Boys and Girls Bookshelf; a Practical Plan of Character Building, Volume I (of 17) - Fun and Thought for Little Folk
Author: Various
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"Yes," the little bear cub would say, "that is my picture. I am a native of the State of California. I don't remember distinctly where I was born, but it was up in the Sierras, where the snow lies in great banks, and the giant trees stand like sentinels, and where you might travel for days and weeks and meet no one but bears.

"The first thing I recollect was finding myself in a big burrow covered with snow, then my mother broke the way out and led us (I had a brother) down the mountain. We soon left the snow; and I remember one day, at sunset, we stood on an overhanging rock, and my mother showed us the green valleys and nice dark forests where we could hide, and far off was the gleaming sea. Mother did not care very much for the water, I think.

"My mother was hungry, after the long winter fast, and every day took us lower and lower, until one night she led us into a sheep ranch. Then our troubles began, for she left us to catch a lamb, and never came back. We heard all about it afterward. Some ranchers had seen her, and rode out on horseback to enjoy the cruel sport of 'roping a bear'. As they rode around her, one threw his lariat about her neck; another caught her forefoot as she stood up, another her hind leg; and then they dragged her away to the ranch-house—and so we became orphans.

"It was not long before the dogs found us, and a man carried me home in a basket to his wife, who treated me very kindly. I did not like it, but pretended I did, and ate all I could, always watching and hoping for a chance to run away to my mountain home. My mistress, however, soon thought I was too knowing, and put a chain about my neck. Finally, when I was about four months old, they sent me to a friend in San Francisco. I shall never forget how people looked at me and laughed when I stood on my hind legs, as if there was anything laughable in that! But they gave me sugar and other good things, and I fared well.

"My new master was a butcher, and most of the time I stayed in his shop. But some days, when I was very homesick, and longed for my mother, and the little cub who had been carried off, I did not know where, the butcher's wife would take me into her room back of the shop, and then I would go to sleep, cuddled up close upon a rug, with my paws on her hand, and dream that I was back in my mountain home.

"One day I heard my master say I was to be pho-to-graphed, and I thought my time had come. You see, I had never heard the word before. There was no escape, as I was kept tied, and the next morning my master took me under his big coat in the cable-cars. I could just peep through one of the button-holes, and all at once I uttered a loud whine. You should have seen how the passengers stared at my master, who I know looked embarrassed, as he gave me a tremendous squeeze. We soon got out, and I was carried up a flight of stairs, and placed on a table in a room, the walls of which were covered with pictures of people's faces, all of which seemed to keep their eyes fixed on me.

"My master petted me and gave me some sugar, and I began to think that being photographed was possibly not so bad, after all. Presently a man came in. He looked very much astonished, and said, 'Why, I thought you engaged a sitting for "a descendant of one of the early settlers"?'

"'So I did,' replied my master; 'there it is,' pointing to where I stood up, blinking with all my might.

"'Why, it's a cub bear!' exclaimed the man.

"'Well, it is a relative of some early settlers, all the same,' my master answered.

"At this the man smiled good-humoredly, then he went into another room, while my master petted me and gave me so much sugar that I had the toothache from it. After a while the man came back and said he was ready, and I was taken into a room where there was a big thing like a gun on three legs, with a cloth over it. My master sat down in a chair and held me in his lap while the man pointed the gun at us.

"I thought I was to be shot, and tried to get away, and this made the man so cross that he came out from under the cloth and said he couldn't do it. Then my master put me up in a child's chair and propped something tight against my head, at which they both laughed so loud you could have heard them in the street, and I jumped down.

"Finally, the man tapped his forehead and said, 'I have it.' He put a screen before the gun and my master set me on top of it, holding my chain while the man crept under the cloth. I did not dare move, as I was astride of the screen, my hind feet hanging in the air. I prepared for the worst. Then the man came out again, looked at me sharply, and turned my head a little, telling me to smile, at which my master laughed. The man next shook a tambourine at me, and as I turned to see what the noise meant, I heard a click! and just then my master took me down and carried me home, much to my relief.

"I wondered what it was all about until one day my master took me on his knee, and, holding up a card, said, 'Well, here you are!'—and what do you suppose it was? Nothing more or less than my picture; just as I was perched astride the screen the day when I thought I was going to be killed. Here it is":



This tale, my young readers, will seem to you to be quite false; but still it must be true, for my Grandfather, who used to tell it to me, would wind up by saying, "All this is true, my son, else it would never have been told to me." The tale runs thus:—

It was a fine summer's morning, just before harvest-time; the buckwheat was in flower, and the sun was shining brightly in the heaven above, a breeze was blowing over the fields, where the larks were singing; and along the paths the people were going to church dressed in their best. Every creature seemed contented, even the Hedgehog, who stood before his door singing as he best could a joyful song in praise of the fine morning. Indoors, meanwhile, his Wife was washing and drying the kitchen, before going into the fields for a walk to see how the crops were getting on. She was such a long while, however, about her work that Mr. Hedgehog would wait no longer, and trotted off by himself. He had not walked any very long distance before he came to a small thicket, near a field of cabbages, and there he espied a Hare, who he guessed had come on a similar errand to himself; namely, to devour a few fine heads. As soon as Mr. Hedgehog saw the Hare, he wished him a good morning; but the latter, who was in his way a high-minded creature, turned a fierce and haughty look upon the Hedgehog, and made no reply to his greeting. He asked, instead, in a very majestic tone, how he came to be walking abroad at such an early hour. "I am taking a walk," replied the Hedgehog.

"A walk!" repeated the Hare, in an ironical tone, "methinks you might employ your legs about something better!"

This answer vexed the Hedgehog most dreadfully, for he could have borne anything better than to be quizzed about his legs, because they were naturally short, and from no fault of his own. However, he said to the Hare, "Well, you need not be so proud, pray, what can you do with those legs of yours?" "That is my affair," replied the Hare. "I expect, if you would venture a trial, that I should beat you in a race," said the Hedgehog.

"You are laughing! you, with your short legs!" said the Hare contemptuously. "But still, since you have such a particular wish, I have no objection to try. What shall the wager be?"

"A louis d'or," replied the Hedgehog.

"Done!" said the Hare, "and it may as well come off at once."

"No! not in such great haste, if you please," said the Hedgehog; "I am not quite ready yet; I must first go home and freshen up a bit. Within half-an-hour I will return to this place."

Thereupon the Hedgehog hurried off, leaving the Hare very merry. On his way home the former thought to himself, "Mr. Hare is very haughty and high-minded, but withal he is very stupid, and although he thinks to beat me with his long legs, I will find a way to defeat him." So, as soon as the Hedgehog reached home, he told his Wife to dress herself at once to go into the field with him.

"What is the matter?" asked his Wife.

"I have made a wager with the Hare, for a louis d'or, to run a race with him, and you must be witness."

"My goodness, man! are you in your senses!" said the Wife, "do you know what you are about? How can you expect to run so fast as the Hare?"

"Hold your tongue, Wife; that is my affair. Don't you reason about men's business. March, and get ready to come with me."

As soon, then, as the Hedgehog's Wife was ready they set out together; and on the way he said, "Now attend to what I say. On the long field yonder we shall decide our bet. The Hare is to run on the one side of the hedge and I on the other, and so all you have to do is to stop at one end of the hedge, and then when the Hare arrives on the other side at the same point, you must call out, 'I am here already.'"

They soon came to the field, and the Hedgehog stationed himself at one end of the hedge, and his Wife at the other end; and as soon as they had taken their places the Hare arrived. "Are you ready to start?" asked the Hare. "Yes," answered the Hedgehog, and each took his place. "Off once, off twice, three times and off!" cried the Hare, and ran up the field like a whirlwind; while the Hedgehog took three steps and then returned to his place.

The Hare soon arrived at his goal, as he ran all the way at top speed, but before he could reach it, the Hedgehog's Wife on the other side called out, "I am here already!" The Hare was thunderstruck to hear this said, for he thought it really was his opponent, since there was no difference in the voices of the Hedgehog and his Wife. "This will not do!" thought the Hare to himself; but presently he called out, "Once, twice, and off again;" and away he went as fast as possible, leaving the Hedgehog quietly sitting in her place. "I am here before you," cried Mr. Hedgehog, as soon as the Hare approached. "What! again?" exclaimed the Hare in a rage; and added, "Will you dare another trial!" "Oh! as many as you like; do not be afraid on my account," said Mr. Hedgehog, courteously.

So the Hare then ran backwards and forwards three-and-seventy times, but each time the Hedgehogs had the advantage of him, for either Mr. or Mrs. shouted before he could reach the goal, "Here I am already!"

The four-and-seventieth time the Hare was unable to run any more. In the middle of the course he stopped and dropped down quite exhausted, and there he lay motionless for some time. But the Hedgehog took the louis d'or which he had won, and went composedly home with his Wife.




There was an old gray Pussy Cat, and she went away down by a brookside. There she saw a wee Robin Redbreast hopping on a brier bush.

Says the gray Pussy Cat: "Where are you going, wee Robin?"

And the wee Robin makes answer: "I'm going away to the King to sing him a song this glad Christmas morning."

And the gray Pussy Cat says, "Come here, wee Robin, and I'll let you see a pretty white ring I have around my neck."

But the wee Robin says: "No, no! gray Pussy Cat, no, no! You worried the wee mousie, but you cannot worry me!"

So the wee Robin flew away until he came to a wall of earth and grass, and there he saw a gray greedy Hawk sitting.

And the gray greedy Hawk says: "Where are you going, wee Robin?"

And the wee Robin makes answer: "I'm going away to the King to sing him a song this glad Christmas morning."

And the gray greedy Hawk says: "Come here, wee Robin, and I'll let you see the bright feather in my wing."

But wee Robin says: "No, no! gray greedy Hawk, no, no! You pecked the little Meadowlark, but you cannot peck me!"

So the wee Robin flew away until he came to a steep, rocky hillside, and there he saw a sly Fox sitting. And the sly Fox says, "Where are you going, wee Robin?"

And the wee Robin makes answer: "I'm going away to the King to sing him a song this glad Christmas morning."

And the sly Fox says: "Come here, wee Robin, and I'll let you see the pretty spot on the tip of my tail."

But the wee Robin says: "No, no! sly Fox, no, no! You worried the little Lamb, but you cannot worry me!"

So the wee Robin flew away until he came to a grassy meadow, and there he saw a little shepherd boy.

And the little shepherd says: "Where are you going, wee Robin?"

And wee Robin makes answer: "I'm going away to the King to sing him a song this glad Christmas morning."

And the little shepherd boy says: "Come here, wee Robin, and I'll give you some crumbs from my lunch."

But the wee Robin says: "No, no! little shepherd boy, no, no! You caught the Goldfinch, but you cannot catch me!"

So the wee Robin flew away till he came to the King; and there he sat on a plowshare, and sang the King a cheery song. And the King says to the Queen: "What will we give to the wee Robin for singing us this cheery song?"

And the Queen makes answer to the King: "I think we'll give him the wee Wren to be his wife."

So the wee Robin and the wee Wren were married, and the King and the Queen, and all the court danced at the wedding. Then the wee Robin and the wee Wren flew away home to the wee Robin's own brookside, and hopped on the brier bush.


The Fox set out in a hungry plight, And begged the moon to give him light, For he'd many a mile to travel that night Before he could reach his den O!

First he came to a farmer's yard, Where the ducks and geese declared it was hard That their nerves should be shaken, and their rest be marred By a visit from Mr. Fox O!

He seized the gray goose by the sleeve, Says he, "Madam Gray Goose, by your leave, I'll carry you off without reprieve, And take you away to my den O!"

He seized the gray duck by the neck, And flung her over across his back, While the old duck cried out, "Quack, quack, quack," With her legs dangling down behind O!

Then old Mrs. Flipper Flapper jumped out of bed, And out of the window she popped her head, Crying, "John, John, John, the gray goose is gone, And the Fox is off to his den O!"

Then John went up to the top of the hill, And he blew a blast both loud and shrill. Says the Fox, "That is fine music, still I'd rather be off to my den O!"

So the Fox he hurried home to his den, To his dear little foxes eight, nine, ten. Says he, "We're in luck, here's a big fat duck With her legs dangling down behind O!"

Then the Fox sat down with his hungry wife, And they made a good meal without fork or knife. They never had a better time in all their life, And the little ones picked the bones O!



We go on our walk together— Baby and dog and I— Three little merry companions, 'Neath any sort of sky Blue as our baby's eyes are, Gray like our old dog's tail; Be it windy or cloudy or stormy, Our courage will never fail.

Baby's a little lady; Dog is a gentleman brave; If he had two legs as you have, He'd kneel to her like a slave; As it is, he loves and protects her, As dog and gentleman can. I'd rather be a kind doggie, I think, than a cruel man.



To Pussy-town, the other day, The movies came. And you must know, The only chance mice have to play Is when the cats Go to the show!

(Yes, mice have certain little "rights"— Though I confess 'Em hard to see! And one is to stay up o' nights And steal our cheese— If cheese there be!)

Well, in the playhouse, on the screen, The pussies saw (And so may you) True love run smoothly, I ween: But "also ran," A dog in blue!

The foolish cats, in great alarm, Dashed out, nor Asked for money back!— A dog policeman has no charm When he is close Upon one's track!

They did not use their heads. I fear; (Some boys and girls Are just like that) And so the pussies now must hear The grown folks say "'Fraid cat! 'Fraid cat!"



"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly, "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show when you are there." "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?" "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing: "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew— Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den Within his little parlor—but she ne'er came out again!

Everyday Verses




When Mother drops things on the floor, My father asks me: "Who Should always pick them up for her?" And so I always do.

He says I haven't far to reach And that a gentleman Must do things for his Mother And be helpful as he can.

But Mother bends down just the same,— She has to, don't you see? For after she's said "Thank you, dear," She stoops and kisses me.


There's a time to run and a time to walk; There's a time for silence, a time for talk; There's a time for work and a time for play; There's a time for sleep at the close of day. There's a time for everything you do, For children and for grown-ups, too. A time to stand up and a time to sit,— But see that the time and actions fit.


Umbrellas and rubbers You never forget, Whenever it's raining Or snowy or wet;

But if it should clear up, While you are away, Please bring them back home For the next rainy day.


"Do not whisper" is a rule You will find in every school, And the reason here is given In a rhyme: For children all will chatter About any little matter— And there'd be a dreadful clatter, All the time!


The romping boys Make lots of noise, And run and jump and laugh and shout, While here and there, With quiet air, The girls in couples walk about.

A game begins, But no one wins, Although they play with might and main, For long before The game is o'er The bell rings out for school again.


Although we like to go to school, We're rather glad to put away Our books and slates and other things, When it is over for the day.

And off we go to play and romp, While teacher, who is good and kind, Is left behind all by herself— But then, perhaps, she doesn't mind.


Study them well on Friday, For it's much the better way, Because when once they're finished You've all Saturday for play.


No matter where we children are We run in answer to the bell, And dinner comes in piping hot; It makes us hungry just to smell.

Poor Father sharpens up his knife, And carves with all his might and main; But long before he's had a bite Our Willie's plate comes back again.

We eat our vegetables and meat, For Mother, who is always right, Says those who wish to have dessert, Must show they have an appetite.

And when a Sunday comes around, So very, very good we seem, You'd think 'most any one could tell That for dessert we'd have ice-cream.



There isn't any giant Within this forest grim, And if there were, I wouldn't be A bit afraid of him!



My doll, my doll, my Annabel, She's really feeling far from well! Her wig is gone, her eyes are out, Her legs are left somewhere about, Her arms were stolen by the pup, The hens ate all her sawdust up, So all that's really left of her Is just her clothes and character.


I always buy at the lollipop-shop, On the very first day of spring, A bag of marbles, a spinning-top, And a pocketful of string.



In merry, merry England, In the merry month of May, Miss Mary Ella Montague Went out in best array. Her wise mama called out to her, "My darling Mary Ella, It looks like rain to-day, my dear; You'd best take your umbrella!" That silly girl she paid no heed To her dear mother's call. She walked at least six miles that day, And it never rained at all!



Oh, I'm a goose, and you're a goose, and we're all geese together. We wander over hill and dale, all in the sweet June weather, While wise folk stay indoors and pore O'er dusty books for learning lore. How glad I am—how glad you are—that we're birds of a feather: That you're a goose, and I'm a goose, and we're all geese together!



Let me make you acquainted with Mrs. O'Toole, Though she's had little learning, she's nobody's fool, She loves her fine geese, but when they are dead She'll comfort herself with a new feather bed.





I have a little wat'ring-pot, It holds two quarts I think, And when the days are very hot I give the plants a drink.

They lift their heads as flowers should, And look so green and gay; I'm sure that if they only could, "We thank you, Sir," they'd say.


Sometimes Mother gives to me Such a lot of money—See! But it's very hard to buy All the things you'd like to try, And you always share your penny With a child who hasn't any.


Pockets are fine For marbles and twine, For knives and rubber bands; So, stuff them tight From morning till night With anything else but hands!


When one is very hungry, It's hard to wait, I know, For minutes seem like hours And the clock is always slow.

There isn't time to play a game, You just sit down and wait, While Mother says, "Be patient, Our cook is never late."

It's best when one is hungry, To think of other things, For then, before you know it, The bell for dinner rings.


If only more people would write fewer books How well pleased I would be! If all the authors would change into cooks 'T would suit me perfectly.



The Widow Hill has a fine plum-tree! The Widow Hill is fond o' me. I'll call on her to-day! The plum-tree grows by her front door. I've been meaning to call for a week or more To pass the time o' day!



If I were Queen of Anywhere, I'd have a golden crown, And sit upon a velvet chair, And wear a satin gown. A Knight of noble pedigree Should wait beside my seat, To serve me upon bended knee With things I like to eat. I'd have bonbons and cherry pie, Ice-cream and birthday cake, And a page should always stay near by To have my stomach-ache!



Oh, to be a sailor And sail to foreign lands— To Greenland's icy mountains And India's coral strands! To sail upon the Ganges And see the crocodile, Where every prospect pleases, And only man is vile.

I'd love to see the heathen Bow down to wood and stone, But his wicked graven image I'd knock from off its throne! The heathen-in-his-blindness Should see a thing or two! He'd know before I left him What a Yankee boy can do!



This is the way we wash our clothes, Wash our clothes, Wash our clothes; This is the way we wash our clothes, So early Monday morning.

This is the way we iron our clothes, Iron our clothes, Iron our clothes; This is the way we iron our clothes, So early Tuesday morning.

This is the way we mend our shoes, Mend our shoes, Mend our shoes; This is the way we mend our shoes, So early Wednesday morning.

This is the way we visit our friends, Visit our friends, Visit our friends; This is the way we visit our friends, So early Thursday morning.

This is the way we sweep the house, Sweep the house, Sweep the house; This is the way we sweep the house, So early Friday morning.

This is the way we bake our cake, Bake our cake, Bake our cake; This is the way we bake our cake, So early Saturday morning.

This is the way we go to church, Go to church, Go to church; This is the way we go to church, So early Sunday morning.


Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is brave and glad, Thursday's child is never bad,

Friday's child is loving and kind, Saturday's child is clear in mind,

The child that is born on the Sabbath day Is fair and wise and good and gay.


They that wash on Monday Have all the week to dry; They that wash on Tuesday Are not so much awry; They that wash on Wednesday Are not so much to blame; They that wash on Thursday Wash for very shame; They that wash on Friday Wash because of need, And they that wash on Saturday, Oh, they are lazy indeed!


Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday: This is the end Of Solomon Grundy— Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married, etc.


How many days has my baby to play? Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday.


"Oh, ho! little maidens, all in a row, And each one wearing a butterfly bow. Which is the prettiest, Betty, or Lou, Dolly, or Polly, or Sallie, or Sue? I do not know, so I'll have to ask you."



Little-Mouse-Sunday found a great, big bun; Little-Mouse-Monday wished that he had one; Little-Mouse-Tuesday was fat enough without; Little-Mouse-Wednesday sat down to sulk and pout, Said Little-Mouse-Thursday, "I'll get one for myself!" Said Little-Mouse-Friday, "There's another on the shelf"; Little-Mouse-Saturday began to beg and squeak; "Come on!" said all the seven, "we've enough to last a week!"


"Good morning, Monday! Tell me how is Tuesday?" "Very well, Dame Wednesday. Please to tell Miss Thursday, Also little Saturday, To call on Mister Sunday."


(In a meter neither new nor difficult)


All was well on Sunday morning, All was quiet Sunday evening; But, behold, quite early Monday Came a queer, surprising Weakness— Weakness seizing little Tommy! It came shortly after breakfast— Breakfast with wheat-cakes and honey Eagerly devoured by Tommy, Who till then was well as could be. Then, without a moment's warning, Like a sneeze, that awful Aw-choo! Came this Weakness on poor Tommy. "Mother, dear," he whined, "dear mother, I am feeling rather strangely— Don't know what's the matter with me— My right leg is out of kilter, While my ear—my left ear—itches. Don't you know that queerish feeling?" "Not exactly," said his mother. "Does your head ache, Tommy dearest?" Little Thomas, always truthful, Would not say his head was aching, For, you know, it really wasn't. "No, it doesn't ache," he answered (Thinking of that noble story Of the Cherry-tree and Hatchet); "But I'm tired, and I'm sleepy, And my shoulder's rather achy. Don't you think perhaps I'd better Stay at home with you, dear mother?"

Thoughtfully his mother questioned, "How about your school, dear Tommy? Do you wish to miss your lessons?" "Well, you know," was Tommy's answer, "Saturday we played at football; I was tired in the evening, So I didn't learn my lessons— Left them all for Monday morning, Monday morning bright and early—" "And this morning you slept over?" So his mother interrupted. "Yes, mama," admitted Tommy. "So I have not learned my lessons: And I'd better wait till Tuesday. Tuesday I can start in earnest— Tuesday when I'm feeling brighter!"

Smilingly his mother eyed him, Then she said, "Go ask your father— You will find him in his study, Adding up the week's expenses. See what father says about it."

Toward the door went Tommy slowly, Seized the knob as if to turn it. Did not turn it; but, returning, Back he came unto his mother. "Mother," said he, very slowly, "Mother, I don't feel so badly; Maybe I'll get through my lessons. Anyway, I think I'll risk it. Have you seen my books, dear mother— My Geography and Speller, History and Definitions,— Since I brought them home on Friday?" No. His mother had not seen them. Then began a search by Tommy. Long he searched, almost despairing, While the clock was striking loudly. And at length when Tommy found them— Found his books beneath the sofa— He'd forgotten all his Weakness, Pains and aches were quite forgotten. At full speed he hastened schoolward. But in vain, for he was tardy, All because of that strange Weakness He had felt on Monday morning.

Would you know the name that's given, How they call that curious feeling? 'Tis the dreaded "Idon'twantto"— Never fatal, but quite common To the tribe of Very-lazy. Would you know the charm that cures it— Cures the Weakness "Idon'twantto"? It is known as "Butyou'vegotto," And no boy should be without it.

Now you know the curious legend Of the paleface little Tommy, Of his Weakness and its curing By the great charm "Butyou'vegotto." Think of it on Monday mornings— It will save you lots of trouble.

St. Saturday


Oh, Friday night's the queen of nights, because it ushers in The Feast of good St. Saturday, when studying is a sin, When studying is a sin, boys, and we may go to play Not only in the afternoon, but all the livelong day.

St. Saturday—so legends say—lived in the ages when The use of leisure still was known and current among men; Full seldom and full slow he toiled, and even as he wrought He'd sit him down and rest awhile, immersed in pious thought.

He loved to fold his good old arms, to cross his good old knees, And in a famous elbow-chair for hours he'd take his ease; He had a word for old and young, and when the village boys Came out to play, he'd smile on them and never mind the noise.

So when his time came, honest man, the neighbors all declared That one of keener intellect could better have been spared, By young and old his loss was mourned in cottage and in hall, For if he'd done them little good, he'd done no harm at all.

In time they made a saint of him, and issued a decree— Since he had loved his ease so well, and been so glad to see The children frolic round him and to smile upon their play— That school boys for his sake should have a weekly holiday.

They gave his name unto the day, that as the years roll by His memory might still be green; and that's the reason why We speak his name with gratitude, and oftener by far Than that of any other saint in all the calendar.

Then, lads and lassies, great and small, give ear to what I say— Refrain from work on Saturdays as strictly as you may; So shall the saint your patron be and prosper all you do— And when examinations come he'll see you safely through.


1, 2, 3, 4, 5

One Two Three Four Five I caught a hare alive.

Six Seven Eight Nine Ten I let it go again.



Over in the meadow, In the sand, in the sun, Lived an old mother toad And her little toadie one. "Wink!" said the mother; "I wink," said the one: So she winked and she blinked In the sand, in the sun.

Over in the meadow, Where the stream runs blue, Lived an old mother fish And her little fishes two. "Swim!" said the mother; "We swim," said the two: So they swam and they leaped Where the stream runs blue.

Over in the meadow, In a hole in a tree, Lived a mother bluebird And her little birdies three. "Sing!" said the mother; "We sing," said the three: So they sang and were glad In the hole in the tree.

Over in the meadow, In the reeds on the shore, Lived a mother muskrat And her little ratties four. "Dive!" said the mother; "We dive," said the four: So they dived and they burrowed In the reeds on the shore.

Over in the meadow, In a snug beehive, Lived a mother honeybee And her little honeys five. "Buzz!" said the mother; "We buzz," said the five: So they buzzed and they hummed In the snug beehive.

Over in the meadow, In a nest built of sticks, Lived a black mother crow And her little crows six. "Caw!" said the mother; "We caw," said the six: So they cawed and they cawed In their nest built of sticks.

Over in the meadow, Where the grass is so even, Lived a gray mother cricket And her little crickets seven. "Chirp!" said the mother; "We chirp," said the seven: So they chirped cheery notes In the grass soft and even.

Over in the meadow, By the old mossy gate, Lived a brown mother lizard And her little lizards eight. "Bask!" said the mother; "We bask!" said the eight: So they basked in the sun By the old mossy gate.

Over in the meadow, Where the clear pools shine, Lived a green mother frog And her little froggies nine. "Croak!" said the mother; "We croak," said the nine: So they croaked and they splashed Where the clear pools shine.

Over in the meadow, In a sly little den, Lived a gray mother spider And her little spiders ten. "Spin!" said the mother; "We spin," said the ten: So they spun lace webs In their sly little den.

Over in the meadow, In the soft summer even, Lived a mother firefly And her little flies eleven. "Shine!" said the mother; "We shine," said the eleven: So they shone like stars In the soft summer even.

Over in the meadow, Where the men dig and delve, Lived a wise mother ant And her little anties twelve. "Toil!" said the mother; "We toil," said the twelve: So they toiled and were wise Where the men dig and delve.


One, I love, Two, I love, Three, I love, I say, Four, I love with all my heart, And five, I cast away; Six, he loves, Seven, she loves, Eight, they both love; Nine, he comes, Ten, he tarries, Eleven, he courts, Twelve, he marries; Thirteen, wishes, Fourteen, kisses, All the rest little witches.



Here's a baby! Here's another! A sister and her infant brother. Which is which 'tis hard to tell, But "mother" knows them very well.



1 little rabbit, one went out in the field to run.

2 little rabbits, two Said they didn't know what to do.

3 little rabbits, three Said: "Let us climb a tree."

4 little rabbits, four Said: "Let's swing on the old barn door."

5 little rabbits, five Said: "We're glad just to be alive."

6 little rabbits, six Said: "We like to pick up sticks."

7 little rabbits, seven Said: "We wish we were eleven."

8 little rabbits, eight Said: "Come let us run through the gate."

9 little rabbits, nine Said: "Then let us form in line."

10 little rabbits, ten all got in line—and then—wasn't it fun to see them run?



10 Ten little fire crackers Standing in a line, One thought he'd light a match Then— There were nine.

9 Nine little fire crackers Walking very straight, One caught an engine spark Then— There were eight.

8 Eight little fire crackers Trying to spell "LEAVEN," One went too near the gas, Then— There were seven.

7 Seven little fire crackers Cutting up tricks, One played with lighted punk Then— There were six.

6 Six little fire crackers Glad they are alive, One went to have a smoke Then There were five.

5 Five little fire crackers Wishing there were more, One went to find a friend Then There were four.

4 Four little fire crackers Merry as could be, One played upon the hearth Then There were three.

3 Three little fire crackers Puzzled what to do, One started the kitchen fire Then There were two.

2 Two little fire crackers Looking for some fun, One met a little boy Then There was one.

1 One little fire cracker Sat him down to cry, 'Tis such a risky thing To live In July.

The Wish of Priscilla Penelope Powers

Priscilla Penelope Powers one day Took tea at a neighbor's just over the way. Two pieces of pie they urged her to take, And seven whole slices of chocolate cake! "Oh, dear," sighed Priscilla Penelope Powers, "I wish I was your little girl 'stead of ours!"

Mrs. John T Van Sant.

Winklelman Von Winkel

Winkelman Von Winkel is the wisest man alive, He Knows that one and one make two, and two and three make five; He knows that water runs down hill, that the sun sets in the west, And that for winter weather wear, one's winter clothes are best; In fact, he does not mingle much with common folk around, Because his learning is so great—his wisdom so profound.

Clara Odell Lyon.


Ten little cookies, brown and crisp and fine— Grandma gave Baby one; then there were nine.

Nine little cookies on a china plate— Betty took a small one; then there were eight.

Eight little cookies, nice and round and even— The butcher boy ate one; then there were seven.

Seven little cookies, much liked by chicks— The old hen ate one, then there were six.

Six little cookies, when grandma went to drive— Betty had another one; then there were five.

Five little cookies, placed too near the door— The little doggie ate one; then there were four.

Four little cookies, brown as brown could be— Grandma took one for herself, then there were three.

Three little cookies—when grandpa said, "I too, Would like a very little one", then there were two.

Two little cookies—fast did Betty run To give one to her mamma; then there was one.

One little cooky—and now our story is done, Baby Jane ate the last, then there was none.


One head with curly hair, Two arms so fat and bare, Two hands and one wee nose, Two feet with ten pink toes, Skin soft and smooth as silk, When clean, 'tis white as milk.



Once there was a little Kitty, White as the snow; In a barn she used to frolic, Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro, For she heard the little Kitty, Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little Kitty, Black as a sloe; And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago.

Four soft paws had little Kitty, Paws soft as snow; And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little Kitty, All in a row; And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie, Mousie cried out, "Oh!" But she slipped away from Kitty, Long time ago.


One, Two—buckle my shoe; Three, Four—open the door; Five, Six—pick up sticks; Seven, Eight—lay them straight; Nine, Ten—a good fat hen; Eleven, Twelve—I hope you're well; Thirteen, Fourteen—draw the curtain; Fifteen, Sixteen—the maid's in the kitchen; Seventeen, Eighteen—she's in waiting; Nineteen, Twenty—my stomach's empty.




The little girls who lived on Amity Street all wore mittens when they went to school in winter. Nobody's mother ever thought of anything else to keep small hands warm. Some mothers or grandmothers crocheted them, and some knit them with fancy stitches down the back, or put other mark of distinction upon them; but they were always mittens, and were always fastened to a long ribbon or piece of braid or knitted rein, so that they might not get lost, one from the other.

This connecting-link frequently gave rise to confusion, for when two little girls put their arms around each other's necks as they walked to school, they sometimes got tangled up in the mitten string and had to duck and turn and bump heads before the right string was again resting on the right shoulder. But as it was possible to laugh a great deal and lose one's breath while this was going on, it was rather an advantage than otherwise, and little girls who were special chums were pretty sure to manage a tangle every other day at least.

Clarabel Bradley did her tangling and untangling with Josephine Brown, who lived at the end of Amity Street. They both went to the same school and were in the same class. They waited for each other in the morning, and came home together, and shared each other's candy and ginger cookies whenever there were any, and took firm sides together whenever the school-yard was the scene of dispute.

But into this intimacy came a pair of gloves, almost wrecking it.

The gloves were sent by Clarabel's aunt, who was young and pretty and taught school in a large city; and they came done up in white tissue-paper inside a box with gilt trimming around the edges and a picture on the center of the cover. Taken out of the paper, they revealed all their alluring qualities. They were of a beautiful glossy brown kid with soft woolly linings and real fur around the wrists, and they fastened with bright gilded clasps.

With them was a note which said:

For Clarabel, with love from her Aunt Bessie. Not to be kept for Sundays, but worn every day.

And the last sentence was underscored.

Clarabel's mother looked doubtful as she read the message. Such gloves were an extravagance even for best—and mittens were warmer. But when she encountered Clarabel's shining eyes she smiled and gave in.

So Clarabel took the gloves to her room that night, and slept with them on the foot-board of her bed, where she could see them the first thing when she waked; and in the morning she put them on and started for school.

One hand was held rigidly by her side, but the other was permitted to spread its fingers widely over the book she carried. Both were well in view if she looked down just a little. Passers-by might see; all Amity Street might see; best of all, Josephine might see!

But Josephine, waiting at the corner, beheld and was impressed to the point of speechlessness. Whereupon Clarabel dropped her book, and had to pick it up with both hands. The furry wrists revealed themselves fully.

Josephine found her voice.

"You've got some new gloves," she said.

"Yes; my Aunt Bessie sent them."

"Aren't they pretty!"

"I think so, and they're lots nicer than mittens. I'm not going to wear my mittens again."

Josephine looked down at her own chubby hands. Her mittens were red this winter, with a red-and-green fringe around the wrists. Only that morning she had admired them. Now they looked fat and clumsy and altogether unattractive; but she wasn't going to admit that to any one else.

"I like mittens best," she said stoutly,—"for school, anyway," she added, and gave Clarabel more of the sidewalk.

"My Aunt Bessie said specially that these were to wear to school." And Clarabel walked nearer the fence.

Josephine was hard put to it—Clarabel's manner had become so superior.

"I don't think your Aunt Bessie knows everything, even if she does teach school in a big city. My mother says she's too young to—"

What she was too young to do was not allowed to be explained; for Clarabel, with a color in her face that rivaled Josephine's mittens, had faced her.

"My Aunt Bessie's lovely, and I won't listen to another word against her, not another one—so there!"

Then she turned, with a queer feeling in her throat, and ran down the street to catch up with another little girl who was on ahead.

Josephine swung her books and walked as if she didn't care.

Clarabel overtook the little girl, who was all smiling appreciation of the new gloves, and was overtaken by other little girls who added themselves to the admiring group. But somehow her triumphal progress was strangely unsatisfactory; the glory was dimmed.

At recess, Josephine paired off with Milly Smith, who stood first in geography and wore two curly feathers in her hat. Clarabel shared her cookies with Minnie Cater, because it didn't matter who helped eat them if it wasn't Josephine. Neither spoke to the other, and at noontime they walked home on different sides of the street.

Perhaps that was why in the afternoon Clarabel lost her place in the reader and failed on so many examples in arithmetic that she was told she must stay after school.

Usually there would have been several to keep her company, but on this day there was no one else,—even Angelina Maybelle Remington had got through without disaster,—and Clarabel, wistful-eyed, saw the other girls file out.

At another time Josephine would have stayed; she always did when Clarabel had to, as Clarabel did when she was in like need. But to-night she filed out with the rest, and Clarabel, with a sense of desertion, bent over her problems of men and hay to mow, men and potatoes to dig, men and miles of railroad to build.

The noise of scurrying feet grew fainter, the sound of children's voices died away. The room settled into stillness, except for the solemn tick of the clock and the scratching of Clarabel's pencil on the slate. There were fractions in the problems, and fractions were always hard for Clarabel. Her pencil stopped often while she frowned at the curly-tailed figures. In one of these pauses the door squeaked open a little way. It squeaked again, and some one sidled into the room; it was Josephine.

"Please may I go to my seat?" she asked.

"Certainly," said the teacher, and watched her curiously.

She tiptoed to the back seat, fumbled for a few minutes in her desk, then slipped to a seat a few rows farther in front; then to another and another, till she had reached the row in which Clarabel sat.

Clarabel, though she was bending over her slate, had heard every hesitating move, and when the last halt was made she shook her curls back from her eyes, looked around, and dimpled into smiles.

The teacher, watching, waited to see what would happen next. Nothing did, except that the two little girls sat and smiled and smiled and smiled as if they never would stop.

Presently the teacher herself smiled and spoke. She had a very sweet voice sometimes—one that seemed to hint at happy secrets. That was the way it sounded now.

"Would you like to help Clarabel, Josephine?" she asked. "You may if you wish to."

"If she'll let me," answered Josephine, her eyes fixed on Clarabel's face.

"I would love to have her," said Clarabel, her eyes on Josephine. And instantly the one narrow seat became large enough for two.

For ten minutes more there was great scratching of slate-pencils and much whispering and some giggling. Then with cheerful clatter the slate was borne to the platform. The teacher looked at the little girls more than at the examples. "I'm sure they're right," she said. "Now, off to your homes—both of you!"

"Good night," said Clarabel.

"Good night," said Josephine.

"Good night, dear little girls," said the teacher.

There was a soft swish of dresses and the children had reached the dressing-room. Within its familiar narrowness, Josephine hesitated and fingered her cloak-buttons.

"I think your Aunt Bessie"—it was very slow speech for Josephine—"is ever so nice and knows a lot."

"Oh!" bubbled Clarabel, joyously, "I do love the color of your mittens! Don't you—don't you"—she finished with a rush—"want to let me wear them home and you wear my gloves?"

Josephine put aside the dazzling offer.

"Your gloves are prettier and you ought to wear them."

Clarabel thought a minute, a shadow in her eyes.

"I know what," she declared, the shadow vanishing. "You wear one glove and mitten and I'll wear the other glove and mitten!"

"Oh!" said Josephine, with a rapturous hug, "that will be splendid!"

And thus they scampered home, the two mittened hands holding each other tight, while the two gloved hands were gaily waved high in the air with each fresh outburst of laughter from the little schoolmates.



Molly was such a little girl that she didn't seem big enough to have a party all her own with truly ice-cream in it. But she had asked for one so many times that at last Mother decided to give her one. And the party was to be a surprise to Molly herself.

Early that afternoon Molly wanted to go for a little visit to Miss Eleanor. Miss Eleanor lived up Molly's street, in a white house with apple-green blinds. Molly often went all alone.

Miss Eleanor was always so sunny and full of songs and stories and games that Molly loved her next best to Father and Mother and Baby.

"You may go, dear," said Mother, "if you will come home exactly at three o'clock."

"You always say exactly three o'clock, Mother," said Molly.

"Well, five minutes after three, then," laughed Mother. "And, Molly, so that you won't forget this time, all the way to Miss Eleanor's, say over and over, 'Five minutes after three.' Then, just as soon as you get there, say the words quickly to Miss Eleanor, 'Five minutes after three.'"

"Five minutes after three," said Molly; "I can remember that."

"That will give me plenty of time to get ready for the party," thought Mother.

Up the street with her white parasol flew Molly. "Five minutes after three," she said over and over in a whisper until she began to sing it. "Five minutes after three," she sang until she stopped a moment on the bridge to see some boys fishing. Just about there, a big dog who was a friend of Molly's ran out to say, "Good afternoon."

"Oh, Fritzie," cried Molly, "I'm going to Miss Eleanor's to make her a visit. Want to come?"

But Fritz had the house to look after. So Molly gave him a hug and ran along.

"Three minutes after five," sang Molly; "three minutes after five," over and over until she ran into Miss Eleanor's sunny little sitting-room.

"Three minutes after five," cried Molly; "that's how long I can stay. Won't that be nice?"

"Why, it's little Molly!" cried Miss Eleanor, "I'm all alone and so glad to have company! We'll hear the clock strike five. Then, if you put on your wraps, you'll be all ready to start home at three minutes past."

It seemed a very very short time to Molly before the little clock struck five.

"There, deary," said Miss Eleanor. "Put on your things and hurry right along!"

Molly put on her hat and coat. Then she kissed Miss Eleanor and hurried down the street.

When she reached the corner, she saw that the parlor at home was all lighted. And out of it came such a hubbub of little voices all laughing and talking that Molly ran faster than ever.

At the door she met Mother.

"Oh, Molly, where have you been?" cried Mother. "I couldn't go after you because I couldn't leave Baby. And I couldn't take him."

Molly scarcely heard. "Oh, Mother, Mother," she cried, "it looks like a party. And it sounds like one. Is it a party, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mother, "your own little party, Molly. And you're the only one who is late. How could you forget?"

"But I didn't forget, Mother," cried Molly, hurrying out of her coat, "truly I didn't. Every step of the way I said it, and I said it to Miss Eleanor the very first thing."

"What did you say?" asked Mother.

"Three minutes after five," said Molly.

Mother laughed. "Why, Molly dear, you got the hour and minutes turned around. I said five minutes after three. Well, never mind. Run along just as you are. It's a lovely party, dear, with truly ice-cream in it."



Edith was a little girl who was just learning to write. Her mother told her one day that she could have a tea-party on the next Tuesday, if the weather was fine, and that she could invite her little friend Helen, who lived on the same street, though not very far away; but she must write the letter to ask Helen to come. So, Edith got up at her mother's writing-desk and took some of her own writing paper, and began to write. She could make the letters but she could not spell very well. She asked her mother how to spell the words and then she wrote them down. And this is the letter she wrote:

Then she sealed the letter in the envelop, and put a stamp on it, and stood on the front piazza so as to give it to the postman herself.

When Tuesday came, Edith's nurse dressed her in a fresh, white frock, and Edith dressed her dolly in her best dress, and went out under the trees where her nurse had set the table for two. And then she sat in a chair at the table and waited. But the big town clock struck four and no Helen came; and then she waited for half an hour longer. Then Edith put her dolly down on the chair and went in the house to find her mother.

"Mama," she said, "I think Helen is very rude, she doesn't come to my party and I invited her!"

"Just wait a little longer, dear," said her mother, "and she will come. Maybe her nurse was busy dressing Helen's little sister and brother and couldn't get her ready in time."

"But I invited her," was all Edith could say; "but I invited her, and she doesn't come."

Then her mother went to the telephone and called up Helen's mother. In a moment she came back.

"Edith, dear," she said, "what day did you write Helen to come? Her mother says she thought it was to be Thursday, and so did Helen, and this is only Tuesday."

"But I did say Tuesday, mama," said Edith, who was almost ready to cry. "I remember because that was the hardest word to spell, and I think I made a blot when I wrote it."

"Well, never mind, dear; Helen is getting ready now and will be over in a few minutes," said her mama.

And Edith was very happy, and ran out to the tea-table under the trees with her doll to wait.

But she did not have to wait very long this time, for in a little while Helen came running across the lawn carrying her doll; and so happy were both little girls that Edith forgot all about the long time she had been waiting for Helen to come.

Helen wanted Edith to know that she had not been rude in staying away, so she brought with her the letter Edith had sent to her, so she could show it to Edith. And there, sure enough, the word "Tuesday" was written so badly that it looked more like "Thursday," and that was why Helen did not think she was expected on this day.

Well, the very first thing they did was to undress their dolls and put them to sleep under one of the bushes on the lawn—in the shade, so that the sun would not hurt their eyes, and so that the wax would not be melted from their cheeks. Edith put her napkin over both dolls for a comforter, for you never know when it will blow up cold, and little girls have to be as careful of their dolls as their own mothers are!

Very soon the maid came out with cookies and lady-fingers and make-believe tea, and another napkin to take the place of the one Edith had put over the dolls, and they had tea. Then the two little girls and Edith's nurse had a nice game of croquet, and they had a lovely tea-party after all, and Edith forgot all about waiting so long for Helen to come.

But Edith never again made a mistake when she spelled "Tuesday."



I have a doll, Rebecca, She's quite a little care, I have to press her ribbons And comb her fluffy hair.

I keep her clothes all mended, And wash her hands and face, And make her frocks and aprons, All trimmed in frills and lace.

I have to cook her breakfast, And pet her when she's ill; And telephone the doctor When Rebecca has a chill.

Rebecca doesn't like that, And says she's well and strong; And says she'll try—oh! very hard, To be good all day long.

But when night comes, she's nodding; So into bed we creep And snuggle up together, And soon are fast asleep.

I have no other dolly, For you can plainly see, In caring for Rebecca, I'm busy as can be!



"It seems very queer," said Dorothea thoughtfully, "people who are going to do something nice always have presents given them, but people who are going to do something horrid never get a thing, and they need it twice as much."

"As for instance?" said her father, laying down his paper and drawing her onto his knee, while the rest of the family prepared to give the customary amused attention to their youngest's remarks.

"Well, when Cousin Edith went to Europe we all gave her presents to take with her, and when she came home lots of people sent her flowers. Anita's been getting cups and things ever since she was engaged, and last spring, when Florence graduated, almost all the family gave her something; and when Mary Bowman was confirmed she got a lovely white prayer-book and a gold cross and chain. But when people are going to do what they hate to do, they're left out in the cold."

"What are you going to do that you don't like, Baby?" asked Florence.

"Why, you know, school begins again next week," said Dorothea. "It makes me feel quite mournful, and I don't see anything to cheer me up and make it interesting for me." A little smile was hidden in the corners of her mouth although her tone was as doleful as possible.

"If you were going to boarding-school—" began Anita, who was apt to take everything seriously.

"Then I'd have lots of things," interrupted Dorothea. "New clothes and a trunk and a bag, and you'd all come to see me off, and it would be interesting. But I'm going to work just as hard here at day-school, and yet I've got to bear it, all by myself."

Her father pinched her ear, and her big brother Jim offered to have a bunch of roses placed on her desk at school if that would make her feel better, while her two sisters looked at each other as though the same idea had occurred to them both.

* * *

On the morning of the first day of school, Dorothea was suddenly awakened by a loud ting-a-ling-a-ling. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The room was flooded with morning light and the brass knobs on her bed gleamed cheerfully at her and seemed to say: "Get up, get up!" Now Dorothea was a "sleepyhead" and had seldom been known to get up when first awakened. It usually took at least three calls from her mother or the girls, and sometimes Jim stole in and administered a "cold pig," that is, a few drops of chilly water squeezed upon her neck from a sponge, before she was ready to leave her comfortable bed.

"It's an alarm clock," thought Dorothea. "But where is it?" Her eyes traveled sleepily around the room but saw nothing that had not been there the night before. The ting-a-ling-a-ling sounded once more. "It's in this room somewhere!" she exclaimed, bouncing out of bed. She looked on bureau, washstand, bookcase, and window-seat, and then jumped, for the loud ting-a-ling came almost from underneath her feet. She hastily lifted the drooping cover of a little table that stood near the window, and there on the edge of the lower shelf stood an alarm-clock of the ordinary pattern but of rather extraordinary appearance, owing to a large yellow paper ruff which encircled its face.

"How did it get there?" exclaimed Dorothea in astonishment; and as she gazed the clock burst forth with another loud ting-a-ling.

"Isn't it ever going to stop doing that?" she said, lifting it as she spoke. The yellow ruff seemed to have something written on it, so she took it off and, smoothing it out, read:

DEAR DOLLY: Happy school-day! After much earnest consideration I have selected this as a suitable reminder of this joyful (?) anniversary. It will continue to remind you five mornings in the week, thereby saving your family much wear and tear, for it will be properly wound and set every night by

Your affectionate brother, JIM.

P.S. When you are sufficiently aroused, press the lever and the alarm will stop.

"It's one of those awful clocks that go off every minute!" said Dorothea, carefully examining it to find the lever. She almost dropped it when it began another of its loud and long rings, but she soon found and pressed the lever and thereafter the clock was silent except for its customary tick.

"I don't believe I shall ask anybody to give me presents any more," she said, eying Jim's "reminder" with disfavor. But she changed her mind a little later when, on looking for a clean handkerchief, she discovered a flat square box tied with blue ribbon, and, opening it, saw half a dozen handkerchiefs with narrow blue borders and a little blue D in the corner. On the top was Cousin Edith's visiting-card, on the back of which was printed in fantastic letters:

Dear Dolly: Use a handkerchief Whenever you're inclined to sniff. But with this band of blue I think They don't need polka-dots of ink.

It was a constant wonder to the household what Dorothea did with her handkerchiefs when she was at school. In vain she protested that she didn't wipe her pen on them, and she didn't use them as blotters or to wash out her ink-well; but, nevertheless, black stains almost always appeared upon them, and Florence insisted that the family had to buy an extra pint of milk a day to take out all these ink-stains. Cousin Edith was too frequent a visitor not to know all the family plans and jokes, and Dolly, as she laughed and shook out one of the blue-bordered squares, resolved that "polka-dots" should be conspicuous by their absence, for Edith would be sure to know.

She entered the breakfast room just as the family were sitting down to the table.

"Behold the effects of my generosity and fore-thought!" exclaimed Jim waving his hand toward her. "Our Youngest is in time for breakfast!"

"Many happy returns of the day, small sister," said Anita, just as if it was her birthday, kissing her good morning and slipping a little hard package into her hand. "Bob sends you this with his love."

"I don't mind returns of the day when it's like this," said Dorothea, opening the package and at the same time spying a couple of tissue-paper parcels lying beside her plate. Inside was a small chamois-skin case out of which slid a little pearl-handled penknife. The accompanying card bore the name of her future brother-in-law, and also these words:

I hesitate to offer you This knife, for I shall be Afraid that if you cut yourself You straightway will cut me.

"How long did it take Bob to execute that masterpiece?" inquired Jim as Dorothea read it aloud.

"You're jealous," she said. "Yours wasn't half so lovely as Cousin Edith's and Bob's. It wasn't poetry at all."

"I left all the eloquence to my gift itself," answered Jim, helping himself to an orange.

Dorothea paid no attention to him, for she was opening a small package fastened by a rubber band. It was a silver-mounted eraser with a tiny brush at one end. The inclosed note read:

This advice I must repeat; Spare the rub and spoil the sheet. If you can't restrain your speed, This will prove a friend in need.

Dolly joined rather shamefacedly in the general smile, as she thanked Florence, whose writing she had recognized. She was very apt to postpone her work until the last minute, and then rush through it as fast as possible; her compositions suffered from the many careless mistakes that she was always in too much of a hurry to correct, while her drawings belonged to what Jim called the "slap-dash school."

"We shall know by the amount of rubber left at the end of the term whether you have taken my valuable advice," said Florence. "What's in that other package, Baby? I know it is Anita's by the extreme elegance of its appearance."

Dorothea opened an oblong package tied with green ribbon and found a set of blotters fastened to a dark green suede cover ornamented with an openwork design of four-leaf clovers, and a pen-wiper to match. On top lay a slip of paper on which was written in Anita's pretty hand:

Wishing "Our Youngest" good luck and a happy school year.

"I'm not good at verses, so you'll have to be content with plain prose," said Anita, and Dorothea assured her that she was quite satisfied.

"Half past eight, Dolly," said her mother when breakfast was over. "It is time you started."

"Oh, not yet, mother," said Dorothea the Dawdler. "It only takes me fifteen minutes."

"Now, see here," said Jim; "what do you suppose stirring young business-men like your father and brother are lingering until the nine o'clock train for, unless it is to see you off for school? We want to give you as good a send-off as possible, for you're going to be absent four whole hours, but we can't,—unless you do your part and begin to go pretty soon. I don't believe you've got all your books together, as it is."

"Yes, I have," answered Dorothea triumphantly. "They are all on the hall table, for I put them there last night. Oh, gracious!" she exclaimed blankly: "I forgot to see whether I had any pencils! I don't believe I have one! Jim, lend me yours, won't you? Just for to-day."

"Lend you my most cherished possession? Never!" said Jim, placing his hand dramatically over his breast pocket.

"Then, Daddy, won't you please lend me yours?"

"Trot along, trot along!" said her father; and Dorothea, not knowing quite what to make of having her demands thus ignored, put on her big sailor hat and started to gather up her books. On top of the pile was a slender inlaid box under a card bearing the words, "For Dolly, from Father." Pushing back the sliding cover, Dorothea saw that the box contained a row of pencils, all beautifully sharpened, a dozen pens, and a slim gunmetal penholder.

"Oh!" she squealed with delight. "So that's why you wouldn't lend me any pencils!" and gave her father a hug.

"Hurry up, now," said Jim. "Don't forget we've got to see ourselves off after we've seen you."

"Why don't you take your bag?" asked Anita.

"It's too small for my new Geography," answered Dorothea, placing this huge outward and visible sign of her progress in learning so that it would form a foundation for the rest of her books. "Besides, it's too shabby".

"You had better take it to-day, anyhow, as you have so much to carry," suggested her mother. "I brought it downstairs and it's on the hat-rack."

"I just hate it!" pouted Dorothea, turning; and then stopped in surprise, for instead of her little old satchel, a large new one made of soft dark brown leather was hanging on the rack. It was ornamented on one side with her monogram in raised tan-colored letters, and it was large enough for the largest Geography that she was ever likely to have.

"Who gave me that?" she cried. "Oh, I know—Mother! It's just exactly what I wanted. I think going to school this way is perfectly lovely!" she added as she slipped her other possessions into the bag.

"Twenty minutes to nine!" called Jim warningly.

"All right, I'm going now," answered Dorothea gaily as she kissed them all around.

"And the first day of school isn't so dismal after all, is it?" said her father.

"Oh, it's splendid, just splendid!" she replied enthusiastically. At the gate she turned to wave her hand at the assembled family, who waved back at her vigorously; and then, swinging her bag, she ran off down the street toward school.



Doris's papa gave her a five-dollar bill, such a lot of money! Doris went to a big bank and asked if they could give her smaller money for it. The banker said he thought they could. So he gave her two two-dollar bills and a big silver dollar. How much did that make? Doris wanted the dollar changed again; so the banker asked if she would have two fifty-cent pieces, or one fifty-cent piece and two quarters—or perhaps four quarters or ten dimes—or twenty five-cent pieces—or a hundred pennies.

Doris thought a hundred pennies would be a good many to count and to carry, so she said she would take two quarters, three dimes and four five-cent pieces.

She laid away four dollars in the bank, those were the two bills, and put the change in her purse. When she went to the shop, she had such a lot of money that she thought she never could spend it. So she bought a paint-box with two little saucers in it for 10 cents; that left her 90 cents; and then a big rubber balloon for 25 cents; that left 65 cents; and a little one for 10 cents; and then Doris bought a whole pound of candy for thirty cents. Out of the 25 cents she had left, it cost 10 cents to go in the car.

When Doris got home she opened her paint-box. What do you think? Of course it was only a cheap paint-box and the paints were so hard that they would not paint at all. Doris cut out the dolls, but they were no better than those in any newspaper's colored supplement. Doris's mama said that the candy was too bad to eat at all, and the rubber balloons got wrinkled and soft in the night, because the gas went out of them. Doris cried when she saw them. "Now," she said, "I have nothing left of my beautiful dollar but 15 cents."

"I'm sorry, Dearie," Doris's mama said, "but it's bad enough to have wasted one dollar without crying about it, too. When you and I go out, we'll try to get such good things for the next dollar, that it will make up for our mistake about this one." The next bright day they went to the bank and got another dollar.

Now Doris's mama was a very wise person (mamas often are). So they went to a store where there were some books that had been wet a little by the firemen when the store caught fire. There they found a large, fine book of animal stories with pictures in it that had been 50 cents, but the book-store man sold it for 10 cents, because the back cover and a little bit of the edge was stained with water and smoke.

That left—how much? Ninety cents. Doris's brother had told her he would teach her to play marbles, so she bought six glass marbles for 5 cents and a hoop with a stick for 5 more. That left 80 cents.

Then Doris asked if her mama thought she could buy a pair of roller skates. Her mama said they could ask how much roller skates cost, but the shopman said they were a dollar a pair! So Doris said she would save up the 80 cents that was left of her dollar and wait until she had enough for the skates.

However, a little boy was looking in at the window of the toy-shop and he looked so sad, and so longingly at the toys, that Doris spoke to him, and when he said he wanted one of the red balls, she bought it for 5 cents, and gave it to him. That left 75 cents.

When they got home, they told papa about the skates and he said he could get them down-town for 75 cents, and he did.

So Doris learned by losing her first dollar, to get a lot of good things that would be more useful and would last longer, with her second dollar.



"I've been crying again, father."

"Have you, sweetheart? I'm sorry."


"Yes, darling."

"I don't like Holland at all. I wish we had stayed in New York. And I would much rather stay in Amsterdam with you to-day than to go and see those horrid little Dutch children. I'm sure I shall hate them all."

"But how about Marie? You want to see her, don't you?"

"No. I'm very much annoyed with Marie. I don't see why she could not have been contented in New York. After taking care of me ever since I was a baby, she must like me better than those nieces and nephews she never saw till yesterday."

"I am sure Marie loves you very dearly, Katharine, but you are getting to be such a big girl now that you no longer need a nurse, and Marie was homesick. She wished to come back to Holland years ago, but I persuaded her to stay till you were old enough to do without her, and until Aunt Katharine was ready to come to New York and live with us, promising her that when that time came you and I would come over with her, just as we have done, on our way to Paris. We must not be selfish and grudge Marie to her sisters, who have not seen her for twelve years."

"I am homesick now, too, father. I was so happy in New York with my dolls—and you—and Marie—and—"

"So you shall be again, darling; in a few months we will go back, taking dear Aunt Katharine with us from Paris, and you will soon love her better than you do Marie."

Katharine and her father, Colonel Easton, were floating along a canal just out of Amsterdam, in a trekschuit, or small passenger-boat, on their way to the home of one of Marie's sisters, two of whom were married and settled near one of the dikes of Holland. Katharine was to spend the day there with her nurse, and make the acquaintance of all the nieces and nephews about whom Marie had told her so much, while her father was to return to Amsterdam, where he had business to transact with a friend. They had arrived in Holland only the day before, when Marie had immediately left them, being anxious to get home as soon as possible, after exacting a promise from the colonel that Katharine should visit her the next day.

Katharine felt very sure she would never like Holland as she gazed rather scornfully at the curious objects they passed: the queer gay-colored boats, the windmills which met the eye at every turn, with their great arms waving in the air, the busy-looking people, men and women, some of the latter knitting as they walked, carrying heavy baskets on their backs, and all looking so contented and placid.

"Try and think of the nice day you are going to have with Marie and the children," said the colonel; "then this evening I will come for you, and we will go together to Paris, and when you see Aunt Katharine you will be perfectly happy. See, we are nearly at the landing, and look at that row of little girls and boys. I do believe they are looking for you."

"Yes; they must be Marie's sister's children, I know them from the description Marie has read me from her letters. Aren't they horrid little things, father? Just look at their great clumps of shoes—"

"Yes—klompen; that is what they are called, Katharine."

"And their baggy clothes and short waists! One of them knitting, too! Well, I would never make such a fright of myself, even if I did live in Holland, which I'm glad I don't."

By this time they had made the landing. Then Katharine and Marie fell into each other's arms and cried, gazed at in half-frightened curiosity by seven small, shy Hollanders, and in pitying patience by a very large colonel.

"Au revoir. I will call for Katharine this afternoon," called Colonel Easton, when the time came for him to go on board again.

Katharine waved her handkerchief to her father as long as his boat was in sight.

"See, Miss Katharine," said Marie—in Dutch now, for Katharine understood that language very well, Marie having spoken it to her from her infancy—"here is Gretel, and this is her little sister Katrine and her brother Jan. The others are their cousins. Come here, Lotten; don't be shy. Ludolf, Mayken, Freitje, shake hands with my little American girl; they were all eager to come and meet you, dear, so I had to bring them."

Katharine shook hands very soberly with the little group, and then walked off beside Marie, hearing nothing but the clatter-clatter of fourteen wooden shoes behind her.

Soon they arrived at the cottage, and in a moment seven pairs of klompen were ranged in a neat row outside a small cottage, while their owners all talked at once to two sweet-faced women standing in the doorway. These were Marie's sisters, whose husbands were out on the sea fishing, and who lived close beside each other in two tiny cottages exactly alike.

"Oh," exclaimed Katharine, as, panting and breathless, she joined the group, "do you always take off your shoes before you go into the house?"

"Why, of course," said the children.

"How funny!" said Katharine.

Then Marie, who had been left far behind, came up and introduced the little stranger to Juffrouw Van Dyne and Juffrouw Boekman, who took her into the house, followed by the three children who belonged there and the four cousins who belonged next door. They took off her coat and hat and gave her an arm-chair to sit in as she nibbled a tiny piece of gingerbread, while large pieces from the same loaf disappeared as if by magic among the other children. Then Gretel showed to her her doll; Jan shyly put into her hand a very pretty small model of the boat she had come in on that morning; Lotten offered her a piece of Edam cheese, which she took, while politely declining Mayken's offer to teach her to knit, little Katrine deposited a beautiful white kitten on her lap; Ludolf showed her a fine pair of klompen on which his father was teaching him to carve some very pretty figures; Freitje brought all his new fishing-tackle and invited her to go fishing with him at the back of the house. It was not long before Katharine forgot that she was homesick, and grew really interested in her surroundings; and later the dinner, consisting chiefly of fish and rye bread, tasted very good to the now hungry Katharine.

It was after dinner that the tragedy happened. The children had all started out for a walk. Before they had gone more than a mile from the house the fog settled all around them—so dense, so thick, blotting out everything, that they could not see more than a step ahead. They were not frightened, however, as all they had to do was to turn round and go straight ahead toward home. The children took one another's hands at Gretel's direction, stretching themselves across the road, Katharine, who held Gretel's hand, being at one end of the line. They walked on slowly along the dike for a short time, talking busily, though not able to see where they were going, when suddenly Katharine felt her feet slipping. In trying to steady herself she let go of Gretel, gave a wild clutch at the air, and then rolled, rolled, right down a steep bank, and, splash! into a pool of water at the bottom. For a moment she lay half stunned, not knowing what had happened to her; then, as her sense came, "Oh," thought she, "I must be killed, or drowned, or something!" She tried to call "Gretel," but her voice sounded weak and far off, and she could see nothing. Slowly she crawled out of the pool, only to plunge, splash! into another. She felt, oh, so cold, wet, and bruised! "I must have rolled right down the dike," she thought. "If I could find it, I might climb up again." She got up and tried to walk, but sank to her ankles in water at every step.

She was a little lame from her fall, and soaked from head to foot. Her clothes hung around her most uncomfortably when she tried to walk. But, if she had to crawl on hands and knees, she must find the house; so, plunging, tumbling, rising again, she crawled in and out of ditches, every minute getting more cold and miserable.

But on she went, shivering and sore, every moment wandering farther from her friends, who were out searching all along the bottom of the dike.

After what seemed to her a long time, she came bump up against something hard. She did not know what it was, but she could have jumped for joy, if her clothes had not been so heavy to hear a voice suddenly call out in Dutch "What's that? Who has hit against my door? Ach! where in the world have you come from?" Then in a considerably milder tone: "Ach! the little one! and she is English. How did you get here, dear heart?"

"I—I—fell down the dike. I have—lost—everybody. Oh, how shall I ever get back to father?" answered Katharine in her very poor Dutch.

"But tell me, little one, where you came from—ach! so cold and wet!"

"I was spending the day with Marie and Gretel—and—Jan—and we were walking on the dike when the fog came on; then I fell, and could not find my way—"

"Gretel and Jan—could they be Juffrouw Van Dyne's children?"

"Yes, yes," eagerly; "that is where I was. Oh, can you take me back, dear, dear juffrouw?"

"Yes, when the fog clears away, my child. I could not find the house now; it is more than two miles from here. Besides, you must put off these wet clothes; you will get your death of cold—poor lambkin."

At this Katharine's sobs broke forth afresh. It must be late in the evening now, she thought; her father would come to Marie's and would not be able to find her—

"No, dear child, it is only four o'clock in the afternoon. The fog may clear away very soon, and then I will take you back."

Quickly the wet garments were taken off and hung about the stove. Katharine presently found herself wrapped up in blankets in a great arm-chair in front of the fire, a cushion at her back and another under her feet, drinking some nice hot broth, and feeling so warm and comfortable that she fell fast asleep, and awoke two hours later to find the room quite light, the fog almost gone, the juffrouw sitting beside her knitting, and a comfortable-looking cat purring noisily at her feet.

"I think I have been asleep," she said.

"I think you have," said Dame Donk.

Just then a loud knock was heard at the door, a head was poked in, then another, and still another. The cottage was fast filling up. There stood, first of all, poor, pale, frightened Marie, holding a large bundle in her arms, Jan with another smaller one, Gretel carrying a pair of shoes, and one of the sisters, completely filling up the doorway with her ample proportions, last of all.

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