[Illustration] âWHAT DO THEY SAY IN BABY-LAND?â âWHY, THE ODDEST THINGS; MIGHT AS WELL TRY TO TELL WHAT A BIRDIE SINGS!â [Illustration] BABY-LAND. âHOW MANY MILES TO BABY-LAND?â âANY ONE CAN TELL; UP ONE FLIGHT, TO YOUR RIGHT: PLEASE TO RING THE BELL.â âWHAT DO THEY DO IN BABY-LAND?â âDREAM AND WAKE AND PLAY; LAUGH AND CROW, SHOUT AND GROW: HAPPY TIMES HAVE THEY!â [Illustration] OUR LITTLE TOTâS OWN BOOK OF _Pretty Pictures, Charming Stories, and Pleasing Rhymes and Jingles_. NEW YORK: HURST & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. Copyright, 1912 âBYâ HURST & COMPANY âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â _There was once a very happy little girl who spent her childhood on an old green farm. She had a little sister, and these two children never knew what it was to possess toys from the stores, but played, played, played from dawn till dark, just in the play-places they found on that green farmstead. I so often have to tell my children âhow mama used to playââfor I was that very happy little girlâthat I think other âlittle womenâ of these days will enjoy knowing about those dear old simple play-times._ I.âTHE LITTLE STUMP-HOUSE. One of my pet playhouses was an old stump, out in the pasture. Such a dear, old stump as it was, and so large I could not put my arms more than half way round it! Some of its roots were partly bare of earth for quite a little distance from the stump, and between these roots were great green velvety moss cushions. On the side, above the largest moss cushion, was a little shelf where a bit of the stump had fallen away. On this little shelf I used to place a little old brass candlestick. I used to play that that part of the stump was my parlor. Above the next moss cushion were a number of shelves where I laid pieces of dark-blue broken china I had found and washed clean in the brook. That was my dining-room. There were two or three little bedrooms where the puffy moss beds were as soft as down. My rag dolly had many a nap on those little green beds, all warmly covered up with big sweet-smelling ferns. Then there was the kitchen! Hardly any moss grew there. I brought little white pebbles from the brook, and made a pretty, white floor. Into the side of the stump above this shining floor, I drove a large nail. On this nail hung the little tin pan and iron spoon with which I used to mix up my mud pies. My sister had a stump much like mine, and such fine times as the owners of those two little stump-houses used to have together, only little children know anything about. _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: THE STUMP PLAY-HOUSE.] [Illustration] THE STOLEN LITTLE ONE. A TRUE STORY. [Illustration] Two little girls went shopping with their mamma. While she was at the end of the store, Julie, the youngest, ran to the door. Her mother was too busy to notice her, but Julieâs sister Mattie was watching her. She saw a tall woman pass the door, and snatch up little Julie. Without a word to her mother, Mattie ran after them. Away they went down the street. The woman would soon have outrun Mattie, but her screams attracted the attention of a policeman. He followed too. They came up with the woman as she was darting into a cellar. Mattie told the policeman that the bad woman had stolen her sister Julie. He soon took both children home. Their mother was overjoyed to see them, and praised Mattie for being such a brave little girl. She never let Julie go out of her sight again, when she took her out on the street. PINK HUNTER. âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â II.-THE OLD APPLE-TREE. There was an old apple-tree in the orchard that was the oldest tree in the town. It overtopped the house, and the trunk was very big and brown and rough; but O, the millions of fine green leaves, as soft and smooth as silk, that it held up in the summer air! In the spring it was gay with pink and white blossoms, and then for days the tree would be all alive with the great, black-belted bees. A little later those sweet blossoms would fall off in a rosy rain, and Myra and I would stand under the old apple-tree and try to catch the little, fluttering things in our apron! And then, later still, came little apples, very sour at first, but slowly sweetening until it seemed to me that those juicy, golden-green apples tasted the best of any fruit in all the world! My apron-pockets were always bursting with them! There was a famous horse up in the old tree. It could only be reached by means of a ladder placed against the old treeâs stout trunk! A strange horse, you would call him, but O, the famous rides that I have had on that horseâs broad, brown back! The name of the horse was âGeneral.â Up among the leaves where the sunshine played hide-and-seek was one dear bough that was just broad enough and just crooked enough to form a nice seat. Another bough bent round just in the very place to form a most comfortable back to that seat. A pair of stirrups made of rope, some rope reins tied to the trunk of the tree, and there was my horse, âall saddled and all bridled!â I put my feet into the stirrups, shake my bridle-reins and cry, âGet up, General!â The bough would sway a little, and I and the birds would be off together, swinging and singing, up in a fair green world where there was no one to disturb nest or little rider! The birds would sing to me, and I would sing to them, and which of those little singers was the happiest, I do not know! But I do know that my little heart was full of glee and joy to the brim! _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: RIDING âGENERAL.â] [Illustration] SHE WISHED TO BE A PRINCESS. _A True Story._ Little Mary had had a volume of Hans Andersenâs Fairy Stories given her at Christmas. The story she liked best was âThe Princess and the Pea,â for, like all little girls, little Mary had a natural desire to be a Princess. When she went to bed at night with her doll little Mary would think to herself, âOh, how beautiful to be a real princess of such very fine blood as to feel a little bit of a pea under twenty mattresses!â One morning a comforting idea came to little Mary. âWho knows,â she said to herself, âwith all my very many great grandfathers and grandmothers, but pâraps I am related to some King or Queen way back?â Thereupon, she went to her motherâs pantry and took a bean from the jarâas large a one as she could findâand, going to her room, put it carefully under the hair mattress. That night she went to bed happy, with joyful hopes. In the morning little Maryâs elder sister found her with her head buried in her pillow crying. âOh,â little Mary sobbed, âI did think I might have just a little speck of royal blood in my veins, but I couldnât feel even that big bean under just one mattress!â Nothing would comfort little Mary until her mama explained to her that even princesses were not happy unless they had good hearts; and _she_ could have, if she tried, just as good and royal a heart as any Princess under the sun. _Anne Fiske Davenport._ âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â III.âTHE LITTLE POND. Out in the pasture, was a little pond. This little pond was quite deep in the time of the spring and autumn rains. At such seasons Myra and I would take our little raft made of boards, and by means of some stout sticks would push the raft around on that little pond for hours. The wind would raise little waves, and these waves would splash up against the sides of our little raft with a delicious sort of noise. We used to dress a smooth stick of wood in dollâs clothes. We used to call this wooden dolly by the name of Mrs. Pippy. We would take Mrs. Pippy on board our ship as passenger. Somehow, Mrs. Pippy always contrived to fall overboard. And then, such screaming, such frantic pushing of that raft as there would he, before that calmly-floating Mrs. Pippy was rescued! Just beyond the further edge of the pond was a little swampy place where great clumps of sweet-flag used to grow. Sweet-flag is a water-plant whose leaves are very long and slender and their stem-ends, where they wrap about each other, are good to eat. In summer this little sweet-flag swamp was perfectly dry. But when the rains had come and the little pond was full, this little sweet-flag swamp was covered with water. Right between the pond and the swamp lay a big timber, stretching away like a narrow bridge, with the pond-water lapping it on one side and the swamp-water lapping it on the other. Such exciting times as we used to have running across that little bridge after sweet-flag! âRun! run!â we would cry to each other; and then, away we would go, running like the wind, yet very carefully, for the least misstep was sure to plump us into the water! When the water in the swamp had nearly dried up, a bed of the very nicest kind of mud was left. Taking off our shoes and stockings, we would dance in that sticky mud until we were tired. Then we would hop over the timber and wash our small toes clean in the pond. _Percia V. White._ _Clever Tommy._ [Illustration] âYou like clever cats, Arthur,â said Laura; âand I am sure this is one. See how funnily he is drinking the milk with his paw. Did you know this cat, mamma?â âYes, my dear, I was staying at the house when his mistress found him out. We used to wonder sometimes why there was so little milk for tea, and my friend would say âThey must drink it in the kitchen, for the neck of the milk jug is so narrow, Tom could not get his great head in.â âBut Tom was too clever to be troubled at the narrow neck of the milk or cream jug, and one day when his mistress was coming towards the parlor through the garden, she saw Tom on the table from the window, dipping his paw into the jug like a spoon and carrying the milk to his mouth. Did he not jump down quickly, and hide himself when she walked in, for he well knew he was doing wrong.â âAnd was he punished, mamma?â âNo, Laura, although his mistress scolded him well, and Tom quite understood, for cats who are kindly treated are afraid of angry words.â âDid you ever see Tom drink the milk in this way?â âYes, for his mistress was proud of his cleverness, and she would place the jug on the floor for him. When she did that, Tom knew he might drink it, and he would take up the milk in his paw so cleverly that it was soon gone.â [Illustration] FLOWERS. How stilly, yet how sweetly, The little while they bloom, They teach us quiet trustfulness, Allure our hearts from selfishness, And smile away our gloom: So do they prove that heavenly love Doth every path illume! How stilly, yet how sadly, When summer fleeteth by, And their sweet work of life is done, They fall and wither, one by one, And undistinguishâd lie: So warning all that Pride must fall, And fairest forms must die! How stilly, yet how surely, They all will come again, In life and glory multiplied, To bless the ground wherein they died, And long have darkly lain:â So we may know, eâen here below, Death has no lasting reign! âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â IV.âTHE LITTLE BROOK. We had a merry playmate in a little brook that ran down through the sunny meadows! It slipped and slid over little mossy pebbles and called to us, âFollow, follow, follow!â in the sweetest little voice in the world! Sometimes, I would kneel down on the little low bank, and bend my head down close, and ask, âWhere are you going, little brook?â It would splash a cool drop of spray in my face, and run on calling, âFollow, follow, follow!â just as before. Wild strawberries grew red and sweet down in the tall grass, and great purple violets, and tall buttercups nid-nodding in the wind. Very often Myra and I would take off our shoes and stockings, and wade. The roguish little brook would tickle my small toes, and try and trip me up on one of its little mossy stones. Once I did slip and sat right down in the water with a great splash! And the little brook took all the starch out of my clothes, and ran off with it in a twinkling. Now and then, I would fasten a bent pin to a string and tie the string to the end of a stick and fish for the tiny minnows and tadpoles. But, somehow, I never caught one of the little darting things. I used to believe the brook whispered them to keep away from that little shining hook. Sometimes, I would take a big white chip and load it with pebbles or violets and send it down stream. The sly little brook would slip my boat over one of its tiny waterfalls just as quick as it could! If my little boat was loaded with pebbles, down would go my heavy cargo to the bottom! But if it were loaded with violets, then a fleet of fairy purple canoes would float on and on, and away out of sight. A great green frog with big, staring eyes watched from the side of the brook. Now and then, he would say, âKer-chug!â in a deep voice. I used to ask him in good faith, what âker-chug!â meant. But he did not tell, and to this day I have not found out what âker-chugâ means. _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: âWILD STRAWBERRIES GREW RED AND SWEET DOWN IN THE TALL GRASS.â] âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â V.âTHE MEADOW-ROCKS. Another place where I played was out on the meadow-rocks. Right down in a level spot in the meadow were three great rocks. Each one of these rocks was as large as a dining-room table. Right through this little flat place ran the brook I have told you about, bubbling round our three great rocks. 0, what splendid playhouses those rocks were! We each owned one. The third was owned by that wooden doll, Mrs. Pippy. In order to get to either one of the houses you had to cross a little bridge that spanned a tiny river. Also there were dear little steps up the sides of the rocks which it was such a pleasure to go up and down. On the top of the rocks, which were almost as flat as the top of a table, were little closely-clinging patches of moss that we called our rugs. There were queer-shaped hollows in the tops of these rocks. In one little moss-lined hollow I used to cradle my baby-doll. Another hollow was my kitchen sink. I used to fill up my sink with bits of broken dishes, turn on some water from the brook, and then such a scrubbing as my dishes got! At the rocks, kneeling down on the planks that formed our bridges, we used to wash our dolliesâ clothes. Then we would spread them on the grass to dry. Didnât we use to keep our babies clean and sweet! Afterwards, pinning our short skirts up about us, we would wash the floors of our little rock houses until they shone. When everything was spick-and-span, we would unpin our skirts, pull down our sleeves, rub our rosy cheeks with a mullein leaf to make them rosier, and with a big burdock leaf tied on with a couple of strings for a bonnet we would go calling on our lazy neighbor, Mrs. Pippy, and give her a serious âtalking-to.â Or, perhaps, we would call on each other and talk about the terrible illnesses our poor children were suffering from. Or, perhaps, we would go to market. The market consisted of a long row of raspberry bushes along the meadow fence. _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: WASHING-DAY AT THE ROCK-HOUSES.] [Illustration] But when to-morrow, down the lane, I walk among the flowers again, Between the tall red hollyhocks, Here I shall find you as before, Asleep within your fastened door,â My lazy four-oâclocks! MARGARET JOHNSON. [Illustration] _THE SNOW WITCH._ There was skating on the ponds where the snow had been cleared; there were icicles on the trees, nice blue, clear skies in the daytime, cold, bright, wintry moonlight at night. Lovely weather for Christmas holidays! But to one little five-year-old man, nothing had seemed lovely this Christmas, though he was spending it with his Father and Mother and his big sisters at Grandpapaâs beautiful old country house, where everybody did all that could be done to make Grandpapaâs guests happy. For poor little Roger was pining for his elder brother, Lawson, whom he had not seen for more than four months. Lawson was eight, and had been at school since Michaelmas, and there he had caught a fever which had made it not safe for him to join the rest of the family till the middle of January. But he was coming to-morrow. Why, then, did Roger still look sad and gloomy? âStupid little boy!â said Mabel. âIâm sure weâve tried to amuse him. Why, Mamma let him sit up an hour later than usual last night, to hear all those funny old fairy tales and legends Uncle Bob was telling.â âYes, and werenât they fun?â answered Pansy. âI did shiver at the witch ones, though, didnât you?â Poor little Roger! Pansyâs shivering was nothing to his! They had all walked home from the vicarage, tempted by the clear, frosty moonlight and the hard, dry ground; and trotting along, a little behind the others, a strange thing had happened to the boy. Fancyâin the field by the Primrose Lane, through the gateway, right in a bright band of moonlight, _he had seen a witch_. Just such a witch as Uncle Bob had describedâwith shadowy garments, and outstretched arms, and a queer-shaped head, on all of which the icicles were sparkling, just as Uncle Bob had said. For it was a winter-witch he had told the story about, whose dwelling was up in the frozen northern seasââthe Snow Witchâ they called her. [Illustration] Cold as it was, Roger was in a bath of heat, his heart beating wildly, his legs shaking, when he overtook his sisters. And the night that followed was full of terrible dreams and starts and misery, even though nurse and baby were next door, and he could see the night-light through the chinks. If it had not been that Lawson was comingâLawson who never laughed at him or called him âstupid little goose,â Lawson who listened to all his griefsâRoger could not have borne it. For, strange to say, the little fellow told no one of his trouble; he felt as if he could _only_ tell Lawson. No wonder he looked pale and sad and spiritless; there was still another dreadful night to get through before Lawson came. But things sometimes turn out better than our fears. Late that afternoon, when nursery tea was over and bedtime not far off, there came the sound of wheels and then a joyful hubbub. Lawson had come! Uncle Bob had been passing near the school where he was, and had gone a little out of his way to pick him up. Every one was delightedâoh, of them all, _none_ so thankful as Roger. âThough I wont tell him to-night,â decided the unselfish little fellow, ânot to spoil his first night. I shaânât mind when I know heâs in his cot beside me.â And even when Lawson lovingly asked him if anything was the matter, he kept to his resolution. But he woke in the middle of the night from a terrible dream; Lawson woke too, and thenâout it all came. âI thought she was coming in at the window,â Roger ended. âIfâif you look outâitâs moonlightâI think _pârâaps_ youâll see where she stands. But no, no! Donât, _donât_! She might see you.â So Lawson agreed to wait till to-morrow. âI have an idea,â said Lawson. âRoger, darling, go to sleep. _Iâm_ here, and you can say your prayers again if you like.â Lawson was up very early next morning. And as soon as breakfast was over he told Roger to come out with him. Down the Primrose Lane they went, in spite of Rogerâs trembling. âNow, shut your eyes,â said Lawson, when they got to the gate. He opened it, and led his brother through. âLook, now!â he said, with a merry laugh. And what do you think Roger saw? [Illustration] An old scarecrow, forgotten since last year. There she stood, the âSnow Witch,â an apron and ragged shawl, two sticks for arms, a bit of Grandpapaâs hat, to crown allâthat was the witch! âShake hands with her, Roger,â said Lawson. And shake hands they both did, till the old scarecrow tumbled to pieces, never more to frighten either birds or little boys. âDear Lawson,â said Roger, lovingly, as he held up his little face for a kiss. And happy, indeed, were the rest of the Christmas holidays. May they never love each other less, these two; may they be true brothers in manhood as they have been in their childish days! _L. Molesworth._ _THE THREE BLIND MICE._ _THE STORY TOLD BY A BROWNIE._ Well, first of all, I must tell you that I am a Brownie, and although I am ever and ever so old, I look as young to-day as I did when I was but one year old. Well, it was about seven hundred years ago, and I used to be a great deal with some other Brownies, cousins of mine, visiting at the same farm-houses as they did, and helping them with their work. And it was in this way that I got to know the Three Blind Mice,âPurrin, Furrin, and Tod. Pretty, pleasant little fellows they were; and they were not blind then,âfar from it. They lived up in the loft of Dame Marjoramâs room, over at Fiveoaks Farm. Such merry supper-parties as never were, I think, before or since, we used to have then. We would think nothing of finishing a round of apple and a walnut-shell full of honey between us, in one evening, to say nothing of scraps of cheese-rind and the crumbs we stole from the birds. Purrin had a most melodious voice, and could sing a good song, while Tod was never at a loss for an amusing story. As to Furrin, he was almost as quaint as our Mr. Puck, and, though perhaps it is not for _me_ to say so, when those in high places do encourage him, not one-tenth as mischievous. When Angelina, the old stable cat, had kittens, he would get into all sorts of out-of-the-way places, and imitate their squeaky little voices, so that she was always on the fidget, thinking she must have mislaid one somewhere, and never able to find it. For you see, as she could not count, she never knew whether they were all beside her or no. Often he would coax a whole hazel-nut out of Rudge, the Squirrel, who lived on the Hanger, just above, and whom every one believed to be a miser. And then his Toasting-fork Dance was so sprightly and graceful, it did your heart good to see it. Ah, me! those days are gone, and Furrin is gone too; and the Moon, when she looks through that chink in the barn roof, no longer sees us feasting and making merry on the great beam. And this is how they became blind: [Illustration] They were very fond of Gilliflower, Dame Marjoramâs little daughter, and after the nurse had put her to bed, Furrin, Purrin, and Tod used to creep up into her room, and read her some of the funny little tales from Mouse-land till she went to sleep. She would lie there with her eyes shut, and perhaps imagined that it was her own thoughts that made her fancy all about the fairy tales that came into her head; but really it was the mice who read them to her, but in such a low voice that Gilliflower never thought of opening her eyes to see if any one was there. I must tell you that the print in Mouse-land is very, very small and hard to read. This did not matter so much during the long Summer evenings, when there was plenty of light to see to read by; but when the Winter came on, and the mice had only the firelight to read by, then reading the small print began to tell its tale. You know how bad it is for the eyesight to read any print by firelight, and it must be very much worse when the print is very small; and so Furrin would say to Purrin, âMy eyes are getting quite dim, so now you must read;â and before Purrin had read a page he would say the same thing to Tod, and then Tod would try; but after a time their eyes became so dim they couldnât see at all, and so they had to invent stories to tell little Gilliflower; so the poor little mice went quite blind, trying to amuse their little girl friend. I took what care of them I could; but their blindness was very sad for them. No longer had Purrin the heart to sing or Furrin to dance and jest. Only they would sit close together, each holding one of Todâs hands, and listening to his stories, for he kept his spirits best, and did all he could to cheer the others. All the marketing fell to me then, and it gave me plenty to do; for, poor souls, the only amusement left them was a dainty morsel, now and then. And, by and by, they became so tired of sitting still, when Tod had exhausted all his stock of stories, that they got reckless, and would go blundering about the house after Dame Marjoram, whom they knew by the rustle of her silken skirt, and the tapping of her high-heeled shoes. They all ran after her, forgetting, that although they could not see her, still she could see them, and trying to follow her into her store-room, where the almonds, and raisins, and sugar, and candied-peel were kept. [Illustration] [Illustration] I told them she would get angry, and that harm would come of it; but I think their unhappiness and dulness made them quite foolhardy, for they still went on, getting under her feet, and well-nigh tripping her up; clambering into the lard-pot before her very eyes; in short, doing a thousand irritating and injudicious things day by day, until her patience was quite worn out. And at last, when they scrambled on to the dinner-table, thinking it to be the store-room shelf, and sat all in a row, quietly eating out of Miss Gilliflowerâs plate, Dame Marjoram, who had the carving-knife in her hand, thought it high time for them to have a lesson in manners. So, thinking the knife was turned blunt side downwards, she rapped them smartly across their three tails. What was her horror and their dismay, to find them cut off quite cleanly. The little tails lay still on the table, and the three little mice, well-nigh crazed with terror and pain, groped their way off the table and out of the room. I was returning from the cheese-room, and met them crossing the great hall. Of course, I took in at a glance all that had occurred, and I must say that I felt but little surprise, though much sorrow. I guided them to our old haunt in the loft-roof and then sat down to prepare a Memorial for Dame Marjoram, giving a full account of all that they had suffered for the sake of her family. [Illustration] This I placed on the top of the key-basket; and while she was reading it, with my usual tact I silently brought in Purrin, Furrin, and Tod, and pushed them forward in front of her. The tears stood in her eyes as she finished reading my scroll, and from that time forth nothing was too good for the Three Blind Mice. The good wife even tried to make new tails for them. But they did not live long to enjoy their new happiness. The loss of their sight, followed by the shock of having their tails cut off, was too much for them. They never quite recovered, but died, all on the same day, within the same hour, just a month afterward. Their three little graves were made beneath the shadows of a lavender bush in the garden. Sometimes I go there to scatter a flower or two, and to shed a tear to the memory of Purrin, Furrin, and Tod. _Helen J. Wood._ [Illustration] âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â VIâTHE LILACS. There was a great clump of lilac bushes out by the garden wall. These lilacs grew close together and made a thick hedge nearly around a little plot of ground, where the grass grew so thick and velvety that it was like a great green rug, and they bent their tall heads over this little green plot, and so formed a lovely summer-house. Here we used to sew for our dolls, and here we used to give tea-parties. Raspberry shortcake was one of the dainties we used to have. This is the way we made it: Take a nice clean raspberry leaf, heap it with raspberries, and put another leaf on top. Eat at once. In this lovely summer-house I used to keep school. I had a row of bricks for scholars. Each brick had its own name. Two or three of the bricks were nice and red and new. I named those new bricks after my dearest little school-friends. The rest of the bricks were either broken or blackened a little. Those bricks were my naughty, idle scholars. I used to stand them up in a row to learn their lessons. The first thing I knew those bad bricks would all tumble down in a heap. Numbers of little lilac-switches grew about my schoolhouse, and I fear I was a severe teacher. When the lilacs were in bloom, that dear little summer-house was a very gay little place. The great, purple plumes would nod in every little wind that blew. The air was full of sweetness. Butterflies made the trees bright with their slowly-waving wings. There was a drowsy hum of many bees. Sometimes we would catch hold of one of the slender trunks of the lilac trees, and give it a smart shake. Away would flash a bright cloud of butterflies, and a swarm of angry, buzzing bees! Pleasant Sabbath afternoons, we used to take our Sunday-school books out under the lilacs to read. And as we read about good deeds and unselfish lives, our own choir of birds would sing sweet hymns. Then we would look up and smile, and say, âThey have good singing at the lilac church, donât they?â _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: I HAD A ROW OF BRICKS FOR SCHOLARS.] EIGHT YEARS OLD. THE SINGING-LESSON. A slender, liquid note, Long-drawn and silver-sweet. Obediently the little maid Tries, timid still, and half afraid, The lesson to repeat. A breezy turn or two, A blithe and bold refrain, A ripple up and down the scale, And still the learner does not fail To echo soft the strain. A burst of melody Wild, rapturous, and long. A thousand airy runs and trills Like drops from overflowing rills,â The vanquished pupilâs song Breaks into laughter sweet. And does her master chide? Nay; little Ethelâs music-room Is mid the sunny gardenâs bloom, Her roof the branches wide. With parted lips she stands Among the flowers alone. Her teacherâhark! again he sings! A stirâa flash of startled wingsâ The little bird has flown! MARGARET JOHNSON. [Illustration: âOne,| Two,| Buckle| My Shoe.â By Margaret Johnson] Smile on me, Baby, my sweet, As I kneel humbly here at your feet. My Prince, with no crown for your head, But your own sunny tresses instead. And your lips and your eyes gravely sweet, Smile down on me here at your feet, Little one. âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â VII.âTHE SAND-BANK. That sand-bank in the pasture was one of the nicest of our playhouses. There was neither dust nor dirt in itânothing but clean, fine sand, with now and then a pebble. It was not high, so there was no danger of a great mass of sand falling down on us two children. The sand-bank was not very far from the little brook. Myra and I would carry pailful after pailful of water from the brook to it, until we had moistened a large quantity of sand. Sometimes we would cover our little bare feet with the cool, wet sand, packing it just as close as we could. Then gently, O, so gently, we would pull our feet out from under the sand. The little âfive-toed cavesâ as we used to call them, would show just as plain as could be, where our little feet had been! We used to catch little toads and put them into those little damp caves, but they would soon hop out. We used to make the nicest pies and cakes and cookies out of that lovely wet sand. We used to wish our sand-dainties were fit to eat! Oftentimes, when we were tired of cooking, we would go to work and lay out a wonderful garden with tiny flower-beds and winding paths, out of that wet sand. Some of those flower-beds were star-shaped, some were round as a wheel, and some were square. We used to gather handfuls of wild-flowers and stick them down in, until every tiny bed blossomed into pink and blue and white and gold! We used to make sand-preserves out there. The time and the patience that we used up in filling narrow-necked bottles with sand! After a bottle was well-filled and shaken down, we would catch up that bottle and run down to the brook. We would wash the outside of that bottle until it shone like cut-glass, and then we would pack it away in a hollow stump that we called our preserve-closet. We used to play a game that we called âHop-scotchâ out in the old sand-bank. In this game, you mark the sand off into rather large squares. Then hopping along on one foot, you try with your toe to push a pebble from one square into another. _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: THE SAND-BANK GARDEN.] âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â VIII.âTHE OLD PASTURE. I used to play a great deal out in the old pasture. It had a clump of cradle-knolls in it. A cradle-knoll is a little mound of moss. On these mossy little cradle-knolls, checkerberry leaves and berries used to grow. How delicious those spicy young checkerberry leaves tasted! And we hunted those red plums as a cat hunts a mouse! The pasture had two or three well-beaten paths in it, that the cows had made by their sober steady tramping back and forth from the barnyard lane to the growth of little trees and bushes and tender grass at the back. At sunset-time, two little barefooted girls would âspatâ along those cool smooth winding paths after those cows. As long as we kept in the paths our little feet were all right. But sometimes a clump of bright wild-flowers tempted us, and then two sorry little girls with thistle-prickles in their feet would come limping back. But out where the tender grasses grew there were no thistles, and such fun as hide-and-seek used to be among the bushes! Sometimes we could not find the cows very readily; and then we would climb up on a smutty stump and call, âcoâ boss! coâ boss!â until the woods rang. In the spring, we would go a-maying out in the old pasture, and O, such great handfuls of the sweet mayflower as we used to bring home! Later on, we would gather great bunches of sweet-smelling herbs that grew wild out there, and carry them home to hang up in the shed-chamber and dry. If one of my schoolmates had been unkind to me, I would go out into the old pasture, and there I would plan out for myself a lovely future wherein I should be _very_ rich and _very_ good to the poor. And my unkind schoolmate would be one of the humble receivers of my gifts, and so it would come about that before I got through building air-castles I would actually feel sorry for the poor schoolmate who had ill-used me. And then home I would go, singing and skipping! _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: âCOâ BOSS!! COâ BOSS!â] Little Mother Hubbard. [Music] 1. Lit-tle Mo-ther Hub-bard sat In the park at play, With her gown and point-ed hat All of so-ber gray. And she looked so wondrous wise That I scarce be-lieved my eyes; And she looked so wondrous wise That I scarce believed my eyes. 2. Pug no long-er frisked a-bout, For he felt the loss Of his sup-per and his cake, So was tired and cross. And this self-ish lit-tle pug Wished himself up-on his rug; And this self-ish lit-tle pug Wished himself up-on his rug. 3. Mo-ther Hub-bard hur-ried home, Say-ing, âMer-cy me! Pug shall have some frost-ed cake And a cup of tea.â But the cake was eat-en up And the nurse had lost his cup; But the cake was eat-en up, And the nurse had lost his cup. [Illustration: PILLOWÂ·LAND] GOOD-NIGHT. Suck-a-Thumb, Bed-timeâs come. Dressed in white, Shut eyes tight. âNighty, night!â âHOW MAMA USED TO PLAY.â IX.âTHE ELM-TREE. Out in one of the meadows was a big elm-tree. It was very tall, and in summer it looked like a monster bunch of green plumes. It stood on the bank of our little brook. Right where the old elm stood, the bank was quite high, six feet almost. The boughs on the old tree grew very low. I would catch hold of one of those low-hanging boughs. Then, I would give a little run and jump. Away out over the bank and over the brook I would swing! Oftentimes I would take my patchwork out under the old elm. But soon the patchwork would be on the ground, forgotten, and an idle little girl would be lying flat on the grass, with her hands clasped under her head, looking up into the clear blue sky! I used to make believe that the white clouds were my ships, coming into harbor under full sail. And I used to make up fine names for my ships, and O, such splendid cargoes as they would be loaded with, all for meâtheir rich young ownerâthe idle dreamer in the grass! O, it was such fun to lie there in the midst of funny daisies with their high white collars, and buttercups with their yellow caps! The roguish little winds would make them bend over and tickle the rosy face of the little girl whom the birds and the brook had almost hushed off to sleep. There would be a soft little touch on my forehead, and then another on my chin, and yet others on my cheeks. Then I would open my eyes and laugh at those funny little white and gold heads, soberly wagging up and down. But once I was rather frightened out under the old elm. I had been lying flat on my back for an hour or two, when I was called. I half raised myself up and answered. My hand was on the ground just where I had been lying. I felt something squirming around my thumb. It was a tiny brown snake! Of course, it was as harmless as a fly, but didnât I spring to my feet! When I had to recite a little piece in school or at a church concert, I always used to rehearse that little piece out under the old elm, over and over again. _Percia V. White._ [Illustration: SWINGING ON THE ELM-TREE BOUGH.] _Puggie in Disgrace._ Child-ren, just look at this queer little Pug, His small wrin-kled nose, his little black mug! I fear heâs been naugh-ty at les-sons to-day, And, like naugh-ty child-ren, heâs pun-ished this way. He sits on the stool of re-pent-ance, you see; Poor Pug-gie is gen-tle and meek as can be; But when at his les-sons he just took a nap, And that is the rea-son he wears the Foolâs cap. His neck has an or-na-ment, not like his head, But a beau-ti-ful lock-et and rib-bon in-stead; So you see that to some one the dog-gie is dear, Al-though they all tease him I very much fear. From Ho-race, the eld-est, to lit-tle Miss May, All in-sist that Poor Pug-gie should join in their play; Some-times they pet him, and some-times they tease, But he bears it all pa-tient-ly, eager to please. He rolls his big eyes, or just heaves a sigh, And thinks theyâll make up for it all by and by. For Pug-gie is greed-y, and bears a great deal For the sake of some cakes or a good heart-y meal. But though he _is_ greed-y, his faults are but few, He is lov-ing and hon-est, de-vo-ted and true. If our two-foot-ed friends were as faith-ful as he Ve-ry for-tu-nate peo-ple I think we should be. [Illustration] _TIC-TAC-TOO._ Tic-tac-too was a little boy; he was exactly three years old, and the youngest in the family; so, of course, he was the king. His real name was Alec; but he was always known in the household, and among his wide circle of friends generally, as Tic-tac-too. There was a little story to account for this, and it is that story which I am now going to tell. [Illustration] There are very few children who do not know the funny old nursery rhyme of âTic-tac-too;â it is an old-fashioned rhyme, and in great vogue amongst nurses. Of course Alec enjoyed it, and liked to have his toes pulled, and the queer words said to him. But that is not the story; for it is one thing to like a nursery rhyme very much, and another to be called by the name of that rhyme, and nothing else. Now, please, listen to the story. There was no nicer house to live in than Daisy Farm: it was old-fashioned and roomy; there were heaps of small bedrooms with low ceilings, and heaps of long passages, and unexpected turnings, and dear little cosey corners; and there was a large nursery made out of two or three of the small rooms thrown together, and this nursery had casement windows, and from the windows the daisies, which gave their name to the farm, could be seen. They came up in thousands upon thousands, and no power of man and scythe combined could keep them down. The mowing-machine only suppressed them for a day or two; up they started anew in their snowy dresses, with their modest pink frills and bright yellow edges. Mr. Rogers, who owned Daisy Farm, objected to the flowers; but his children delighted in them, and picked them in baskets-full, and made daisy-chains to their heartsâ content. There were several children who lived in this pleasant farmhouse, for Tic-tac-too had many brothers and sisters. The old-fashioned nursery was all that a modern nursery should be; it had deep cupboards for toys, and each child had his or her wide shelf to keep special treasures on; and the window-ledges were cosey places to curl up in on wet days, when the rain beat outside, and the wind sighed, and even the daisies looked as if they did not like to be washed so much. [Illustration] Some of the children at Daisy Farm were old enough to have governesses and masters, to have a schoolroom for themselves, and, in short, to have very little to say to the nursery; but still there were four nursery little ones; and one day mother electrified the children by telling them that another little boy was coming to pay them a visit. âHe is coming to-morrow,â said mother; âhe is a year younger than Alec here, but his mother has asked us to take care of him. You must all be kind to the little baby stranger, children, and try your very best to make him feel at home. Poor little man, I trust he will be happy with us.â [Illustration] Mother sighed as she spoke; and when she did this, Rosie, the eldest nursery child, looked up at her quickly. Rosie had dark gray eyes, and a very sympathetic face; she was the kind of child who felt everybodyâs troubles, and nurse said she did this far more than was good for her. The moment her mother left the room, Rosie ran up to her nurse, and spoke eagerlyâ âWhy did mother sigh when she said a new little boy was coming here, nursie?â âOh, my love, how can I tell? People sigh most likely from habit, and from no reason whatever. Thereâs nothing to fret anybody in a sigh, Miss Rosie.â âBut mother doesnât sigh from habit,â answered Rosie; âI expect thereâs going to be something sad about the new little boy, and I wonder what it is. Harry, shall we collect some of our very nicest toys to have ready for the poor little new boy?â Harry was six; he had a determined face, and was not so generous as Rosie. âIâll not give away my skin-horse,â he said, âso you neednât think it, nor my white dog with the joints; there are some broken things down in that corner that he can have. But I donât see why a new baby should have my best toys. Gee-up, Alec! youâre a horse, you know, and Iâm going to race you from one end of the nursery to the otherânow trot!â Fat little curly-headed Alec started off good-humoredly, and Rosie surveyed her own shelf to see which toys would most distract the attention of the little stranger. She was standing on a hassock, and counting her treasures over carefully, when she was startled by a loud exclamation from nurse. âMercy me! If that ainât the telegraph boy coming up the drive!â Nurse was old-fashioned enough still to regard telegrams with apprehension. She often said she could never look at one of those awful yellow envelopes, without her heart jumping into her mouth; and these fears she had, to a certain extent, infected the children with. Harry dropped Alecâs reins, and rushed to the window; Rosie forgot her toys, and did likewise; Jack and Alec both pressed for a view from behind. âMe, me, me, me want to see!â screamed baby Alec from the back. Nurse lifted him into her arms; as she did so, she murmured under her breath,â âGod preserve us! I hope that awful boy isnât bringing us anything bad.â Rosie heard the words, and felt a sudden sense of chill and anxiety; she pressed her little hand into nurseâs, and longed more than ever to give all the nicest toys to the new little boy. Just then the nursery door was opened, and Kate, the housemaid, appeared, carrying the yellow envelope daintily between her finger and thumb. âThere, nurse,â she said, âitâs for you; and I hope, Iâm sure, itâs no ill-luck Iâm bringing you.â âOh, sakeâs alive!â said nurse. âChildren, dears, let me sit down. That awful boy to bring it to me! Well, the will of the Lord must be done; whateverâs inside this ugly thing? Miss Rosie, my dear, could you hunt round somewhere for my spectacles?â It always took a long time to find nurseâs spectacles; and Rosie, after a frantic search, in which she was joined by all the other nursery children, discovered them at last at the bottom of Alecâs cot. She rushed with them to the old woman, who put them on her nose, and began deliberately to read the contents of her telegram. The children stood round her as she did so. They were all breathless and excited; and Rosie looked absolutely white from anxiety. âWell, my dears,â said nurse at last,
{'title': "Our Little Tot's Own Book by Anonymous", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}