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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
dolly,
But she's too fine to hold!"
ROSY.
LIZZIE.
(Bringing slowly out an old doll which she has been holding in her hand behind her.)
I tried to keep her hidden
She's such a sorry sight.
If you had been here Christmas,
I know you would have said
That she was very lovely,
With cheeks like roses red,
And hair that shone like sunbeams,
And pretty, tasteful gown;
But I have been too heedless
Where I have laid her down.
I'd start up in a hurry,
And drop her here or there.
Her head—aunt Sally crushed it:
I left it in a chair.
Bad Jip, our naughty puppy,
Has dragged her all about.
She lost one arm; the sawdust
Has from her form come out.
Her head is cracking open,
Her clothes are soiled and old,
Yet this poor battered dolly
Is all I have to hold.
And I can have no other,
My mother says to me,
Until I learn more careful
And orderly to be."
JENNY.
And play with her: I know
You will be very gentle,
Because I love her so.
She's but a common dolly,
She has a simple dress;
But then to me she's pretty,
I love her none the less.
I have one place to keep her,—
The closet's lowest shelf:
With mother's help I'm learning
To make her clothes myself.
I kiss her and caress her,
And, when the daylight flies,
I tenderly undress her,
And sing her lullabies.
Kate's doll is fine to look at,
All decked with lace and gold;
But mine's the dearest dolly
In all this world to hold."
THE FAITHFUL SENTINEL.
HEN there is war, the safety of an army may depend on the quickness and courage of one sentinel. If he sleeps at his post, he is shot. The sentinel I am to tell you about never fell asleep on duty, never ran away from an enemy, carried no musket, and wore no uniform.
It was more than a hundred years ago that this trusted guard did duty; and when he died, not a drum was heard, and no soldiers fired a volley over his grave. You cannot find his name on the roll of enlisted men; and yet no soldier was ever more faithful.
There was war with the Indians at the time of which I write, and a family of settlers lived in what is now the State of Maine, on the bank of the River Androscoggin. One day the children of the family went down by the river to pick berries.
With the little party of boys and girls went the family dog. He was trained to follow the trail of Indians, and to give warning of their approach. The watchful dog took his place, like a sentinel, near the children, while they ran about from bush to bush, eating more berries than went into the pail.
Suddenly the dog gave a low growl, and looked angrily toward a heap of brush at the edge of the woods. The children knew what that meant, and, without waiting to see what the danger was, they ran at once towards the block-house.
The faithful dog did not run, but stood on guard to meet the Indian whom he had seen coming from the thicket. It was not far to the house; and the children were soon in a place of safety, while the Indian skulked back to the woods.
Several years after, when the war was all over, this very same Indian came that way, and talked with the children. They treated him kindly, and he became their good friend. But he often told them of the danger they all were in, that afternoon, when the good dog gave them such timely warning.
The dog lived to a good old age, and was loved and petted by the family as long as he lived; and to this day the descendants of Enoch and Esther, Martha and Samuel, the children saved by the dog, tell the story that I have related, and speak gratefully of the faithful sentinel.
BRUCE AND OLD SHEEPY.
ANY years ago, I spent a few weeks with some friends who lived upon a large milk-farm in the State of New York. They made a great many pounds of butter every day, and packed it in firkins for market. So much churning could not be done by hand, and, as working by steam was not common then, they were obliged to employ dogs, and sometimes sheep.
In the basement of the farm-house was a huge churn, the handle of which was attached to a large barrel made of slats, in such a way, that, when the barrel revolved, the churn was worked. When the dairy-maid was ready to churn, she would lock Bruce, their great dog, into this barrel, and say to him, "Go on, Bruce." If he went on, at every step he turned the barrel. The faster the barrel turned, the faster the churn-handle moved up and down, and the sooner the butter came.
Bruce did not like this kind of work; and who of us would? He often tried to shirk it by running away; but when John, the farmer's son, perceived this trick, he took care to secure the dog over night. The