boys build snowmen and have snowball battles.

But in summer they work more than they play, for they have to go up to
the mountains with herds of goats. A few women go to cook for them, and
they all live in huts built of boughs.

The girls have rag dolls, with painted eyes, nose and mouth, and very
red cheeks. These dolls are dressed just like the little girls, with
gaily colored dresses of red, green, purple, or yellow. Their hair is
braided in long braids, and strung with beads and coins.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where is Mount Ararat?

Tell the story of Noah and his Ark.

What is the highest mountain in Armenia?

What covers the top of this mountain?

What is the Armenian word for “mamma?”

What do the children learn in the church schools?

How do the children go home from school?

What do the boys do in winter? In summer?




ARMENIAN HOMES


Hagop and Garabet live at the foot of Mount Ararat in a small village.

Their father is very poor and cannot afford to build a house, so they
live in a hut, built of mud, with walls three feet thick.

The inside of the house is plastered with chopped straw and mud mixed
together. The mud roof is flat and is kept smooth by rolling it often
with a stone, or treading it with bare feet. Hagop and Garabet think it
is great fun to go up on the roof after it rains and tread the soft mud
with their bare feet. Then their father rolls it with a big round stone
until it is smooth and firm.

There are many huts like this in Armenia, and they are often half under
ground, with the earth that has been dug out piled up around them. A
village of such dwellings looks a good deal like a village of huge
ant-hills.

There is only one door for the people and animals. Animals? Yes,
animals. For in winter the poor people let the animals come into the
room with them, and almost every family has at least a few goats.

There is a fireplace in the middle of the earth floor for cooking, but
there is no chimney, and the room is very smoky.

The mother makes big thin sheets of blanket bread and bakes it before
the fire. Sometimes she makes little cakes of the bread and spreads
them with thick cream.

The children drink goats’ milk with their bread, and once in a long
while they have a few raisins.

There are no windows in the hut, instead there are a few holes for
light; and there are no tables, no chairs, no beds, no bureaus. In fact
there is no furniture except some mats and blankets. Hagop’s mother
weaves the mats and blankets herself. The children like to watch the
patterns grow on the rugs as the mother weaves the colored threads back
and forth.

The people sit on the mats in the daytime and at night they roll
themselves in the blankets and sleep on these same mats.

Of course the rich people in the towns and cities have much more
comfortable houses, and they often have beautiful carved furniture and
handsome rugs. But these houses have flat roofs, too, and in summer
every one, rich or poor, lives on the roofs.

[Illustration]

There all the work is done; the women weave rugs or make beautiful
lace; the little girls play with their dolls; and at night the mats are
spread and the family sleep under the stars.

I do not believe I should like to live in Armenia, but I should enjoy
sleeping out of doors on the warm summer nights, watching the twinkling
stars until I fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

Describe the house where Hagop and Garabet live.

What does a village of these huts look like?

Where do the goats live?

What makes the house smoky?

What do the children have to eat and drink?

Describe the inside of the house where Hagop and Garabet live.

Where do the people live in the summer time?

Where do they sleep in summer? In winter?

Tell all the things you can that Hagop’s mother has to do.




THE NEST


    Under the apple tree, somebody said,
    “Look at that robin’s nest overhead!
    All of sharp sticks, and of mud, and clay—
    What a rough home for a summer day!”
    Gaunt stood the apple tree, gaunt and bare,
    And creaked in the winds which blustered there.
    The nest was wet with the April rain;
    The clay ran down in an ugly stain;
    Little it looked, I must truly say,
    Like a lovely home for a summer day.

    Up in the apple tree, somebody laughed,
    “Little you know of the true home-craft.
    Laugh if you like, at my sticks and clay;
    They’ll make a good home for a summer day.
    May turns the apple tree pink and white,
    Sunny all day, and fragrant all night.
    My babies will never feel the showers,
    For rain can’t get through these feathers of ours.
    Snug under my wings they will cuddle and creep,
    The happiest babies awake or asleep,”
    Said the robin-mother, flying away
    After more of the sticks and mud and clay.

    Under the apple tree somebody sighed,
    “Ah me, the blunder of folly and pride!
    The roughest small house of mud or clay
    Might be a sweet home for a summer day,
    Sunny and fragrant all day, all night,
    With only good cheer for fragrance and light;
    And the bitterest storms of grief and pain
    Will beat and break on that home in vain,
    Where a true-hearted mother broods alway,
    And makes the whole year like a summer day.”
                                —_Helen Hunt Jackson._




AHMOW—THE WOLF


I

Little Ahmow was an Eskimo boy. He lived with his parents on the bleak
northern shore of Hudson Bay.

During the long Arctic winter these Eskimos kill the walrus which live
at the edge of the ice. In the short summer they hunt them on the
islands near the shore.

The walrus meat is cut into strips and sewed up in bags made of the
walrus skin. This is to keep the dogs from stealing and eating it.

The walrus oil is put into casks to be used in the dark winter months
for heat and light.

Ahmow’s father killed many walrus every summer and stored the meat and
oil on the islands. Then in the winter he rode over on the ice to get
it.

One cold winter day, when Ahmow was ten years old, his father said,
“To-morrow I shall go to the island for oil.”

“We need meat, too,” said his wife, “and food for the dogs.”

“May I go with you, father?” said Ahmow. “I will help you all I can.”

[Illustration]

“No,” answered Nannook. “It is far and you are only a boy.”

Ahmow begged so hard that at last his father said he might go.

“But it will be a long cold ride, and there are often bears and wolves
on the island.”

So Ahmow dressed himself in his new reindeer suit that his mother had
made, and pulled his sealskin cap well over his ears.

He helped his father get ready for the long, cold journey. First they
put a thick coating of ice on the sledge-runners. Then they filled two
sealskin bags with food and water.

They called the dogs and harnessed them to the sledge. There were eight
of them, and they could run like the wind.

Last of all Ahmow crawled into the house, bade his mother good-by, and
brought out the long whip.

Nannook wrapped his little boy in a bearskin, cracked his whip over the
dogs, and away they flew over the ice. Oh, how happy Ahmow was!


II

After a while the dogs stopped running and began to trot, and Ahmow
looked about over the vast fields of ice.

Not a tree, not a house, not a person was in sight. As far as he could
see there was nothing but ice and snow. Everything was still and white
in the dim light.

When they had nearly reached the island, what did they see but a huge
polar bear! He was prowling around the oil casks, looking for something
to eat.

Nannook unharnessed the dogs at once. “Go,” he cried, and they raced
across the ice after the bear.

The bear was so big and clumsy that he could not run fast. The dogs
soon surrounded him, and held him until Nannook came running up to
shoot him.

Ahmow helped his father skin the bear and cut up the meat. Then they
loaded the sledge with a cask of oil, some walrus meat, the bearskin,
and part of the bear meat.

After eating their luncheon, Ahmow was again rolled up in the bear rug,
and they started for home. Nannook walked beside the sledge. The dogs
walked too, because the load was so heavy.

When they were nearly halfway home, Nannook saw some reindeer.

“Watch the dogs, Ahmow,” he said, “and I will try to shoot one of
those reindeer. Then we can have a fine dinner.”

So he took the gun and ran swiftly over the snow. Soon he was out of
sight, and Ahmow was alone with the dogs.

The little boy played with the dogs at first, but after a while they
curled up and went to sleep.

Ahmow was sleepy, too, and it was so warm in the bear rug that he
almost went to sleep.

All at once he heard a growl, then a dog barked. Ahmow was wide awake
and listening. “What is it, Naka?” he said to the dog that barked.

Naka barked again, and the hair stood up straight on his back.

Ahmow stood up and looked about. There was a fierce, hungry-looking
wolf coming toward him! He looked again! One, two, three, four wolves
were leaping over the snow!

The boy threw off the rug, and seized his father’s whip and walrus
spear. “Come here,” he called to the dogs. “Come here to the sledge.”

Then, as the wolves came nearer, he jumped into the cask of meat.

[Illustration]

One big wolf ran up to the sledge. Ahmow leaned over and struck him
with the whip with all his might. The wolf howled and turned back.

Another wolf would have killed one of the dogs, but Ahmow threw out a
big piece of bear meat. The wolf seized the meat and began to eat it.

Now a third wolf came up to the sledge. Just then Ahmow saw his father
running toward him.

“He will drive the wolves away,” he thought, “but I should like to kill
one if I can.”

So he held the spear as he had seen his father hold it. As the wolf
came nearer, he raised it. As the wolf jumped, he threw it with all his
might right into the wide-open mouth. There was a howl, a growl, and
then the wolf tried to run away. But Ahmow wound the spear line around
the sledge post and held it tight.

Nannook shot two of the wolves, but the one that had the meat got away
with it.

Then as he ran to the sledge, “Look, father,” cried Ahmow. “See this
fine wolf, with the sharp nose, and the bushy tail. He is held fast
with the walrus line, and he has eaten the walrus spear.”

“Well done, lad,” said his father. “You will be a good hunter. Now,
you shall have a spear of your own and you shall go with me on the big
hunts.”

So from that day the boy was a hunter, and the people in the village
called him “Ahmow,” which means, “little wolf.”

    —_Frederick Schwatka._




ESKIMO CHILDREN


The Eskimos live in Greenland. I am sure you would wonder why it is
called “Greenland,” for it is almost never “green.” Nearly all the year
round the ground is covered with ice and snow, so that it seems as if
“Whiteland” would be a better name.

[Illustration]

It is so cold in Greenland that the Eskimos have to wear very warm
clothing. The boys and girls and men and women dress very much alike.
They wear trousers made of bearskin and coats made of sealskin. Their
stockings are like leggings and are made of birdskin, with soft
feathers inside to keep their feet warm. Over these they wear sealskin
boots, which are long enough to cover their knees.

It is so cold in Greenland that trees cannot grow. If you think of all
the ways in which we use the wood from our forest trees you will wonder
what the Eskimos can do without them.

We build houses of wood, but the Eskimos make theirs of blocks of ice
and snow.

We burn wood in our stoves. The Eskimos burn oil and fat which they get
from the walrus and the seal. They burn this oil in a lamp which gives
them all the light and heat they have.

Our beds, chairs and tables are made of wood. The Eskimos have no beds.
They sleep on bearskin rugs.

They have no tables and no chairs. A big bowl made of bone is set on
the floor, and the family sit around the bowl on bearskins, and eat out
of it.

There are no stores in Greenland, no churches, and no schools.
Everything that a family needs has to be provided by the father or
the mother. The father goes hunting and fishing, to get food to eat,
and oil to burn, and skins to wear. He catches fish, and kills bears,
seals, walrus, and reindeer. Sometimes in the summer he kills a few
birds.

The mother helps cut up the meat, and sometimes she cooks it, but much
of the meat and fat is eaten raw. From the skins and furs she makes all
the clothing for her family.

As there are no schools the Eskimo children never learn to read or
write, but they like to hear their mother and father tell stories, and
they learn these stories so that they can tell them to their children.

Every one in Greenland has a sled. The runners are made of bone, and
the top is made of sealskin. Dogs draw these sleds over the snow, and
they can run very fast and very far.

The boys and girls have very few toys, but they like to play games, and
they have many good times.

The girls have dolls made of bone, and the boys play a game with a ball
and stick made of bone.

But the boys like to hunt and fish. They have small boats made of bone
and sealskin, and paddles made of bone. Of course they can use these
boats only in the short summer time, as the water is frozen the rest of
the year. When they go hunting they carry spears, and a bow and arrows.

       *       *       *       *       *

Do you think you would like to live in Greenland?

Name ten things that you have that the Eskimo children have never seen.

Tell five things that you can do that the little Eskimos cannot do.

What do we have to eat that the Eskimos cannot have?

Why do the Eskimos build their houses of snow? How is the house heated?

Of what is their clothing made?

How do they cook and eat their food?

What do the Eskimo children do for fun?




THE DREAM-SHIP


    The Dream-ship minds no stormy gales,
      Her masts are all of gold,
    With splendor of wide silken sails,
      Red-rosy, fold on fold.
    They spread below, they spread aloft,
      They’re never reefed nor furled,
    And they will bear us safe and soft,
      The other side the world.

    We shall not see the shadow crew
      That work among the spars,
    But watch the topmast sailing through
      The shoals of shining stars.
    From point to point of silver light,
      Through purple gulfs and bays,
    As we below a-gliding go
      Along the water-ways.
                        —_Blanche M. Channing._




A TRIP TO JAPAN


There are so many things to tell you about “Nippon,” as the Japanese
call their country, that I do not know where to begin.

But first of all I must tell you how we landed. There were six of
us,—Charlotte and Alice and Fred, their father and mother, and I,—and
we had come all the way across the Pacific Ocean in a big ship.

Our ship was anchored out in the harbor, and we were told we might go
ashore.

We wondered if we were expected to swim, but it seemed too far for that.

You can imagine how glad we were when we looked over the side of the
ship and saw a great many little boats waiting for us.

A stairway was hung out over the side of the ship, and we walked down
into the little boats, just as we walk down stairs in our houses.

Then the trunks were lowered by ropes into little Japanese rowboats,
called sampans, and we waved “good-by” to the captain and all our
friends on the ship.

[Illustration]

Did you ever go to sleep and dream you were in a doll’s country, where
you seemed like a giant? Alice said she knew now just how that other
Alice felt in her visit to Wonderland, for she never saw such tiny
little people, and such tiny little houses, and even such tiny little
trees.

When we got on shore we found queer little two-wheeled carriages, drawn
by men instead of horses. The carriages are called jinrikishas, and are
just big enough for one person.

We each got into one of these carriages and the jinrikisha boys picked
up the shafts and trotted off like nice little ponies.

These boys wear dark-blue trousers that fit their legs very tightly,
and a short blue jacket with flowing sleeves, and on their back is a
Chinese letter painted in white, which is their employer’s name.

On their feet they wear straw sandals which they kick off, when they
are worn out, as a horse casts his shoe. The hat is a funny round straw
disk, covered with white, which makes them look like toadstools.

The houses, as I said, are very tiny, not much larger than your
playhouses, and the walls are all made of sliding screens that can be
pushed aside, leaving the house open.

The floors are covered with matting, which is as soft as cushions, but
there is no furniture anywhere to be seen, for the Japanese sit on the
floor and sleep on the floor, and their tables are tiny little trays.

The houses are spotlessly clean, for no Japanese would think of going
into a house with his shoes on, any more than you would walk over your
mother’s chairs and cushions in your shoes.

One day we went to see a wonderful image. We rode out to it in
jinrikishas, and we each had two ’rikisha boys to pull us. We sped
along at a rapid pace, for the boys are so well trained that they make
nearly as good time as a horse, and a day’s run is sometimes as much as
forty miles.

We had a regular Japanese “tiffin,” or lunch, at a little Japanese inn
that had a pretty garden all around it. We took off our shoes at the
door just as the Japanese do, and walked across the soft, matted floor.

A screen was drawn aside for us to enter, and then closed again,
leaving us in a little room. Here we all squatted on our heels, as
nearly like a Japanese as our stiff muscles would let us, for, without
being trained, it is hard to shut up like a jackknife.

[Illustration]

Then pretty little Japanese girls stole in noiselessly, bringing us
trays of food, one for each person, and knelt down beside us to uncover
our dishes and wait on us.

In one tiny bowl was some vegetable soup, in another some rice, and in
a third some fish, which was cooked for us, though to have been truly
Japanese we should have eaten it raw.

Of course there was tea. Everywhere you go they give you tea in wee
cups without handles; just about a thimbleful, without cream and
without sugar; not at all as we drink it at home.

But with all this feast before us, there was nothing to eat it with but
two funny little chopsticks, and terrible times we had trying to manage
those little sticks that serve the Japanese so well, but which seemed
bewitched the minute we got them between our fingers.

After trying a long time we would get a mouthful, as we thought, firmly
fixed between the chopsticks, but just as we would open our mouths to
take it in, the bewitched chopsticks would give a twitch, and down the
whole thing would fall again.

So, though we spent much time over it, we ate very little, and we all
agreed that it is better to eat with forks as we do in America.

After tiffin we went to a silk factory, for a great deal of silk is
manufactured in Japan. There we found over three thousand girls and
women busy unrolling the cocoons. The silk is woven in another place,
and rolled in neat rolls, ready for sale.

Most of the way we rode along the beach, where we could see the
fishermen in their boats, and in one boat was a boy we called Urashima,
for when we looked for him a second time he had disappeared.

    —_Charlotte Chaffee Gibson._

       *       *       *       *       *

What do the Japanese call their country?

Where was the big ship anchored?

How did the passengers get from the ship to the shore?

What is a jinrikisha? How is it drawn?

Describe a Japanese house.

What is the Japanese word for lunch?

What did the children have to eat at the inn?

What did they have to eat it with?

Where did they go after “tiffin?”

What would you like to do if you should go to Japan?




URASHIMA


Urashima was a fisher-boy who lived long ago in Japan.

One day he went out in his boat, and after he had been fishing a little
while, he felt something very heavy tugging at his line.

He gave a hard pull and got it up into his boat. Then he found that it
was a big tortoise with such a funny old wrinkled face that he burst
out laughing when he saw it.

In Japan a tortoise lives a thousand years, so Urashima thought it
would be a shame to kill this funny old fellow, when he might have so
long to live. Besides, a small fish would suit him just as well for
dinner, so he threw the tortoise back into the sea, and meant to go on
fishing.

But somehow the air seemed too heavy and drowsy, just as it does on a
summer’s day, and Urashima fell asleep.

While he was sleeping a beautiful maiden rose out of the water and got
into the boat with him. Urashima waked, and when he saw her he thought
she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

The maiden spoke to him. “Urashima,” she said, “you thought you caught
a tortoise a little while ago, but it was really me. My father had sent
me in disguise to see if you were a good, kind boy.

“We know now that you are kind-hearted, as you spared the life of the
old tortoise. So I am going to take you with me to the Dragon Palace,
where my father, the Sea King, and I live. There you shall marry me,
and we shall be very happy.”

[Illustration: I AM GOING TO TAKE YOU WITH ME TO THE DRAGON PALACE.]

Urashima gladly consented, and they floated away till they came to a
wonderful palace at the bottom of the sea.

This palace was all built of the most beautiful pink and white coral,
and was studded with diamonds and pearls.

The leaves of the trees were emeralds, with berries of rubies and
sapphires; and the fishes’ scales were of pure silver and gold.

All this was given to Urashima, and the beautiful princess became his
wife. Any boy would be happy in such a palace, and Urashima was happy
for three years.

Then he said to the princess, “I must go to see my father and mother,
and my brothers and sisters, but I will return again to you.”

This made the poor princess very sad, for she did not wish to have
Urashima go away.

But when she saw how much he wished to go, she gave him a little box to
take with him, telling him under no conditions to open it, for if he
did he could never return to her.

So Urashima started off, and soon found himself on the shore where he
had lived. But everything seemed strangely different. Even the people
were different and looked at him in a curious way.

He could not seem to find his way home, so he asked two men whom he met
if they could tell him how to reach the house of Urashima’s parents.

“Urashima!” they cried. “Why, he was drowned out fishing about four
hundred years ago, and not even his body was found. His father and
mother are buried over there.”

Then they moved away hastily, for they thought he must be insane.

[Illustration]

Poor Urashima could not think what to do. He began to think that the
Dragon Palace must be a part of Fairyland, where a day is the same as a
year on earth, and he wished to return to it. But how could he find the
way?

He could not remember how he had come.

Suddenly he thought of the box that the princess had given him, and
forgetting that he had promised not to open it, he pulled open the lid,
hoping to learn the way back.

There was nothing in the box but a fleecy white cloud that floated
softly up into the blue sky.

Then, too late, he remembered what the princess had said, and he called
and called the cloud to come back. He even ran along the beach trying
to catch it.

But soon he could not call, for his breath came shorter and shorter,
his hair turned white, and his back became weak and bent.

Finally he fell down on the beach, crushed by the weight of his four
hundred years.

    —_Charlotte Chaffee Gibson._




A DAY


    I’ll tell you how the sun rose,—
      A ribbon at a time.
    The steeples swam in amethyst,
      The news like squirrels ran.

    The hills untied their bonnets,
      The bobolinks begun,
    Then I said softly to myself,
      “That must have been the sun!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    But how he set, I know not.
      There seemed a purple stile
    Which little yellow boys and girls
      Were climbing all the while.

    Till when they reached the other side,
      A dominie in gray
    Put gently up the evening bars,
     And led the flock away.
                        —_Emily Dickinson._




THE ANTS’ MONDAY DINNER


How did I know what the ants had for dinner last Monday? It is odd that
I should have known, but I’ll tell you how it happened.

I was sitting under a big pine tree, high up on a hillside. The
hillside was more than seven thousand feet above the sea, and that
is higher than many mountains which people travel hundreds of miles
to look at. But this hillside was in Colorado, so there was nothing
wonderful in being up so high.

I had been watching the great mountains with snow on them, and the
great forests of pine trees—miles and miles of them—so close together
that it looks as if you could lie down on their tops and not fall
through; and my eyes were tired with looking at such great, grand
things, so many miles off.

So I looked down on the ground where I was sitting, and watched the
ants which were running about everywhere, as busy and restless as if
they had the whole world on their shoulders.

Suddenly I saw a tiny caterpillar, which seemed to be bounding along in
a very strange way. In a second more I saw an ant seize hold of him and
begin to drag him off.

The caterpillar was three times as long as the ant, and his body was
more than twice as large round as the biggest part of the ant’s body.

“Ho! ho! Mr. Ant,” said I, “you needn’t think you’re going to be strong
enough to drag that fellow very far.”

Why, it was about the same thing as if you or I should drag off a
calf, which was kicking and struggling all the time; only that the
calf hasn’t half so many legs to catch hold of things with as the
caterpillar had.

Poor caterpillar! how he did try to get away! But the ant never gave
him a second’s time to take a good grip of anything; and he was cunning
enough, too, to drag him on his side, so that he couldn’t use his legs
very well.

Up and down, and under and over stones and sticks; in and out of
tufts of grass; up to the very top of the tallest blades, and then
down again; over gravel and sand, and across bridges of pine needles
from stone to stone; backward all the way ran that ant, dragging the
caterpillar after him.

I watched him very closely, thinking, of course, he must be going
toward his house. Presently he darted up the trunk of a pine tree.

“Dear me!” said I, “ants don’t live in trees! What does this mean?”

The bark of the tree was all broken and jagged, and full of seams
twenty times as deep as the height of the ant’s body. But he didn’t
mind; down one side and up the other he went.

They must have been awful chasms to him, and yet he never once stopped
or went a bit slower. I had to watch the ant very closely, not to lose
sight of him altogether.

I began to think that he was merely trying to kill the caterpillar;
that, perhaps, he didn’t mean to eat him, after all. How did I know but
some ants might hunt caterpillars, just as some men hunt deer, for
fun, and not at all because they need food?

If I had been sure of this, I would have spoiled Mr. Ant’s sport for
him very soon, you may be sure, and set the poor caterpillar free. But
I never heard of an ant’s being cruel; and if it were really for dinner
for his family that he was working so hard, I thought he ought to be
helped, and not hindered.

[Illustration]

Just then I heard a sharp cry overhead. I looked up, and there was an
enormous hawk, sailing round in circles, with two small birds flying
after him. They were pouncing down on his head, and then darting away,
and all the time making shrill cries of fright and hatred.

I knew very well what that meant. Mr. Hawk was also out trying to do
some marketing for his dinner. He had his eye on some little birds in
their nest, and there were the father and mother birds driving him away.

You wouldn’t have believed that two such little birds could drive off
such a big creature as the hawk, but they did. They seemed to fairly
buzz round his head just as flies buzz round a horse’s head.

At last he gave up the quest and flew off so far that he vanished in
the blue sky, and the little birds came skimming home again into the
forest.

“Well, well,” said I, “the little people are stronger than the big
ones, after all! Where has my ant gone?”

Sure enough! It hadn’t been two minutes that I had been watching
the hawk and the birds, but in that two minutes the ant and the
caterpillar had disappeared. At last I found them,—where do you think?
In a fold of my coat, on which I was sitting!

The ant was running round and round the caterpillar. I shook the fold
out, and as soon as the cloth lay straight and smooth, the ant fastened
his nippers into his prey and started off as fast as ever.

I suppose if I could have seen his face, and had understood the
language of ants’ features, I should have seen plainly written there,
“Dear me, what sort of a country was that I tumbled into?”

By this time the caterpillar had had the breath pretty well knocked out
of his body, and was so limp and helpless that the ant was not afraid
of his getting away from him. So he stopped now and then to rest.

Sometimes he would spring on the caterpillar’s back, and stretch
himself out there; sometimes he would stand still on one side and look
at him sharply, keeping one nipper on his head.

All the time he was working steadily in one direction; he was headed
for home I felt certain.

It astonished me very much, at first, that none of the ants he met took
any notice of him; they all went on their own way, and never took so
much as a sniff at the caterpillar.

But pretty soon I said to myself, “You stupid woman, not to suppose
that ants can be as well behaved as people! When you passed Mr. Jones
yesterday, you didn’t peep into his market-basket, nor touch the
cabbage he had under his arm.”

Presently the ant dropped the caterpillar, and ran on a few steps—I
mean inches—to meet another ant who was coming towards him. They put
their heads close together for a second.

I could not hear what they said, but I could easily imagine, for they
both ran quickly back to the caterpillar, and one took him by the head
and the other by the tail, and then they lugged him along finely. It
was only a few steps, however, to the ant’s house; that was the reason
he happened to meet this friend just coming out.

The door was a round hole in the ground, about as big as my little
finger. Several ants were standing in the doorway, watching these
two come up with the caterpillar. They all took hold as soon as the
caterpillar was on the doorstep, and almost before I knew he was there,
they had tumbled him down, heels over head, into the ground, and that
was the last I saw of him.

The oddest thing was, how the ants came running home from all
directions. I don’t believe there was any dinner bell rung, though
there might have been one too fine for my ears to hear; but in a
minute, I counted thirty-three ants running down that hole. I fancied
they looked as hungry as wolves.

I had a great mind to dig down into the hole with a stick, and see what
had become of the caterpillar. But I thought it wasn’t quite fair to
take the roof off a man’s house to find out how he cooks his beef for
dinner; so I sat still and wondered whether they would eat him all up
or whether they would leave any for Tuesday; then I went home to my own
dinner.

    —_Helen Hunt Jackson._




MY ANT’S COW


My Ant lives in the country and keeps a cow. I am ashamed to say that,
although I have always known she was a most interesting person, I never
went to see her until last week.

I am afraid I should not have gone then, if I had not found an account
of her, and her house, and her cow, in a book which I was reading.

“Dear me,” said I, “and there she has been living so near me all this
time, and I never have been to call on her.”

To tell the truth, it was much worse than that; I had often met her in
the street, and had taken such a dislike to her looks that I always
brushed by as quickly as possible without speaking to her.

I had great difficulty in finding her house, though it is quite large.
She belongs to a very peculiar family; they prefer to live in the dark;
so they have no windows in their houses, only doors; and the doors are
nothing but holes in the roof.

The houses are built in the shape of a mound, and are not more than
ten inches high. They are built out of old bits of wood, dead leaves,
straw, old bones; in short, every sort of old thing that they find,
they stick in the walls of their houses. Their best rooms are all down
cellar; and dark enough they must be on a rainy day, when the doors are
always kept shut tight.

But I ought to have told you about my Ant herself before I told you
about her house. When you hear what an odd person she is, you will not
be surprised that she lives in such an outlandish house.

To begin with, I must tell you that she belongs to a family that never
does any work.

You’d never suppose so, to see her. I really think she is the
queerest-looking creature I ever met.

In the first place, her skin is of a dark brown color, darker than an
Indian’s, and she has six legs. Of course she can walk three times as
fast as if she had only two,—but I would rather go slower and be more
like other people.

She has frightful jaws, with which she does all sorts of things besides
eating. She uses them for scissors, tweezers, pickaxes, knife and fork,
and in case of a battle, for swords.

[Illustration]

Then she has growing out of the front part of her head two long slender
horns, which she keeps moving about all the time, and with which she
touches everything she wishes to understand.

The first thing she does, when she meets you, is to bend both
these horns straight towards you, and feel of you. It is quite
disagreeable,—almost as bad as shaking hands with strangers.

My Ant’s name is Fornica Rufa. If I knew her better I should call her
Ant Ru, for short. But I do not expect ever to know her very well. She
evidently does not like to be intimate with anybody but her own family;
and I am not surprised, for I was never in any house so overrun with
people as hers is. I wondered how they knew themselves apart.

When I went to see her last week I found her just going out, and I
thought perhaps that was one reason that she didn’t take any more
notice of me.

“How do you do, Ant?” said I. “I am spending the summer near by, and
thought I would like to become acquainted with you. I hear you have a
very curious cow, and I have a great desire to see it.”

“Humph!” said she, and snapped her horns up and down, as she always
does when she is displeased, I find.

“I hope it will not give you any trouble to show her to me. You must
be very proud of having such a fine cow. Perhaps you are on the way to
milking now, and if so I should be most happy to go with you.”

“Humph!” said my Ant again. At least I think that was what she said. It
looked like it, but I can’t say that I heard any sound.

But she turned short on her heels (I suppose she has heels), and
plunged into the woods at the right, stopping and looking back at me as
if she expected me to follow. So I stepped along after her as fast as I
could, and said, “Thank you; I suppose this is the way to the pasture.”

My Ant said nothing, but went ahead, snapping her horns furiously.

“Oh, well,” thought I to myself, “you are an uncivil Ant. Even if I
have come simply out of curiosity, you might be a little more polite
in your own house, or at least on your own grounds, which is the same
thing. I sha’n’t speak to you again.”

That’s about all the conversation I have ever had with my Ant. But she
took me to the pasture, and I saw her cow.

I am almost afraid to tell you where the pasture was, and what the cow
was; but if you don’t believe me, you can look in books written about
such things, and they will prove to you that every word I say is true.

The pasture was the stalk of a green brier; and there stood, not only
my Ant’s cow, but as many as five hundred others, all feeding away upon
it. You have seen millions of them in your lives, for you must know
that they are nothing but little green plant-lice, like those that we
find on our rosebushes, and that we try in every possible way to get
rid of.

Who would ever suppose there could be anything for which these little
green plant-lice could serve as cows! I assure you it is true, and if
you live in the country you can see it for yourself; but you will have
to look through a magnifying glass to see them milked.

Think of looking through a magnifying glass at anybody’s cow! I looked
at my Ant’s for an hour, and it seemed to me I hardly winked, I was so
much interested in the curious sight.

Its skin was smooth as satin and of a most beautiful light green color.
It had six legs, and little hooks at the end, instead of hoofs. The
oddest thing of all was that the horns were not on its head, but at the
other end of its body, where the tail would have been if it had had a
tail like any other cow.

The horns were hollow tubes, and it is out of them that the milk comes,
a drop at a time. The milk is meant for the little plant-lice to drink
before they are old enough to hook their six legs on to stalks and
leaves, and feed on sap.

But I think that in any place where there are many of my Ant’s race,
the little plant-lice must fare badly, for the Ants are so fond of this
milk that sometimes they carry off whole herds of the plant-lice and
shut them up in chambers in their houses. There they feed them as we do
cows in barns, and go and milk them whenever they please.

“Oh, dear Ant,” said I to my Ant, “do pray milk your cow! I have such a
desire to see how you do it.”

She did not appear to understand me, and I dare say if she had she
would not have done it any sooner. But presently I saw her go up behind
her cow, and begin to tap her gently on her back, just at the place
where the horns grew out.

The cow did not look round nor stop eating, but in a moment out came a
tiny drop of liquid from the tip of each tube. My Ant picked it up with
her wonderful horns and whisked it into her mouth as quickly as you
would a sugarplum.

Then she went on to the next cow and milked that in the same manner,
and then to a third one. She took only two drops from each one. Perhaps
that is all that this kind of a cow can give at a time.

There were several of her friends there at the same time doing their
milking; and I could not help thinking how easy it would be for the
great herd of cows to kill my Ant and all her race, if they chose. But
it is thought by wise people who have studied these wonderful things
that the cows are fond of being milked in this way, and would be sorry
to be left alone by themselves.

After my Ant had finished her supper, she stood still watching the cows
for some time. I thought perhaps she would be in a better humor after
having had so much to eat, and might possibly feel like talking with
me. But she never once opened her mouth, though I sat there an hour and
a half.

At last it began to grow dark, and as I had quite a long walk to take,
I knew I must go, or I should not get home in time for my own supper of
milk.

“Good-night, Ant,” said I. “I have had a charming visit. I am very
much obliged to you for showing me your cow. I think she is the most
wonderful creature I ever saw. I should be very happy to see you at my
house.”

“Humph!” said my Ant.

    —_Helen Hunt Jackson._




COLORADO SNOW-BIRDS


    I’ll tell you how the snow-birds come,
      Here in our Winter days;
    They make me think of chickens,
      With their cunning little ways.

[Illustration]

    We go to bed at night, and leave
      The ground all bare and brown,
    And not a single snow-bird
      To be seen in all the town.

    But when we wake at morning
      The ground with snow is white,
    And with the snow, the snow-birds
      Must have travelled all the night;

    For the streets and yards are full of them,
      The dainty little things,
    With snow-white breasts, and soft brown heads,
      And speckled russet wings.

    Not here and there a snow-bird,
      As we see them at the East,
    But in great flocks, like grasshoppers,
      By hundreds, at the least,

    They push and crowd and jostle,
      And twitter as they feed,
    And hardly lift their heads up,
      For fear to miss a seed.

    What ’tis they eat, nobody seems
      To know or understand;
    The seeds are much too fine to see,
      All sifted in the sand.

    But winds last Summer scattered them,
      All thickly on these plains;
    The little snow-birds have no barns,
      But God protects their grains.

    .   .   .   .   .   .   .

    Some flocks count up to thousands,
      I know, and when they fly,
    Their tiny wings make rustle,
      As if a wind went by.

    They go as quickly as they come,
      Go in a night or day;
    Soon as the snow has melted off,
      The darlings fly away,

    But come again, again, again,
      All winter with each snow;
    Brave little armies, through the cold;
      Swift back and forth they go.

    I always wondered where they lived
      In summer, till last year
    I stumbled on them in their home,
      High in the upper air;

    ’Way up among the clouds it was,
      A many thousand feet,
    But on the mountain-side gay flowers
      Were blooming fresh and sweet.

[Illustration]

    Great pine trees’ swaying branches
      Gave cool and fragrant shade;
    And here, we found, the snow-birds
      Their summer home had made.

    “Oh, lucky little snow-birds!”
       We said, “to know so well,
     In summer time and winter time,
       Your destined place to dwell—

    “To journey, nothing doubting,
       Down to the barren plains,
     Where harvests are all over,
       To find your garnered grains!

    “Oh, precious little snow-birds!
       If we were half as wise,
     If we were half as trusting
       To the Father in the skies,—

    “He would feed us, though the harvests
       Had ceased throughout the land,
     And hold us, all our lifetime,
       In the hollow of his hand!”
                        —_Helen Hunt Jackson._




THE PETERKINS’ EXCURSION AFTER MAPLE SYRUP


The Peterkins had decided not to go to Egypt.

Of course the little boys were very much disappointed, so Mr. Peterkin
said that he would take them out into the woods to get some maple syrup
instead. But it was almost as difficult to arrange an excursion for
maple sugar as to arrange for a trip to Egypt.

You see, sugar can not be made until it is warm enough to make the sap
run. On the other hand, it must be cold enough for snow, as you can
only reach the woods on snow-sleds.

Now, if there were sun enough for the sap to rise, it would melt the
snow; and if it were cold enough for sledding, it must be too cold for
the syrup. The little boys, however, said there always had been maple
sugar every spring,—they had eaten it; why shouldn’t there be this
spring?

Elizabeth Eliza said that this was probably old sugar they had
eaten,—you never could tell in the shops.

Mrs. Peterkin thought there must be fresh sugar once in a while, as
the old sugar would be eaten up. She felt the same about chickens. She
never could understand why there were only the old, tough ones in the
market, when there were certainly fresh young broods to be seen around
the farmhouses every year.

She supposed the market-men had begun with the old, tough fowls, and so
they had to go on so. She wished they had begun the other way; and she
had done her best to have the family eat up the old fowls, hoping they
might, some day, get down to the young ones.

As to the weather, she suggested they should go to Grandfather’s the
day before. But how can you go the day before, when you don’t know the
day?

All were much delighted, therefore, when Hiram appeared with the
wood-sled, one evening, to take them, as early as possible the next
day, to their grandfather’s.

He said that the sap had started, the kettles had been on some time,
there had been a slight snow for sleighing, and to-morrow promised to
be a fine day.

[Illustration]

It was decided that he should take the little boys and Elizabeth Eliza
in the wood-sled; the others would follow later, in the carryall.

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would be safer to have some of the party go on
wheels, in case of a thaw the next day.

A brilliant sun awoke them in the morning. The wood-sled was filled
with hay, to make it warm and comfortable, and an armchair was tied in
for Elizabeth Eliza.

The little boys put on their India-rubber boots and their red mittens.
Elizabeth Eliza took a shawl, a hot brick, and a big bag of cookies,
and they started off.

In passing the school-house the little boys saw five of their friends,
who had reached the school door a full hour before the time. They asked
these five boys to go with them, but Elizabeth Eliza thought they ought
to inquire if their parents would be willing they should go, as they
all expected to spend the night at Grandfather’s.

Hiram thought it would take too much time to ask all the parents; if
the sun kept on shining so brightly, the snow would be gone before they
would reach the woods.

But the little boys said that most of these boys lived in a row, and
Elizabeth Eliza felt she ought not to take the boys away for all night
without asking their parents.

At each place they were obliged to stop for tippets and great-coats
and India-rubber boots for the little boys. At the Harrimans’, too, the
Harriman girls insisted on dressing up the wood-sled with evergreens,
and made one of the boys bring the Christmas tree that was leaning up
against the barn, to set it up in the back of the sled, over Elizabeth
Eliza.

All this took a good deal of time; and when they reached the highroad
again, the snow was indeed fast melting. Elizabeth Eliza thought they
ought to turn back, but Hiram said they would find the sleighing better
farther up among the hills.

The armchair joggled about a good deal, and the Christmas tree creaked
and swayed, and Hiram was obliged to stop once in a while and tie in
the chair and the tree more firmly.

But the warm sun was very pleasant, the eight little boys were very
lively, and the sleigh bells jingled gaily as they went on.

It was so late when they reached the wood-road that Hiram decided they
had better not go up the hill to their grandfather’s, but turn off into
the woods.

“Your grandfather will be up at the sugar camp by this time,” he
declared.

Elizabeth Eliza was afraid the carryall would miss them, and thought
they had better wait. Hiram did not like to wait longer, and said that
one or two of the little boys could stop to show the way.

But it was so difficult to decide which little boys should stay that he
gave it up. So he explained that there was a lunch hidden somewhere in
the straw; and the little boys thought this was a good time to eat it,
so they decided to stop in the sun at the corner of the road.

Elizabeth Eliza felt a little jounced in the armchair, and was glad of
a rest; and the boys soon discovered a good lunch,—just what might have
been expected from Grandfather’s,—apple pie and doughnuts, and plenty
of them! “It is lucky we brought so many little boys!” they exclaimed.

Hiram, however, began to grow impatient. “There’ll be no snow left,” he
exclaimed, “and no afternoon for the syrup!”

But far in the distance the Peterkin carryall was seen slowly
approaching through the snow, Solomon John waving a red handkerchief.
The little boys waved back, and Hiram turned the sled into the
wood-road, but he drove slowly, as Elizabeth Eliza still feared that by
some accident the family might miss them.

[Illustration]

It was difficult for the carryall to follow in the deep but soft snow,
in among the trunks of the trees and over piles of leaves hidden in the
snow.

At last they reached the edge of a meadow. On the high bank above it
stood a row of maples, and back of which was a little shanty with smoke
coming out of its chimney. The little boys screamed with delight, but
there was no reply. Nobody there!

“The folks all gone!” exclaimed Hiram; “then we must be late.” And he
proceeded to pull out a large silver watch from a side pocket. It was
so large that he seldom was at the pains to pull it out, as it took
time; but when he had succeeded at last, and looked at it, he started.

“Late, indeed! It is four o’clock, and we were to have been here by
eleven; they have given you up.”

The little boys wanted to force in the door; but Hiram said it was no
use,—they wouldn’t understand what to do, and he should have to see to
the horses,—and it was too late, and very likely the men had carried
off all the syrup.

But he thought a minute, as they all stood in silence and gloom; and
then he guessed they might find some sugar at Deacon Spear’s, close
by, on the back road, and that would be better than nothing.

Mrs. Peterkin was pretty cold, and glad not to wait in the darkening
wood; so the eight little boys walked through the wood-path, Hiram
leading the way; and slowly the carryall followed.

They reached Deacon Spear’s at length; but only Mrs. Spear was at home.
She was very deaf, but could explain that the family had taken all
their syrup to the sugar festival.

“We might go to the festival,” exclaimed the boys.

“It would be very well,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “to eat our fresh syrup
there.”

But Mrs. Spear could not tell where the festival was to be, as she had
not heard; perhaps they might know at Squire Ramsay’s.

Squire Ramsay’s was on their way to Grandfather’s, so they stopped
there. They were told that the “Squire’s folks” had all gone with their
syrup to the festival. The man who was chopping wood did not know where
the festival was to be.

“They’ll know at your grandfather’s,” said Mrs. Peterkin, from the
carryall.

“Yes, go on to your grandfather’s,” advised Mr. Peterkin, “for I
think I felt a drop of rain.” So they made the best of their way to
Grandfather’s.

At the moment they reached the door of the house, a party of young
people whom Elizabeth Eliza knew came by in sleighs. She had met them
all when visiting at her grandfather’s.

“Come along with us,” they shouted; “we are all going down to the sugar
festival.”

“That is what we have come for,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“Where is it?” asked Solomon John.

“It is down your way,” was the reply.

“It is in your own New Hall,” said another. “We have sent down all our
syrup. The Spears and Ramsays and Doolittles have gone on with theirs.
No time to stop; there’s good sleighing on the old road.”

Hiram said he could take them back with the wood-sled, when he heard
there was sleighing on the old road. So it was decided that the whole
party should go in the wood-sled, with the exception of Mr. Peterkin,
who would follow on with the carryall.

Mrs. Peterkin would take the armchair, and cushions were put in for
Elizabeth Eliza, and more apple pie for all. No more drops of rain
appeared, though the clouds were thickening over the setting sun.

“All the way back again,” sighed Mrs. Peterkin, “when we might have
stayed at home all day, and gone quietly out to the New Hall!” But the
little boys thought the sledding was great fun,—and the apple pie! “And
we did see the kettle through the cracks of the shanty!”

    —_Lucretia P. Hale._




THE GRASS


    The grass so little has to do,—
      A sphere of simple green,
    With only butterflies to brood,
      And bees to entertain,

    And stir all day to pretty tunes
      The breezes fetch along,
    And hold the sunshine in its lap,
      And bow to everything;

[Illustration]

    And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
      And make itself so fine,—
    A duchess were too common
      For such a noticing.

    And even when it dies, to pass
      In odors so divine,
    As lowly spices gone to sleep,
      Or amulets of pine.

    And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
      And dream the days away,—
    The grass so little has to do,
      I wish I were the hay.
                    —_Emily Dickinson._




SUNSET


    Where ships of purple gently toss
      On seas of daffodil,
    Fantastic sailors mingle,
      And then—the wharf is still.
                       —_Emily Dickinson._




THE BABY SQUIRRELS


The four baby squirrels were tired of staying in their soft nest in the
hollow tree. They wanted to find out what was going on in the world
outside.

As they cuddled together in the shadowy hole they could hear the
queerest sounds. They cocked their heads curiously at the rustling
and whispering of the wind among the leaves. They heard chirping and
singing, and a silvery tinkle, tinkle from the brook.

Once a bee flew buzzing right over their heads, and made them clutch
one another in terror.

One morning, when the old mother squirrel was away hunting for birds’
eggs to eat, the smallest baby crept to the mouth of the hole and
peeped out with his round bright eyes.

All around and above him there were wonderful green things flickering
and fluttering. Twinkles of sunlight danced through the leaves and
dazzled him. Something soft and cool blew back the new bristles on his
lips and ruffled his satiny red fur.

He was so much interested that he sat there, staring and staring, till
the other little ones began to squeak and scold him for shutting out
the light.

[Illustration]

After he crept down again to the nest the others climbed up, one by
one, and looked out. They blinked and winked at each wonderful sight;
they sniffed the strange odors, and twitched their eager little heads
at every new sound.

The scream of a blue jay in the tree-top above them sent them
scampering inside again, to cuddle close together in the darkest
corner. It was fun to see something new and exciting, even if it did
make them shiver all over.

Soon the mother squirrel came springing from branch to branch to reach
the hollow.

How the babies squeaked and chattered in welcome! Very likely they told
her about the wonderful sights and sounds in the strange world outside
the hole.

The smallest one clasped his fore paws around her neck, and coaxed her
to let them all go out to find more interesting things. It was stupid
there in the dark nest, with nothing to watch except the patch of light
across the opening above them.

The old squirrel knew that the little ones were not strong enough yet
to leave the nest.

To be sure, they had grown and changed very much since the first days.
Then they had been ugly little creatures, like tiny pug dogs, with big
heads, no fur, and their eyes tight shut.

Now they were half as big as she was herself. Their eyes were like
jewels, and their red fur was smooth as satin.

But their tails, with only fringes of hair along the sides, were not
nearly so fluffy as the mother’s. Her tail was long and plumy. It
curved so gracefully over her back that she seemed to be sitting in its
shadow. One name of the squirrel is “shadow-tail.”

For a few weeks longer the four babies scrambled about the doorway and
looked longingly out at the wonderful green tree-world. They did not
dare to step out upon the slender branches, for fear of falling off.

It made them feel dizzy to look away down to the ground below. They did
not know how to cling to the limbs with their feet while they balanced
themselves with their tails.

When the young squirrels were almost strong enough to learn to run and
climb in the tree, the mother began to build another home higher up the
trunk. The old nest was growing too warm for comfort, as summer brought
the long sunny hours.

The squirrel father was not there to help his mate.

The mother squirrel thought the tree belonged to her, and that she
needed all the room in the hollow for her little ones. She chased him
off to live in the woods with all the other squirrel fathers till the
babies were big enough to take care of themselves.

The mother squirrel worked on the new nest in the early morning. She
bit off leafy twigs and carried them to the top of the tree. There,
where two branches forked, she packed the sticks and leaves together in
a loose ball.

Then she pushed a doorway through, at one side or another, just as she
happened to be standing.

This was not such a neat home as one in the next tree. That other
mother squirrel built her new nest of strips of bark tied together with
ribbons of soft fibre. Over the doorway she hung a curtain of bark, and
lifted it up carefully whenever she went inside.

At last the new home was ready. The old mother hurried down to the
hollow and called the babies to come out and follow her. They stepped
out, one after another, just as carefully as they could.

The smallest baby came last. He dug his claws into the bark and hung
on. The branch seemed so narrow that he trembled from fear of falling.

The tree swayed in the wind. The branch bounced up and down, and a
leaf blew in his face. The poor little fellow shut his eyes, because
everything seemed to be whirling round and round.

When he opened his eyes again he saw the three other little ones
climbing up the trunk above him. They clutched the bark with their
claws, and moved forward, one paw at a time.

The mother was running on ahead of them. Every few steps she turned
around to coax them on faster.

Finally they reached a narrow branch which led over to the new nest.
They crawled out on it, lifting one foot and then setting it down
before lifting another.

The farther they crept the narrower the branch grew under them. Their
little paws began to slip over the smoother bark. The one in front
tried to turn around, but he was afraid of falling. So they all three
scrambled backwards to the safe trunk.

[Illustration]

The mother ran back to them, and chattered and scolded. Again and again
they started out over the branch, and then went scrambling back.

When at last the mother had coaxed them across to the nest she looked
around for the smallest baby. There he was, away down at the door of
the old nest.

The old squirrel was tired out. Her fur was ruffled and her ears
drooped. She ran down to the nest and began to scold the little
fellow. He sat up and put his paws around her to let him stay there.

But she started him up the trunk and pushed him along to the branch.
Then she took hold of him by the neck and carried him across to the new
home.

After that the little ones were taken out every morning to practise
climbing. Little by little they learned to balance themselves on the
branches. Their tails were fluffy enough by this time to be of use in
balancing.

First to one side, then to the other, each baby tilted his tail as he
crept along, step by step. Every day they could move a little faster.
Finally they were able to chase one another up and down, from branch to
branch.

They went running around the trunks, skipping and leaping from twig to
twig, and jumping from one tree to another, even through the air.

Sometimes one or another missed his footing after a reckless jump.
Often he caught hold of a branch below by a single toe and lifted
himself up to a firmer foothold.

Or, if there was no branch within reach, he spread out his fur, and
flattened his tail, and went sailing down to the ground, almost as if
he could fly. They never seemed to get hurt.

The little squirrels seemed to be always doing something. They turned
somersaults in the grass, or swung by one paw from the tip of a tough
branch.

There was always something to do or to see. Now they chattered at a
blue jay, or chased a toad for the fun of watching him hop. Now they
caught beetles or scolded at a fox slinking along through the woods.
And every day there was the excitement of finding something to eat.

The babies lived on milk till they were almost as heavy as their
mother. Then she began to feed them with fruit and buds and grubs,
which she first chewed for them.

Like the beavers and the hares and rabbits, each had four chisel teeth
in the front of its mouth. They needed to gnaw hard nuts or bark every
day to keep these teeth from growing too long.

The young squirrels were three months old in July and were then big
enough to take care of themselves. Away they scampered from the old
home tree and found new homes in stumps and hollows. The smallest one
used to curl up in an old robin’s nest to sleep at night.

All day long they were as busy as they could be. There were cones to be
gathered from the evergreens. The little squirrels ran up the trees in
a hurry, and, cutting off the cones with their sharp teeth, tossed them
over their shoulders to the ground. Every few minutes they scurried
down to bury the cones under the pine needles for the winter.

Sometimes a drop of sticky pitch from the cut stems was rubbed against
their fur. That made them so uncomfortable that they had to stop and
lick it off.

The squirrels loved to be clean. Ever since they were tiny babies, with
their new red fur, they always helped one another with washing their
faces and combing their tails with their claws.

They were careful to run along logs over a muddy spot. If one happened
to get wet he dried himself with his fluffy tail.

When they were tired of eating seeds and twigs they hunted for grubs.
Clinging to the bark of a dead tree, they listened till they heard
something gnawing beneath the surface. Then, tearing off the bark in
ragged pieces, they pounced upon the flat whitish grub beneath and ate
him up.

But the best time of all came in the autumn when nuts were ripe. Then
what fun the little squirrels had! Early every morning out popped
the little heads from the hollow stumps and logs. The big round eyes
twinkled eagerly in every direction. Then, whisk! they were out, with a
bark and a squeak!

Scampering to the top of a tree, each one took a flying leap to the
next tree. Up and down they followed the squirrel-paths through the
woods till they reached the grove, where the nuts were ripening.

It was a busy place, with little wings fluttering and little feet
pattering, and yellow leaves drifting down in the sunshine. All the
squirrels scurried to and fro, picking one nut here, and another there.

They sat on the branches, with their bushy tails curving over their
backs, and held the nuts in their fore paws to nibble. The smallest
baby could open the hardest walnut and clean it out in less than a
minute.

All the while the blue jays and the thrifty chipmunks were gathering
nuts and corn, and hiding their stores for the winter. That seemed so
interesting that the squirrels gathered some, too.

Autumn passed away, and the days grew colder. In the woods the leaves
were all fallen and the branches were stripped bare of nuts.

Every morning when the squirrels poked out their heads the air nipped
their noses. Frost sparkled on the dead grass. The chipmunks had crept
into their holes for the winter, and most of the birds had flown away
south.

The squirrels were not quite so gay now as in the autumn days, when
they danced upon the branches and whistled and chuckled over the good
things to eat and the curious sights to see. They slept with their warm
tails wrapped over their noses.

[Illustration]

They still ran busily through the tree-tops, except when snow or icy
rain kept them shut within their holes. They ate all the nuts they
could find, and dug up the buried pine cones. They climbed the hemlock
trees and ate the seeds.

Once the smallest squirrel happened to dig up a heap of nuts from
between two stones under the snow. He could not remember whether he had
hidden them himself or not. How he squealed when he saw them!

Late in the winter the squirrels had eaten all the nuts and cones
within reach. They were so hungry on many a day that they tried to
creep into a chipmunk’s hole and steal his store of food. But he was
smaller than they were, and he had wisely made one bend in his tunnel
too small for them to pass.

Then they had to live on bark and seeds till spring started the tender
green plants to growing.

The squirrels gnawed the bark of the maple trees and drank the sweet
sap that came oozing out. Later there were elm buds to nibble and
birds’ eggs to suck. The woods were once more green with juicy leaves.

All the squirrels went to housekeeping. Soon in almost every tree there
was a family of squirrels peeping out with their round, bright eyes.

    —_Julia A. Schwartz._




THE BABY THAT SLEEPS IN A POCKET


For days and days the baby opossums lay crowded close together in their
mother’s furry pocket. They slept and drank milk, and grew and grew
till their eyes began to open.

It was dark all around them, but above their heads a gray line showed
where light was stealing in over the edge of the pocket.

The biggest baby opossum looked up with his little bright eyes. He
wanted to see more. So he crawled up, clambering over the soft tiny
bodies of the eleven other babies.

Some of them wriggled and squirmed under his little bare feet. After
slipping back once or twice he reached the edge and poked his pointed
white snout outside.

He could not see anything because he was under his mother, and her long
fur hung down over him. She was lying on a nest of grasses in a hollow
tree.

That was where she stayed all day long while the sun was shining. Every
night at dusk she climbed down the rough trunk and went to hunt for
something to eat.

When she felt the tiny claws of her baby clutching her fur she looked
down between her fore paws at the little mouse-like fellow.

Then with her smooth pink hands she gently pushed him back into the
pocket and closed the opening. He was not big enough yet to come out of
the warm dark nursery.

So for a week longer he cuddled down beside the others, while they all
slept and drank more milk and grew stronger every hour.

The biggest baby was so restless that he scrambled around and crowded
the others. Once he caught hold of a tiny tail between the thumbs and
fingers of his hind feet, and pulled till the little one squeaked. His
fore feet were like tiny hands without any thumbs.

At last, one day, he saw the edge of the pocket open a crack. He was
so glad that he climbed up as fast as he could scramble, and pushed
outside. He held on to his mother’s fur with all four feet.

When she reached down to smell him the bristles on her lips tickled his
nose. Then he climbed around upon her back and twisted his tail about
hers to hold him steady.

He looked like a mouse with his long tail, his black ears, his bright
eyes twinkling in his little white face, and his pointed nose.

In a few minutes another and another baby followed the big brother and
clung there on the mother’s furry back. It must have seemed a noisy
place to them, for in the pocket they had heard only the soft rustling
and scratching of the mother’s feet on the nest.

Now they could hear a chirping, and a squeaking, and a rattling of
branches. They crowded close together in fright at the scream of a blue
jay, as it chased a chattering red squirrel through the tree-top.

Then a sudden loud thump—thump—thump of a woodpecker hammering on the
bark of the tree sent them tumbling back to the nursery in a hurry.

After this the whole family climbed out every day to play about on the
mother’s back. The biggest baby liked to curl his small tail about her
large one, and then swing off head downward.

Sometimes he pushed the others down just for the fun of seeing them
scramble up again, hand over hand, clutching the long fur.

Of course he was the first one to poke his head out every day. Once he
woke from a nap in the pocket and started to climb outside.

But he stopped halfway, hanging to the edge with both fore feet. It
was nearly evening, and the mother opossum was clambering down the
tree-trunk to go hunting for her supper.

The baby held on tightly while she trotted away through the woods. Now
and then a leaf rustled or a stick cracked under her feet. Sleepy birds
were twittering in their nests.

The mother pricked her ears and listened, for she ate eggs and young
birds whenever she could find them. She had not tasted an egg this
spring, because she could not climb very nimbly with her pocket full
of babies.

Soon she came to a swamp, and splash, splash, splash! the mud went
flying. It spattered the baby’s face and made him cough.

[Illustration]

Then he heard the croakings of dozens of frogs, and it frightened him
so that he slid back into the nursery with his brothers.

The mother was trying to catch a frog to eat. Now she jumped this way,
and now she jumped that way. Such a jounce as the babies felt when she
gave a spring for a big green fellow sitting on a log.

She caught him, too, but the jounce almost knocked the breath out of
the twelve soft bodies in her pocket.

Every day the babies stayed outside the nursery for a longer time,
though they were always ready to hurry back at the mother’s first
warning grunt.

They kept growing bigger, too, till one night they could not all crowd
into the pocket. Then they cuddled together on her back, with their
tails twisted around hers.

In this way they rode through the woods when she went hunting. They
watched with their bright eyes while she turned over rotting logs with
her snout to catch the grubs underneath.

Sometimes she rooted in the ground for sprouting acorns, or nipped off
mouthfuls of tender grass. Once she caught a young rabbit. Then how
excited the little opossums were! And how they all squeaked and hissed
together as they rode trotting home.

By this time they had cut their teeth,—fifty sharp little teeth in
each hungry mouth. Then the mother picked some sweet red berries, and
taught the hungry babies how to eat them. They learned to chew the
juicy roots that she dug in the field.

The babies were greedy little things. She was a good and patient
mother. Of course, as long as they were small enough to stay in her
pocket she carried them everywhere with her. Even when they grew as
large as rats they rode on her back through the woods. These twelve fat
babies were so heavy that sometimes she staggered and stumbled under
the load.

One night when all the babies were trotting along on their own feet
they saw gleaming red eyes in the dark bushes before them. Something
round and furry snarled and sprang at them.

They all ran under their mother as quick as a wink. She ruffled her
long grayish hair above them. When the animal jumped at her she
growled, and hissed, and scratched, and bit, till he ran limping away.

On another evening a big dog came galloping up before they could
scramble into a tree. His red tongue was hanging out of his mouth
between his white teeth. As soon as he caught sight of the opossums he
made a dash to catch them. Instantly they all fell down and rolled over
just as if they were dead.

There they lay, with their eyes shut, their paws limber, their tails
limp. They seemed to stop breathing. The dog smelled them and pushed
them with his cold nose.

But they kept perfectly still and did not move even an eyelash. They
were pretending to be dead. It was one trick that they all knew without
being taught.

The minute the dog walked away they all jumped up and scampered into a
tree. When the dog turned his head and saw them he ran back and leaped
up to reach them.

But all the opossums were safe enough now. While he was jumping and
barking below they clung fast in the tree with their hand-like feet.
They wound their tails about the branches above to hold more securely.

The little opossums learned to climb all sorts of trees, rough or
smooth. It was easier to climb the rough trees because they could dig
their nails farther into the bark.

[Illustration]

The biggest baby could walk along the springiest limb, even if it kept
teetering up and down in the wind. When he felt like it he swung by his
tail the longest time without getting dizzy.

All summer long the twelve little opossums stayed with their mother.
During the day they slept cuddled in the hollow tree. Every night,
after sunset, the mother and her twelve children set off on their
hunting.

Down through the marsh they trotted. Some waded into the mud to catch
frogs, while others chased mud turtles over the shore. Some hunted for
berries and others nosed for acorns under the oaks.

It was beautiful there in the woods at night. When the stars twinkled
overhead and the soft wind rustled in the tree-tops the little ones
frisked and frolicked.

They hid under the shadowy bushes or jumped hither and thither to snap
at the fluttering moths.

But on stormy evenings they plodded on in the rain, their wet fur
drooping. With their noses close to the ground they hunted till they
found a few mouthfuls to eat. Then they went back to the cosy hollow
for a longer nap, after licking their pink hands and washing their
faces, just as kittens do.

One night, in autumn, the old mother opossum felt the nip of frost in
the air. Then she knew that the persimmons were ready to be eaten.
Away through the woods she hurried, with the young ones trotting after
her.

She led the way past the marsh and over the hill to a thicket of
trees tangled with wild grapevines. There on the branches the round
persimmons were shining yellow in the moonlight.

Up the trees eleven of the babies scrambled hungrily, and, hanging by
their tails, stuffed the fruit into their wide mouths. Ah! But wasn’t
it delicious! Better than anything they had ever tasted before in all
their short lives.

Then the biggest baby, who had stopped to gobble ripe grapes, heard
them munching so greedily. One look sent him hurrying after the others.
He was sorry enough that he had wasted any time eating wild grapes.

Night after night, till the little persimmons were gone, the opossums
hurried away to the thicket, and ate and ate till they could eat no
longer. They grew so fat that they puffed and panted when trotting home
again in the gray light of the frosty dawn.

Soon the ground was frozen hard over the juicy roots. All the fruit
left in the woods hung wrinkled and frost-bitten. The worms and toads
crawled into their holes for the winter. The beetles disappeared, and
the spiders curled up in their hiding places to sleep through the cold
weather. Most of the birds flew away south.

[Illustration]

One by one each little opossum wandered off by himself, and made a nest
in a cosy hole or a hollow stump. There he dozed all day and often
slept through the night without stirring out.

Now and then one of them caught a mouse or dug up a frozen root to
nibble. Sometimes they tore rotten logs apart to get at the grubs.

In the beginning of the winter the little opossums were so fat that
they could live three or four weeks without eating or drinking. When
the cold winds blew, and the snow fell, they cuddled down in their warm
nests and slept the time away. But many a night they woke up hungry.
And every day their round furry bodies were a little thinner, till at
last, spring melted the snow and ice everywhere.

There was plenty to eat by that time, with all the green things
growing. There were buds to nibble and beetles to catch. There were
frogs croaking in the marsh, and berries were ripening in the field.

The twelve little opossums were grown up now, and knew how to take care
of themselves. Their mother had another family of babies in her furry
pocket.

Sometimes she met her other children roaming beside the marsh to catch
frogs. One evening they saw a little pointed nose, and two twinkling
bright eyes, peeping over the edge of her pocket.

    —_Julia A. Schwartz._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Will there really be a morning?
    Is there such a thing as day?
    Could I see it from the mountains
    If I were as tall as they?

    Has it feet like water lilies?
    Has it feathers like a bird?
    Is it brought from famous countries
    Of which I have never heard?

    Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
    Oh, some wise man from the skies!
    Please to tell a little pilgrim
    Where the place called morning lies!
                        —_Emily Dickinson._




THE EMPEROR AND THE PEASANT


I

Once upon a time there was an Emperor of China, named Lee Wong. He
would have been a very good Emperor if he had not been spoiled by
kindness.

If he cried when he was a baby, his nurse called all the nurses in the
palace.

They called the attendants, and the attendants called the musicians.
The musicians played, the attendants danced, and the nurses walked up
and down wheeling the baby in his carriage until he stopped crying.
Sometimes this happened many times in one day.

When Lee was a boy he had his own way in everything. If he played
soldier he was always the general. If he went to fly kites, he had the
ones that would fly the highest.

Sometimes he wished to fly his kites when the wind did not blow. Then
the poor attendants had to blow with a huge bellows to make the kites
sail up into the air.

[Illustration]

If he wished it were summer in the winter-time, they filled his
playroom with beautiful plants and brought canaries and nightingales to
sing to him.

In the hot summer days, if he longed for winter, they brought evergreen
trees to the playroom. They covered the branches with cotton sprinkled
with diamond dust to look like snow. They brought cakes of ice and
made a skating rink and jingled sleigh bells all day long while he
played.

When he was a young man it was still worse. If he said anything, like,
“This is a sunny morning,” or “I think it will rain to-night,” every
one cried, “How wise!” “How wonderfully wise!”

So you see the Emperor was spoiled, and this was very unfortunate.

In China, just as in other places, every one longs for spring to come.

One year the Emperor wanted the spring to come more than ever. He had
had a dull winter in his city palace and he wanted to go to his country
palace.

“Command my brother, the Sun, to shine to-morrow,” he said, to his
attendants. “Command the spring to come, also. And be ready, all of
you, to go to the country to-morrow.”

One of the attendants wrote the Emperor’s commands on the finest
Chinese paper and then burned it in the garden. He thought in this way
the commands might reach the sun.

Perhaps they did; for the sun shone beautifully the next day, and the
Emperor and his attendants went to the country palace.


II

The next morning the Emperor waked up very early. A little bird was
singing in the garden. It was a lovely day.

The Emperor thought he would go out into the garden to hear the little
bird sing.

He put on his silk dressing-gown, his silver shoes, and his gold crown.
It was only six o’clock, so no one was awake in the palace.

When the Emperor went into the garden the bird flew into the forest and
sang still more sweetly.

“How stupid I was,” thought the Emperor, “I ought to have commanded it
to stay here. Now I must go into the woods to see it.”

So he opened the gate and went across the field.

At the edge of the woods a peasant was plowing.

“Good morning, peasant,” said the Emperor, “That must be an Emperor
bird singing in the forest, because it sings so sweetly.”

“No, my lord,” said the peasant, taking off his cap, “that is a
blackbird.”

“You may call it so,” said the Emperor; “but it is an Emperor bird if
I say so, because I am always right. It is as large as a swan, and its
feathers are like shining gold.”

“No, my lord,” said the peasant, “it is small and black.”

Just then the blackbird lighted on a post in the fence and began to
sing. It was easy to see that the peasant was right.

“There must surely be something wrong,” said the Emperor, “because I
never make a mistake.”

“But, my lord, the Emperor can make a mistake. Every one does that.
Your attendants may say that you are always right because they wish to
please you. Perhaps they even praise what you do, when it is wrong and
foolish.”

“I can never believe that,” said the Emperor.

“If you will do as I say,” replied the peasant, “I will prove that I
have told you the truth.”


III

The Emperor promised to do this, although he could not believe he had
been deceived.

Just then all the attendants came running across the field, for they
had waked up and missed the Emperor.

Tears ran down their cheeks. They wished to have the Emperor think they
were weeping because he was gone. He did not know each one had an onion
in his handkerchief.

“Command them to stop where they are,” the peasant whispered.

The Emperor made them stop about twenty feet away, right in the middle
of a ditch.

“We are weeping because of your absence, beloved Emperor,” said the
chief attendant. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and all the
others did the same thing.

“How do you dare to stand beside the Emperor, you peasant,” said the
Lord Marshal. “Go back to your plow!”

[Illustration]

“Say that I am standing beside my plow,” whispered the peasant. He was
really standing beside the Emperor, and the plow was thirty feet away.

“Do you not see,” said the Emperor, “that he is standing beside the
plow?”

“Oh, yes,” said one, “he is holding the plow with one hand.”

“Yes, yes,” said another, “he is surely driving his oxen.”

“Ask them,” whispered the peasant, “if they ever saw such white oxen.”

Now the peasant’s oxen were coal black, without a single white spot on
them.

“Have you ever seen such beautiful white oxen?” said the Emperor,
pointing to the black ones.

“No, never,” said one, “they are indeed snow white.”

“Yes,” said another, “they are whiter than snow. It hurts my eyes to
look at them, they are so white.”

The Emperor knew now that they were not telling the truth, and he
decided to punish them.

“Come here,” he called to some peasants who were plowing in the next
field.

“There is nothing so pleasant as plowing,” he said to his attendants.

“It is a great pleasure,” said one.

“I enjoy it more than anything in the world,” said another.

“I would rather plow than dance,” said a third.

“I am very glad you think so, my lords,” said the Emperor. “These
peasants will be glad to have you plow for them. This is my command.
Begin at once!”

There was no help for it. The courtiers did not dare to disobey, so
they took hold of the plows and tried to drive the oxen across the long
fields.

I do not believe they plowed very well, for they had never touched a
plow before, and did not know how to drive oxen.

But the peasant went to the palace and became the Emperor’s chief
counsellor.

The Emperor had this story written on a block of marble in golden
letters, but few people can read it because it is written in Chinese,
and it is very hard to have to read Chinese.

    —_Anna von Rydingsvärd._




THE CHRISTMAS MONKS


I—THE GARDEN

Have you always wondered where the Christmas presents come from? Well,
I am going to tell you.

Of course, every one knows that Santa Claus brings them. He comes in
a sleigh, driving eight reindeer, and carries the presents down the
chimney in a pack on his back.

But where does _he_ get them? That is the question. And the answer
is,—in the garden of the Christmas Monks.

This garden is in a beautiful valley far away. But I must not tell you
the name of the valley, for if I did you would all want to go there to
live.

The Christmas Monks live in a stone castle covered with ivy and
evergreen vines. There are holly wreaths in every window, and over the
door is an arch, with “Merry Christmas” in evergreen letters.

The Christmas Monks wear white robes embroidered with gold, and they
never go without a Christmas wreath on their heads. Every morning they
sing a Christmas carol, and every evening they ring a Christmas chime
on the bells.

For dinner every day they have roast goose and plum pudding and mince
pie, and at night they set lighted candles in all of the windows.

But the best place of all is the garden, for that is where the
Christmas presents grow.

It is a very large garden and is divided into beds, just like our
vegetable gardens. Every spring the Monks go out to plow the ground and
plant the Christmas present seeds.

There is one big bed for rocking-horses, another for drums, and another
for sleds. The bed for the balls is not so large, and the top bed is
quite small, because tops do not need much room when they are growing.

The rocking-horse seed looks like tiny rocking-horses. The Monks drop
these seeds quite far apart, then they cover them up neatly with earth,
and put up a signpost with “Rocking-horses” on it in evergreen letters.

Just so with the penny-trumpet seed, and the toy-furniture seed, the
sled seed, and all the others.

Perhaps the prettiest part of the garden is the wax-doll bed. There are
other beds for the rag dolls and the china dolls, and the rubber dolls,
but, of course, wax dolls look much handsomer growing.

Wax dolls have to be planted very early in the season. The Monks sow
them in rows in April and they begin to come up by the middle of May.

First there is a glimmer of gold, or brown, or black hair. Then the
snowy foreheads appear, and the blue eyes and black eyes, and at last
all the pretty heads are out of the ground and nodding and smiling to
each other.

With their pink cheeks and bright eyes and curly hair, there is nothing
so pretty as these little wax-doll heads peeping out of the ground.

Slowly the dolls grow taller and taller, and by Christmas they are all
ready to gather. There they stand, swaying to and fro, their dresses
of pink or blue or white fluttering in the breeze.

Just about the prettiest sight in the world is the bed of wax dolls in
the garden of the Christmas Monks at Christmas time.


II—PETER AND THE PRINCE

All the children for miles around knew about this garden, of course,
but they had never seen it. There is a thick hedge of Christmas trees
all around it, and the gate where Santa Claus drives out is always
locked with a golden key the moment he goes through.

So you can imagine what excitement there was among the boys when this
notice was hung out on the hedge of Christmas trees:—

    _Wanted_:—By the Christmas Monks, two _good_ boys to
    help in garden work. Apply at the garden on April tenth.

The notice was hung out about five o’clock in the evening, one day in
February. By noon the next day all the neighborhood had seen it and
read it.

Oh, what fun it would be to work in the garden of the Christmas Monks!
There would be the dinner of roast goose and plum pudding every day.
There would be the Christmas bells and the Christmas candles every
night. And, of course, one could have all the toys he wanted, and pick
them out himself.

So, from that very minute until the tenth of April, the boys were as
good,—as good as gold.

Then, on the tenth of April, the big Santa Claus gate was opened, and
_such_ a crowd poured into the garden! The ground was plowed, but the
seed had not been planted, so they could walk about everywhere.

Two of the Christmas Monks sat on a throne trimmed so thick with
evergreens that it looked like a bird’s nest. They wore Christmas
wreaths on their heads, and their eyes twinkled merrily.

The little boys stood in a long row before them, and the fathers,
mothers, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, and grandfathers looked on.

It was very sad! One boy had taken eggs from a bird’s nest; and
another had frightened a cat. One boy didn’t help his mother, and
another didn’t take good care of his little brother.

At last there were only two boys left,—Peter and the Prince.

Now Peter was really and truly a good boy, and always had been. And of
course every one said the Prince was a good boy, because a King’s son
must be good. So the Monks chose Peter and the Prince to work in the
garden.

The next morning the two boys were dressed in white robes and green
wreaths like the Monks. Then the Prince was sent to plant Noah’s-Ark
seed and Peter was given picture-book seed.

Up and down they went, scattering the seeds. Peter sang a little song
to himself, but the Prince grumbled because they had not given him
gold-watch seed.

By noon Peter had planted all his picture books and fastened up the
card to mark them, but the Prince had planted only two rows of Noah’s
Arks.

“We are going to have trouble with this boy,” said the Monks to each
other. “We shall have to punish him.”

[Illustration]

So that day the Prince had no Christmas dinner, and the next morning he
finished planting the Noah’s-Ark seed.

But the very next day he was cross because he had to sow harmonicas
instead of toy pianos, and had to be punished again. And so it was
every other day through the whole summer.

So the Prince was very unhappy and wished he could run away, but Peter
had never been so happy in his life. He worked like a bee all day, and
loved to watch the Christmas gifts grow and blossom.

“They grow so slowly,” the Prince would say. “I thought I should have
a bushel of new toys every month and not one have I had yet.” Then he
would cry, and Peter would try to comfort him.

At last one day the Prince found a ladder in the tool house. The Monks
were in the chapel, singing Christmas carols, and Peter was tuning the
penny trumpets. It was a fine chance to run away. The Prince put the
ladder against the Santa Claus gate, climbed up to the top, and slid
down on the outside.


III—THE PRETTIEST DOLL

It was nearly Christmas now, and most of the toys had been gathered.
The rocking-horses were still growing, and a few of the largest dolls;
but the tops, balls, guns, blocks, and drums were all packed in baskets
ready for Santa Claus.

One morning Peter was in the wax-doll bed, dusting the dolls. All of a
sudden he heard a sweet voice saying, “Oh, Peter!”

He thought at first it was one of the dolls, but they could only say
“Papa!” and “Mamma!”

“Here I am, Peter,” said the voice again, and what do you suppose Peter
saw? It was his own dear little lame sister.

She was not any taller than the dolls around her, and she looked just
like one of them with her pink cheeks and yellow hair. She stood there
on her crutches, poor little thing, smiling lovingly at Peter.

“Oh, you darling,” cried Peter, catching her up in his arms. “How did
you get in here?”

“I saw one of the Monks going past our house, so I ran out and followed
him. When he came through the gate I came in, too, but he did not see
me.”

“Well,” said Peter, “I don’t see what I can do with you. I can’t let
you out, because the gate is locked, and I don’t know what the Monks
will say.”

“Oh, I know!” cried the little girl. “I’ll stay out here in the
garden. I can sleep every night in one of those beautiful dolls’
cradles over there, and you can bring me something to eat.”

“But the Monks come out every morning to look at the Christmas gifts,
and they will see you,” said her brother.

“No, I’ll hide! Oh, Peter, here is a place where there isn’t any doll.”

“Yes, that doll didn’t come up.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do! I’ll stand here where the doll
didn’t come up and try to look like one.”

“Perhaps you can do that,” said Peter. He was such a good boy that he
didn’t want to do anything wrong, but he couldn’t help being glad to
see his dear little sister.

He took food out to her every day, and she helped him in the garden. At
night he tucked her into one of the dolls’ cradles with lace pillows
and a quilt of rose-colored silk.

So they went on, day after day, and they were just as happy as they
could be. Finally the day came for gathering the very last of the
Christmas gifts, because in six days it would be Christmas, and Santa
Claus had to start out in a day or two.

[Illustration]

So the Monks went into the garden to be sure that everything was
perfect, and one of them wore his spectacles. When he came to the bed
where the biggest dolls were growing, there stood Peter’s sister,
smiling and swinging on her crutches.

“Why, what is that!” said the Monk. “I thought that doll didn’t come
up. There is a doll there—and a doll on crutches, too.”

Then he put out his hand to touch the doll and she jumped,—she couldn’t
help it. The Monk jumped too, and his Christmas wreath fell off his
head.

“The doll is alive!” he exclaimed. “I will pick her and show her to my
brothers.”

[Illustration: THE GOOD FATHER TOOK PETER’S LITTLE SISTER, CRUTCHES AND
ALL, IN HIS ARMS.]

Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, took Peter’s little
sister, crutches and all, in his arms, and carried her into the chapel.


IV—CHRISTMAS GIFTS

Soon the Monks came into the chapel to practise singing some new
Christmas carols. There sat the near-sighted Monk, holding the big doll
in his arms.

“Behold a miracle,” he said, holding up the doll. “Thou wilt remember
that there was one doll planted which did not come up. Behold, in her
place I have found this doll on crutches, which is—alive!”

“It is indeed a miracle,” said the Monk who was a doctor. He took the
child in his arms and looked at the twisted ankle. “I think I can
cure this lameness,” he said.

“Take her, then,” said the abbot, “and we will sing our Christmas
carols joyously in her honor.”

Peter, of course, heard the Monks talking about the miracle, and he
knew what it meant. He was very unhappy to think that he was deceiving
them. At the same time he did not dare to tell them for fear the doctor
would not try to cure his sister.

He worked hard picking the Christmas presents, and getting them ready
for Santa Claus.

On Christmas Eve he was called into the chapel. The walls were covered
with evergreen, and Christmas candles shone everywhere. There were
Christmas wreaths in all the windows, and the Monks were singing a
Christmas carol.

On a chair covered with green branches sat Peter’s little sister,
dressed in white, with a wreath of holly berries on her head.

When the carol was ended, the Monks formed in a line with the abbot at
the head. Each one had his hands full of the most beautiful Christmas
presents. The abbot held a wax doll, the biggest and prettiest that
grew in the garden.

When he held it out to the little girl, she drew back, and said in her
sweet little voice, “Please, I’m not a miracle; I’m only Peter’s little
sister.”

“Peter?” said the abbot; “the Peter who works in our garden?”

“Yes,” said the little sister.

The Monks looked at each other in dismay. This was not a miracle, it
was only Peter’s little sister!

But the abbot of the Christmas Monks spoke to them. “This little girl
did not come up in the place of the wax doll, and she is not a miracle.
But she is sweet and beautiful, and we all love her.”

“Yes,” said the Christmas Monks, and they laid their presents down
before her.

Peter was so happy he danced for joy. And when he found his little
sister was cured of her lameness, he did not know what to do.

In the afternoon he took his sister and went home to see his father
and mother. Santa Claus filled his sleigh with gifts and drove his
reindeer down to the cottage.

Oh! it was such a happy day. There was so much to tell that they all
talked at once. There was so much to see that their eyes ached with
looking.

But in the palace of the King it was very different. The Prince was
cross and unhappy. His old toys were broken. He was tired of his old
games. There was no one for him to play with, and he didn’t have one
single Christmas gift.

    —_Mary E. Wilkins (abridged and adapted)._




PRONOUNCING KEY AND WORD LIST


The words in this list are divided into syllables and marked according
to Webster’s International Dictionary. The list includes all the more
difficult words which occur in the text.

    ā        gāte
    ă        băt
    ä        cär
    [a:]     b[a:]ll
    â        câre
    ȧ        ȧsk
    ạ        whạt
    [a=]     anim[a=]l
    [+a]     sen[+a]te

    ē        wē
    ĕ        gĕt
    ẽ        hẽr
    [+e]     [+e] vent
    ê=ă      thêre
    [e=]=ā   th[e=]y

    ī        pīne
    ĭ        pĭn
    ĩ        sĩr

    ō        nōte
    ŏ        nŏt
    [o:]     d[o:]
    ọ        wọlf
    ȯ        sȯn
    ô        ôr
    [+o]      [+o] bey

    ū        ūse
    ŭ        cŭp
    ṳ        frṳit
    û        fûr
    ụ        fụll
    [+u]    [+u] nite

    ȳ        mȳ
    [)y]     cit[)y]

    [=oo]    b[=oo]t
    [)oo]    f[)oo]t
    [oi)]    [oi)]l
    [oy)]    b[oy)]
    [ou)]    [ou)]t
    [ow)]    c[ow)]

    c        can
    ç        çent
    g        get
    ġ        ġem
    s        so
    [s+]     a[s+]
    ṉ        iṉk
    th       think
    [th)]    [th)]em

    The silent letters are printed in italic.


    ăb´bȯt
    ăc c[ou)]nt´
    ăc quā_i_nt´ĕd
    ăd mīr_e_d´
    ăd vĕn´t[+u]r_e_
    ăd vī[s+]_e_d´
    ȧ fär´
    ăf fōrd´
    ȧ flō_a_t´
    ȧ frā_i_d´
    ȧft´ẽr wards (wẽrdz)
    ȧ gainst´ (gĕnst)
    Ä_h_´mō_w_
    ȧ līv_e_´
    [a:]l´mōst
    ȧ lŏft´
    ȧ lōn_e_´
    ăl´pha bĕt (fȧ)
    [)A]lps
    [a:]l thō_ugh_´
    [a:]l t[o:] gĕth´ẽr
    ăm´[+e] th[)y]st
    ăm´[+u] lĕts
    ăṉ´chored (kẽrd)
    ān´ġĕl
    ăn ȯth´ẽr
    ăn´s_w_ẽred
    anx´ious (ăṉk´shŭs)
    ăp prō_a_ch´ĭng
    [)A]r´[+a] răt
    Ärc´tĭc
    ȧ rĭth´m[+e] tĭc
    Är mē´nĭ ȧ
    är´tĭ cl_e_[s+]
    ȧ shām_e_d´
    ȧ shōr_e_
    ȧs sur_e_´ (shṳr)
    ȧ stĩr´
    ăs tŏn´ĭsh_e_d
    ăt´tĭc
    [a:]_w_l


    băck´ward (wẽrd)
    băl´[a=]nç_e_d
    băl´c[+o] n[)y]
    băn´nẽr[s+]
    bâr_e_´f[)oo]t
    bär´l_e_[)y]
    băr´ren
    b[+e] l_i_ēv_e_d´
    bĕnt
    b[+e] wĭ_t_ch_e_d´
    bĩrch
    blăck´bō_a_rd
    blād_e_[s+]
    blē_a_k
    blŏs´sȯm[s+]
    blŭn´dẽr
    blŭs´tẽr_e_d
    bŏb´[+o] lĭṉk
    bôn´bôn[s+]
    brā_i_d´ĕd
    Brȧ zĭl´
    brĕ_a_k´f[a=]st
    brĕ_a_st´_k_nŏt
    brĕ_a_th
    br[=ee]z_e_
    brĭ_d_ġ_e_
    brī´ẽr
    brĭs´_t_l_e_
    br[=oo]d[s+]
    bū´reau (rō)
    bûrst
    bŭt´tĕd


    cä_l_f
    căl´ĭ c[+o]
    cȧ năl´
    cȧ nā´r[)y]
    cȧ n[o:]_e_´
    cā´pẽr
    cär´nĭ v[a=]l
    căr´ȯl
    cär´pĕn tĕr
    căr´r[)y] [a:]ll
    cärv_e_
    cȧsk
    căs´_t_l_e_
    căt´ẽr pĭl lar
    (lẽr)
    căt´_t_le
    çē_a_s_e_d
    çē_i_l´ĭng
    çĕl´lar (lẽr)
    çẽr´t_a_ĭn l[)y]
    cha let (shȧ l[+a]´)
    chām´bẽr[s+]
    chȧnç_e_
    chăp´ĕl
    c_h_ă[s+]m
    chăt´tẽr_e_d
    chē_e_r´fụl l[)y]
    chĭm´n_e_[)y]
    Chī nē[s+]_e_´
    chĭp´mŭṉk
    chĭ[s+]´ĕl
    ch[=oo][s+]_e_
    chŏp´stĭcks
    clăck´ĭng
    clăm´bẽr
    cl[a:]_w_[s+]
    clā_y_
    clĕv´ẽr
    cl[ow)]n
    clŭm´[s+][)y]
    clŭ_t_ch
    cō_a_x
    cŏb´wĕb
    cō´c[+o]_a_ nŭt
    c[+o] c[=oo]n´
    c[oi)]n[s+]
    cŏl´lĕġ_e_
    Cŏl [+o] rä´dō
    C[+o] lŭm´bŭs
    cȯm´fort ȧ bl_e_ (fẽrt)
    cŏm mȧnd´
    cȯm´pȧ n[)y]
    cŏn di´tion (dĭsh´ŭn)
    cŏn sĕnt´
    cŏn tā_i_n[s+]´
    cŏn vẽr sā´tion (shŭn)
    c[=oo]´ĭng
    côrn´st[a:]_l_k
    cŏs´tūm_e_
    cō´[s+][)y]
    c[ou)]n´sĕl or(ẽr)
    cō_u_rt´ier (yẽr)
    crā´dl_e_
    crăn´bĕr r[)y]
    crē_a_´t[+u]r_e_
    crĭck´ĕt
    crō_a_k
    cr[)oo]k´ĕd
    crō_w_ed
    cr[ow)]n_e_d
    crṳ´ĕl
    crŭm_b_
    crŭ_t_ch´ĕs
    cŭd´dl_e_
    cū rĭ ŏs´ĭ t[)y]
    cū´rĭ _o_ŭs
    cûrl_e_d
    cŭr´r_e_nt
    cûr´t_a_ĭn
    cụ´sh_i_ȯn


    dăf´f[+o] dĭl
    dā_i_n´t[)y]
    därk´_e_n ĭng
    därt´ĕd
    d[a:]_ugh_´tẽr
    dē_a_´c_o_n
    d[+e] çē_i_v´ĭng
    D[+e] çĕm´bẽr
    d[+e] çīd´ĕd
    dĕc´[+o] rāt ĕd
    dē fȳ´
    d[+e] li´cious (lĭsh´ŭs)
    d[+e] lī_gh_t´fụl
    d[e+] mūr_e_´
    dĕ[s+]´ẽrt
    dĕs´[+o] l[+a]t_e_
    dĕs´tĭn_e_d
    dĭm´plĭng
    dĭ rĕc´tion (shŭn)


    ē_a_´gẽr
    ē_a_´gẽr l[)y]
    ẽ_a_r´l[)y]
    ẽ_a_rn
    ē_a_´[s+]ĭ l[)y]
    [=E]´ġ[)y]pt
    [+e] lĕv´_e_n
    ĕlv_e_[s+]
    ĕm br[oi)]d´ẽr
    ĕm´er [a=]ld
    ĕm´pẽr or (ẽr)
    ĕm pl[oy)]´er
    ĕn´[+e] m[)y]
    Eng´land (ĭṉ´gl[a=]nd)
    Eng´lish (ĭṉ´glĭsh)
    ĕn j[oy)]´
    [+e] nôr´m_o_ŭs
    ē nough´ (nŭf)
    ĕn´tẽr
    ĕn tẽr tā_i_n´
    ĕr´r[a=]nd
    [)E]s´kĭ mō
    ĕv´ẽr [)y] where (hwâr)
    ĕv´ĭ dĕnt l[)y]
    ex ăct´l[)y] (ĕgz)
    ĕx çĕpt´
    ĕx çīt_e_´m_e_nt
    ĕx cûr´sion (shŭn)
    ĕx pĕct´ĕd
    ĕx plā_i_ned´
    eye´lȧsh (ī)


    făc´t[+o] r[)y]
    fā_i_nt´l[)y]
    fâ_i_r´[)y]
    făm´ĭ l[)y]
    făn tȧs´tĭc
    fā´vor ĭt_e_ (vẽr)
    fē_a_st
    fĕr´r[)y]
    fĕs´tĭ v[a=]l
    fĕ_t_ch
    fĕz
    fī´bre (bẽr)
    f_i_ērç_e_
    fī´n[a=]l l[)y]
    fīr_e_´plāç_e_
    fīrm´ẽr
    fl[=ee]´çy
    flĭck´ẽr ĭng
    flȯ_o_d
    flŭf´f[)y]
    flŭt´tẽr ĭng
    fō_l_k
    fŏl´l[)y]
    f[=oo]l´ĭsh
    fŏnd
    fōr_e_
    fŏr gŏt´t_e_n
    Fôr´nĭ cȧ Rṳ´fȧ
    fôr´ward (wẽrd)
    f[ou)]n´t_a_ĭn
    frā´gr[a=]nç_e_
    Frȧnç_e_
    frī_gh_t´_e_n
    frī_gh_t´fụl
    frŏst´ĭng
    frō´z_e_n
    fū´rĭ _o_ŭs l[)y]
    fûrl_e_d
    fûr´n[+a]ç_e_
    fûr´nĭsh
    fûr´nĭ t[+u]r_e_
    fûr´r[)y]


    gāl_e_[s+]
    găl´lẽr [)y]
    Găr´[+a] bĕt
    gär´l[a=]nd
    gär´nẽr_e_d
    gä_u_nt
    gā_y_´l[)y]
    ġĕn´ẽr [a=]l
    ġĕn´tl_e_ m[a=]n
    ġ[+e] ŏg´rȧ phy (f[)y])
    Ġẽr´m[a=]n [)y]
    g_h_ōsts
    ġī´[a=]nt
    gĭfts
    gĭld´ĕd
    ġĭl´l[)y] fl[ow)]´ẽr
    glăd´l[)y]
    glē_a_m´ĭng
    gl[=ee]
    glĭm´mẽr
    glĭs´_te_n ĭng
    gl[=oo]m
    gŏb´bl_e_
    gôr´ġ_eo_ŭs
    g[ow)]n[s+]
    Grĕt´chĕn


    Hā´gŏp
    hăm´mŏck
    hănd´sȯm_e_
    Hăn[s+]
    hăr´bor (bẽr)
    härd´_e_n_e_d
    här mŏn´ĭ cȧ
    här´nĕss
    hās´tĭ l[)y]
    hā´trĕd
    h[a:]_w_k
    hā_y_´cŏck
    h_e_ärth
    hĕ_a_v´[)y]
    hẽrd
    hĭd´[+e] _o_ŭs
    Hŏl´l[a=]nd
    hŏl´l[)y]
    hōm_e_´-crȧft
    hōst
    h[ou)]s_e_´wīf_e_
    h[ow)]l
    hūġ_e_
    hŭm´bl_e_
    hū´mor (mẽr)
    humph (hŭmf)
    hŭn´drĕd
    hŭṉ´gr[)y]
    hŭn´tẽr


    ĭm´[+a]ġ_e_
    ĭm ăġ´ĭn_e_
    ĭm pā´tient (sh_e_nt)
    ĭm pôr´t[a=]nt
    ĭn quīr_e_´
    ĭn sān_e_´
    ĭn´st[a=]nt l[)y]
    ĭn stĕ_a_d´
    ĭn tĕnd´ĕd
    ĭn´tẽr ĕst ĭng
    ĭn´tĭ m[+a]t_e_
    [)I]´t[a=]l [)y]
    [)I] tăl´ian (y[a=]n)


    jăck´ĕt
    jăg´gĕd
    J[+a] păn´
    jĭn rĭk´ĭ shȧ
    jŏg´gl_e_d
    j[ou)]nç_e_
    j_o_ûr´n_e_[)y]
    j[oy)]


    k[=ee]l[s+]
    kẽr´nĕl
    _k_n[=ee]l
    _k_nŏck
    Kō´r[a=]n


    lăṉ´guag_e_ (gw[+a]j)
    lăsh_e_d
    lăt´tĭç_e_
    l[a:]_w_n
    lā´z[)y]
    lĕ_a_th´ẽr
    lĕg´gĭng[s+]
    l_e_ī´t[+e]
    lĭd
    liq´uid (lĭk´wĭd)
    lĭṉ´gẽr ĭng
    lĭmp
    lĭs´_te_n
    lōn_e_´l[)y]
    l[ow)]´ẽr_e_d
    lŭl´lȧ bȳ
    lŭnch´_e_ȯn


    măġ´ĭc
    măg´nĭ fȳ ĭng
    măn´[+a]ġ_e_
    măn [+u] făc´t[+u]r_e_
    mär´bl_e_
    Mâr ĭ k[e=]´nȧ
    măsk
    mȧ tē´rĭ [a=]l
    măt´trĕss
    mĕ_a_nt
    meas´[+u]r_e_ (mĕzh)
    mĭd´dā_y_
    mĭṉ´gl_e_
    mĭn´ute (ĭt)
    mĭr´ȧ cl_e_
    mĭr´ĭg
    mĭ[s+]´_t_le tō_e_
    mō_a_n
    mȯṉ´k_e_[)y]
    mȯṉk
    m[ou)]n´t_a_ĭn _o_ŭs
    m[ou)]th´fụl
    mō_w_´ẽr
    mŭl tĭ plĭ cā´tion (shŭn)
    mŭnch´ĭng
    mū [s+]ĭ´cian (sh[a=]n)
    mŭs´_c_l_e_


    Nȧ´kȧ
    Năn n[)oo]k´
    năr´rō_w_
    n[a:]_ugh_´t[)y]
    nē_a_r´l[)y]
    n[e=]_igh_´bor h[)oo]d (bẽr)
    nī_gh_t´ĭn gāl_e_
    nĭm´bl[)y]
    nĭp´pẽr[s+]
    Nĭp´p[+o]n
    Nō´ȧ_h_
    n[oi)][s+]_e_´lĕss l[)y]
    nŏn´sĕns_e_
    nō´tĭç_e_
    nûr´sẽr [)y]


    [+o] bē´dĭ _e_nt
    [+o] b[e=]_y_´
    ō´dor (dẽr)
    ŏf´_te_n
    [+o] pŏs´sŭm
    ō´rĭ ōl_e_
    [ou)]t lănd´ĭsh
    ō vẽr hĕ_a_d´
    ō vẽr rŭn´


    pāç_e_
    Pȧ çĭf´ĭc
    păck´[+a]ġ_e_
    păd´_d_l_e_
    păl´[+a]ç_e_
    pä_l_m
    pān_e_
    pâr´_e_nt
    păr´rȯt
    pā´tient (sh_e_nt)
    păt´tẽr ĭng
    păt´tẽrn
    pē_a_k
    pẽ_a_rl
    pẽ_a_[s+]´[a=]nt
    p[+e] cūl´iar (yẽr)
    pĕlt
    pĕn´çĭl
    pẽr hăps´
    pẽr sĭm´mȯn
    pẽr´sȯn
    Pĭl´grĭm[s+]
    pĭnch_e_d
    plăṉk
    plȧs´tẽr_e_d
    plĕa[s+]´[a=]nt
    plŏd´dĕd
    plūm_e_d
    plŭnġ_e_d
    pō´lar (lẽr)
    p[+o] lic_e_´m[a=]n (lēs)
    p[+o] līt_e_´
    pō´n[)y]
    p[ou)]nç´ĭng
    prăc´tĭç_e_
    prā_i_[s+]_e_
    prăt´_t_le
    pre´cious (prĕsh´ŭs)
    pr[+e] fẽr´
    prĕ[s+]´_e_nt l[)y]
    pr[+e] tĕnd´ĭng
    prīd_e_
    pr_i_ēst
    prĭnç_e_
    prĭn´çĕss
    prŏb´ȧ bl[)y]
    prŏm´ĭs_e_d
    pr[+o] tĕcts´
    pr[ou)]d
    pr[ow)]´lĭng
    pŭn´ĭsh_e_d
    pûr´pl_e_


    qu[a:]r´rĕl
    qu[=ee]r´ĕst
    quĭlt´ĕd


    rā_i_´[s+]_i_n
    răp´ĭd
    r[a:]_w_
    rē´[a=]l l[)y]
    rē_a_´[s+]_o_n
    rĕck´lĕss
    r[=ee]f_e_d
    r[e=]_i_n´d[=ee]r
    r[+e] mĕm´bẽr
    r[+e] pē_a_t´
    rĕst´lĕss
    rō_a_r_e_d
    rŏck´ẽr[s+]
    rough´ĕst (rŭf)
    r[oy)]´[a=]l
    rṳ´bĭ_e_[s+]
    rŭd´d[)y]
    rṳl´ẽr
    rŭs´sĕt
    rŭs´_t_l_e_


    săm´păn[s+]
    săn´d[a=]l
    sap´phire (săf´īr)
    scăm´pẽr_e_d
    scärf
    scär´lĕt
    s_c_ĕp´tẽr_e_d
    scôrn
    sc[ou)]t
    scrăm´bl_e_d
    scr[=ee]n
    scrŭb
    scŭr´rĭ_e_d
    sē_a_l´skĭn
    sē_a_m[s+]
    s[+e] cūr_e_´l[)y]
    sē_i_z_e_
    sĕlf´ĭsh
    sē´p[a=]l
    sẽrv_e_d
    sẽr´vĭç_e_
    sĕv´ẽr [a=]l
    s[+e] vēr_e_´
    shȧfts
    shăn´t[)y]
    shō_a_l[s+]
    sh[o:]_e_´māk ẽr
    shōn_e_
    sīd_e_´w[a:]_l_k
    sī_gh_
    sī´l_e_nt l[)y]
    sĭlk´_e_n
    sĭl´vẽr [)y]
    skĭm´mĭng
    slĕ_d_ġ_e_
    sl[e=]_igh_
    slīç_e_
    snärl_e_d
    snĭff
    sn[ou)]t
    snŭg
    sōl´dier (jẽr)
    sȯm´ẽr s[a:]_u_lt
    sȯm_e_´what (hwŏt)
    sŏr´r[+o]_w_ fụl
    sȯv´er _e_ĭ_g_n
    Spā_i_n
    spär´kl_e_d
    spär[s+]
    spē_a_r
    spĕc´tȧ cl_e_[s+]
    spī_e_d
    splȧsh
    splĕn´dor (dẽr)
    spŏt´lĕss l[)y]
    spr[a:]_w_l´ĭng
    sprĭg
    sprīt_e_s
    spr[ou)]t´ĭng
    sprṳç_e_
    squ[a:]t´tĕd
    squē_a_k
    squīr_e_
    squĩrm_e_d
    stā_i_n
    stâ_i_r´cās_e_
    stâ_i_r´wā_y_
    st[a:]_l_k
    stāt_e_´l[)y]
    stĕ_a_d´ĭ l[)y]
    stĕ_a_lth
    stẽrn´l[)y]
    St. Nich´[+o] l[a=]s (sānt nĭk)
    st[ou)]t
    străg´glĭng
    strā_igh_t
    strănd
    strānġ_e_
    strānġ_e_´l[)y]
    strĕngth
    strīp_e_s
    strĭp´p_e_d
    strŭg´glĭng
    stŭd´dĕd
    sŭd´dĕn ly
    sŭg ġĕst´ĕd
    sŭn´bē_a_m
    sŭp plī_e_d´
    sŭp pō[s+]_e_´
    sŭr r[ou)]nd´ĕd
    sw[a:]n
    sw[a:]rm
    swā_ye_d
    swĭft´l[)y]
    Swĭss
    Switz´ẽr l[a=]nd (swĭts)
    s[)y]r´ŭp


    tȧsk
    tăs´s_e_l
    t[a:]_ugh_t
    tĕn´dẽr l[)y]
    thă_t_ch_e_d
    th[a:]_w_
    Thĕk´lȧ
    there´fōr_e_ ([th)]âr)
    th_i_ēf
    thĭck´ĕt
    thĭm´bl_e_ fụl
    th[ou)]´s[a=]nd
    thrĕ_a_d
    thrĭf´t[)y]
    thrōn_e_
    thrŭsh´ĕ[s+]
    tĭf´fĭn
    tĭlt´ĕd
    tĭṉ´kl_e_
    tī´n[)y]
    tĭp´pĕt
    tŏd´dl_e_
    tŏp´mȧst
    tôr´t_o_ĭs_e_
    tō´ward (ẽrd)
    t[ow)]´ẽr
    trĕ_a_d´ĭng
    trĕm´bl_e_d
    trou´bled (trŭb´l_e_d)
    tr[ou)]´[s+]ẽr[s+]
    trŭm´pĕt
    trṳth
    tŭg´gĭng
    Tûr´k_e_[)y]
    Tûr´kĭsh
    tū´tor (tẽr)
    tw[=ee]´zẽr[s+]
    twĭṉ´klĭng
    twĭ_t_ch_e_d


    ŭg´l[)y]
    ŭn çĭv´ĭl
    ŭn cȯv´ẽr
    ŭn dẽr stănd´
    ŭn fôr´t[+u] n[+a]t_e_
    ŭn hăp´p[)y]
    ŭn här´nĕss_e_d
    ūn´ĭ fôrm
    ŭn kīnd´
    [=U] rȧ shi´mȧ (shē)
    ūs_e_´fụl
    ūs_e_´lĕss


    vā cā´tion
    vā_i_n
    vȧst
    vĕġ´[+e] tȧ bl_e_
    vĕl´vĕt
    vĭl´l[+a]ġ_e_
    vĭn_e_´yard (yẽrd)
    vī´ō lĕt
    vŏl cā´nō


    wā_i_t
    w[a:]l´nŭt
    w[a:]l´rŭs
    w[a:]nd
    w[a:]n´dẽr ẽr
    wē_a_´r[)y]
    wē_a_v_e_
    wĕl´cȯm_e_
    wĕpt
    wharf (hw[a:]rf)
    what ĕv´ẽr (hwŏt)
    wheth´ẽr (hwĕth)
    whirl´ĭng (hwĩrl)
    whis´pẽr_e_d (hwĭs)
    wĭg´w[a:]m
    wī[s+]_e_´l[)y]
    wọlv_e_[s+]
    wȯn´dẽr fụl
    wȯn´dẽr l[a=]nd
    wȯn´dr_o_ŭs
    w[)oo]d´pĕck ẽr
    worse (wûrs)
    wound (w[=oo]nd)
    wō´v_e_n
    _w_rē_a_th[s+]
    _w_rĭg´gl_e_d
    _w_rĭṉ´kl_e_d


    yĕs´tẽr dā_y_
    yūl_e_

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Page 210, [on)] changed to [ou)]

Page 219, the final “e” was made italic to match form of silent letters
(ȧs sur_e_´)

Page 219, italics removed from e as it is not silent (băr´ren)

Page 221, the final “e” was made italic to match form of silent letters
(lăṉ´guag_e_)

Page 222, the final “e” was made italic to match form of silent letters
(p[+o] lic_e_´m[a=]n)





End of Project Gutenberg's The Wide Awake Third Reader, by Clara Murray

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52044 ***