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قراءة كتاب The Nursery, July 1877, XXII. No. 1 A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers
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اللغة: English
The Nursery, July 1877, XXII. No. 1 A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers
الصفحة رقم: 1
THE
NURSERY
A Monthly Magazine
For Youngest Readers.
VOLUME XXII.—No. 1.
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET,
1877.
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET,
1877.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by
JOHN L. SHOREY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
FRANKLIN PRESS:
RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY,
117 FRANKLIN STREET,
BOSTON.
IN PROSE.
| PAGE | |
| Percy and the Oxen | 3 |
| Pet Rabbits | 5 |
| Fourth of July Morning | 7 |
| A Fish Story | 11 |
| Buttercup's Circus | 13 |
| At Sea | 14 |
| Drawing-Lesson | 17 |
| Solomon and the tame Bear | 18 |
| Sixth Lesson in Astronomy | 21 |
| Pictures for Mary | 25 |
| The Chamois | 28 |
IN VERSE.
| PAGE | |
| The Wild Bees' Home | 1 |
| Chipping-Birds' Song | 6 |
| The little Deserter | 9 |
| At Dinner | 20 |
| Teddy's Kitten | 23 |
| The Garden Tools | 30 |
| What does little Birdie say? (with music) | 32 |
Wild bees of the wood are we;
But our hive you must not see.
But our hive you must not see.
THE WILD BEES' HOME.
Wild bees of the wood are we;
But our hive you must not see:
Here behold our happy home,
Where we labor, where we roam.
Brooks that on their shining bosoms
Catch the overhanging blossoms;
Banks all bright with clustering flowers,—
Here is where we pass our hours.
Seldom on this solitude
Does a girl or boy intrude;
Few among you are aware
What a home is ours, so fair!
In the brook are little fish;
You would like them on a dish:
Keep away, and bring no hooks
To these happy, murmuring brooks.
You would like to find our hoard
Of honey-comb and honey stored;
You would track us, if you could,
Through the field, and through the wood,
Till, within some hollow tree,
You our waxen cells could see.
But beware now what you do;
Treat us well, and we'll treat you.
But our hive you must not see:
Here behold our happy home,
Where we labor, where we roam.
Brooks that on their shining bosoms
Catch the overhanging blossoms;
Banks all bright with clustering flowers,—
Here is where we pass our hours.
Seldom on this solitude
Does a girl or boy intrude;
Few among you are aware
What a home is ours, so fair!
In the brook are little fish;
You would like them on a dish:
Keep away, and bring no hooks
To these happy, murmuring brooks.
You would like to find our hoard
Of honey-comb and honey stored;
You would track us, if you could,
Through the field, and through the wood,
Till, within some hollow tree,
You our waxen cells could see.
But beware now what you do;
Treat us well, and we'll treat you.
Dora Burnside.