قراءة كتاب The Nursery, February 1873, Vol. XIII. A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers
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The Nursery, February 1873, Vol. XIII. A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers
when grandpa came in from the orchard, they had a nice supper. They had peaches and cream, and biscuits and honey; and, oh! how good every thing tasted!
Philly lent Harry his cup with the picture of a queen on one side, and "Remember me" on the other; and Harry drank two cups of milk, the cup was so pretty.
After supper Harry's eyes began to droop; and so mamma said, "Kiss grandpa, my little boy, and the dear little cousins, and then let's run to bed with sleepy head."
In six seconds after Harry's head touched the pillow, he was fast asleep.
The next morning he awoke fresh and bright; and, after breakfast, Philly and Harry went out into the road to play. They made little sand-hills and houses of pebble-stones, and dug wells in the sand, and had a real good time.
In the afternoon, mamma put the cloaks and hats on Harry and Freddy; Uncle David drove up to the house; and they all got into the carriage, and had a nice ride home.
JACK FROST.
He comes every winter, you know:
But we're hardy and bold,
And we don't mind the cold,
And we welcome the ice and the snow.
Jack Frost plays a rough sort of game
With the children wherever he goes:
He pinches their cheeks;
Their noses he tweaks;
And he treads on their ten little toes.
Jack Frost makes the ground rather hard:
But with thick boots we clatter about;
And we run till our breath
Puffs away like a wreath
Of white steam from the teakettle's spout.
Jack Frost lays his hand on the pond,
And turns it to glittering ice;
Then the skaters they glide,
And the sliders they slide:
Think of that, Charley; isn't it nice!
Jack Frost, he is sure to be found
Where the sleigh-bells are tinkling clear;
As the horses, so strong,
Canter gayly along,
While the lads give a shout and a cheer.
Jack Frost, then, you're welcome again;
Of pleasures you bring us a store:
But be mild as you can,
Oh, you fierce little man!
When you visit the feeble and poor.
MISS JONES'S PICTURE.
I have just been looking at Miss Jones's picture. How do you think Miss Jones looks?
She wears a shawl pinned close up to her throat, a cap tied under her chin, and a pair of spectacles over some very wise-looking eyes.
What a funny-looking picture! I call it a funny picture, because the clothes are an old lady's clothes; but the face is a little girl's face, round and plump and rosy. If I could take off the cap and the shawl and the spectacles, I should see a little girl of four years, with a white dress, a pink sash, and long curls hanging down over her shoulders.
Her name is Edith May. Her mamma calls her Edie. Edie likes to fix herself up, and "play people" as she calls it. She takes many different parts.
Sometimes she is an old lady, and sometimes she is a young lady. Sometimes she plays she is mamma; and then she runs round taking care of her dollies, and says she doesn't know what she shall do now that Tilly has the measles, and Hannah has the chicken-pox, and she verily believes that the baby has the measles too.
The other day, she said she was going to be Miss Jones, and go down to the saloon and have her picture taken.
So she fixed herself up with cap and spectacles and shawl, and went down to the photograph-room, and told the artist that she was Miss Jones, and she had called to have her picture taken.
Then the artist placed a chair for her, and she sat up as straight as she could. When the pictures were finished, he sent them to her mamma, who has sent one to me; and here you have it in "The Nursery."
SUE'S SEASONS.
The crocus thrills at its glowing heart,
The windflower opens its tinted cup,
While the sap mounts merrily up and up.
In the spring all the birds begin,
Early and late to build and sing:
Sweeter music was never heard
Then the merry note of a building bird.
In the summer the roses smile,
Painting the roadside, mile by mile;
The sweet-brier catches you as you pass,
The violets thicken among the grass;
Little nests run over with song,
Little wings grow restless and strong;
Daisies shine in the fields afar,
Odors float where the lilies are.
In the autumn the sap runs down,
And leaves are tinted with gold and brown:
In the winter when wild winds blow,
The leaves are dead in a shroud of snow.
"CLEAR THE COAST!"
I told you last month how Robert hoped that Santa Claus would bring him a sled; and how Robert woke on Christmas morning to find by his bedside a beautiful sled, painted red, with thick iron runners.
The next day he went with Uncle Charles to the hill on Boston Common, near Park Street, to see the boys coast. Here is a picture of the scene, drawn from life; and a very correct idea it will give you of the sport that may be witnessed in Boston after every snow-storm.
Robert had his sled with him; and as he stood with Uncle Charles, looking at the coasters, the little boy longed to be of them and among them. But Uncle Charles said, "You are not quite old enough yet to coast in public: you have not had practice enough."
Then a big boy, who had been admiring Robert's sled, stepped up and said, "I should like to try that sled, sir: I can take the little fellow on
