قراءة كتاب The Nursery, March 1881, Vol. XXIX A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers

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The Nursery, March 1881, Vol. XXIX
A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers

The Nursery, March 1881, Vol. XXIX A Monthly Magazine for Youngest Readers

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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TURTLES.

A


LMOST every one thinks of turtles as exceedingly slow and stupid. Perhaps they may be rather slow, though you know who won the race in the fable of the turtle and the hare. As for their stupidity, I doubt whether they are so very stupid, for I once had one that seemed to me very bright.

When I put him on the floor or ground, he would stay quite still, and draw in his head and legs, until I turned away, or busied myself with something else; then he would make off as fast as his little legs would carry him.

I once lost one in that way: so, now that I know their tricks, I am more careful. But certainly that turtle must have had some sense to be able to tell when my back was turned, or even when I was not looking.

Their habits are quite peculiar. In summer they stay in the water most of the time, coming out only now and then to sun themselves on some log or branch. In the winter they bury themselves in the mud, or remain in a torpid state. When spring comes, they lay their eggs.

They live chiefly on bugs; but I have heard of one living a whole year without any thing to eat. They are very patient, and I have seen one try for hours to get over a wall that one would think he could never get over; and yet he would succeed.

I have a turtle now that will have a funny story to tell his friends, if he ever reaches his native home again. This is it: I once took him to school with me, and left him in a box, with the cover half open, on a table in the dressing-room. In about an hour I heard a suppressed laugh from one of the girls, and, looking up, I saw Mr. Turtle calmly walking into school. He wanted to learn something as well as the rest of us.

LITTLE CHICK.


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RATHER BASHFUL!

Girl in large sunbonnet
Under this great sunbonnet
Is hid a pretty face,
Belonging to a little girl
Whose name, they say, is Grace.
She is a merry little girl,
As good as good can be;
But she is rather bashful,
As any one may see.
W.


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FEEDING THE SWANS IN WINTER.

I


T is a cold day in February. The icicles hang from the trees. The pond is partly frozen over. Mary and her dog Pug have come down to take a look at the swans.

The swans are often fed by girls and boys in the summer; but in winter they have few visitors: so they are glad to see Mary, and waddle up on the ice to meet her.

She feeds them with something that looks to me like a banana, and they eat it greedily. Pug looks on fiercely, as though he did not quite approve of their doings, and had half a mind to interfere.

Girl feeding swans with pug dog watching

Take care, Pug: you had better keep in the background. A blow from a swan's wing would not be good fun to a small dog. Let the swans eat their luncheon in peace.

IDA FAY.


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TWO FRIENDS.

Two girls hugging

Jane and Ann were good friends, but one morning they had a quarrel. They soon made it up. Jane put her arms round Ann's neck, and said, "I am sorry." Ann gave her a kiss, and they were friends again.

Two girls walking with their arms around each other

Here you see them taking a walk. They have on good warm coats, for it is a very cold day. Just see how lovingly they clasp each other. They are having a nice little chat. I wonder what they are saying.

A. B. C.


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Bird in a tree, branches spell: BIRD, LAMB, BABY.
There was a wee bird that would not sleep,
Though twilight was falling hushed and deep,
And what did its mother do?
She sang it the song it loved the best,
She folded it softly in the nest,
And then, ere that mother knew,
Her birdie had gone to sleep.
lamb lying against mama in pasture
There was a wee lamb that still would play,
Though others were resting, after day,
And what did its mother do?
She called it so gently to her side,
She soothed it with loving care and pride,
And then, ere that mother knew,
Her lambkin had gone to sleep.
mama next to baby in bassinet

There was a wee babe that would not rest,
Though crimson and purple crowned the west,
And what did its mother do?
She made this wee song of lamb and bird,
She sang it so softly, every word,
And then, ere that mother knew,
Her darling had gone to sleep.
GEORGE

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