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THE

NURSERY

_A Monthly Magazine_

FOR YOUNGEST READERS.

VOLUME XXII.--No. 6.

          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.

[Illustration: Contents.]

IN PROSE.

                                                PAGE
  The Starlings and the Sparrows                 164
  Katie and Waif                                 166
  Amy and Robert in China                        169
  About two old Horses                           171
  Baby's Exploit                                 173
  Drawing-Lesson                                 177
  Birdie's Pig Story                             180
  Our Friend the Robin                           181
  Frank's high Horse                             183
  Sagacity of a Horse                            185
  Phantom                                        186

IN VERSE.

                                                PAGE
  Steering for Home                              129
  Three naughty Pigs                             133
  The Butterfly and the Grasshopper              139
  Little Mosquito                                150
  A naughty Baby                                 154
  The Apple Tree (_with music_)                  160
  The last Guest                                 161
  For Ethel                                      172
  The Fox and the Crow                           176
  The Swallows and the Robins                    178
  Christmas (_with music_)                       188

[Illustration: Birds]

[Illustration: VOL. XXII.--NO. 6.]

THE LAST GUEST.

THE MORNING AFTER THE PARTY.

MARY (_angrily_).

  [Illustration: O] Tommy, you deceiver!
                 You've turned a regular thiever:
                 I've let the light in on your deeds,
                      You needn't sneak away.
                 You thought it mighty pleasant
                 To devour that dainty pheasant;
                 Which cook and I for breakfast meant
                     To have this very day.

TOM (_calmly_).

          Miss Mary, I assure you
          You're entirely mistaken:
          I was finishing my supper--
              Don't call me thief or brute,
          But please be so obliging
          As to broil a slice of bacon
          As my reward for self-control:
              I haven't touched the fruit.

MARY (_sneeringly_).

          For that there is good reason,
          You thing of craft and treason;
          You did not touch the grapes, because
              The grapes you do not like.
          You get no slice of bacon
          From me, since you have taken
          The bird I'd set my heart upon.
              Away, or I will strike!

TOM (_derisively_).

          Be patient, Mistress Mary,
          Of broomsticks I am wary:
          The door is open, and I see
              What you would now be at.

MARY (_angrily_).

          Away! obey my order,
          You sneaking, base marauder!
          I'll teach you to steal birds again!
              Be off! Take that, and--Scat!

         [_Exit Tommy at double-quick time, followed by
         Mary, who strikes with the broom, but does not
         hit._]

                                                ALFRED SELWYN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE STARLINGS AND THE SPARROWS.

"LOOK here, my dear," said a starling to her mate: "in our pretty
summer-villa a pair of saucy sparrows have taken up their abode. What
shall we do?"

"What shall we do?" cried Mr. Starling, who was calmly standing on a
fence; "why, rout them out, of course; give them notice to quit."

"That we will do," replied Mrs. Starling. "Here, you beggars, you: out
of that house! You've no business there. Be off!"

"What's all that?" piped Mrs. Sparrow, looking out of her little round
doorway. "Go away, you impudent tramp! Don't come near our house."

"It is not your house!" said Mr. Starling, springing nimbly to a bough,
and confronting Mrs. Sparrow.

"It _is_ ours!" cried Mr. Sparrow, looking down from the roof of the
house. "I have the title-deeds. Stand up for your rights, my love!"

"Yes, stand up for your rights. I'll back you," said Mrs. Sparrow's
brother-in-law, taking position on a branch just at the foot of the
house.

"We'll see about that, you thieves!" cried Mrs. Starling, in a rage,
making a dash at Mrs. Sparrow's brother-in-law.

But two of Mrs. Sparrow's cousins came to the rescue just then, and
attacked Mrs. Starling in the rear.

Thereupon Mr. Starling flew at Mrs. Sparrow. Mr. Sparrow, without more
delay, went at Mr. Starling. Mrs. Sparrow's brother-in-law paid his
respects to Mrs. Starling. There was a lively fight.

It ended in the defeat of the sparrows. The starlings were too big for
them. The sparrows retreated in good order, and left the starlings to
enjoy their triumph.

[Illustration]

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Starling, "go in, and put the house in order.
I'll warrant those vulgar sparrows have made a nice mess in there. Sweep
the floors, dust the furniture, and get the beds made. I'll stay here in
the garden, and rest myself."

"Just like that husband of mine!" muttered Mrs. Starling: "I must do all
the work, while he has all the fun. But I suppose there's no help for
it."

So she flew up to the door of the house; but, to her surprise, she could
not get through it: the opening was not large enough.

"Well, Mr. Starling," said she, "I do believe we have made a mistake.
This is not our house, after all."

"Why did you say it was, then?" said Mr. Starling, in a huff. "Here I
have got a black eye, and a lame claw, and a sprained wing, and have
lost two feathers out of my tail, all through your blunder. You ought to
be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Starling!"

"I own that I was hasty," said poor Mrs. Starling; "but I meant well."

"Yes, you thought the sparrows were thieves, and so did I. But it turns
out, that we are no better than burglars ourselves; and, what's more, we
shall have a whole army of sparrows back upon us before long. We had
better take ourselves off." And off they flew.

                                                DORA BURNSIDE.

KATIE AND WAIF.

I AM Katie Sinclair, and Waif is my dog. Now, as everybody who knows him
says he is the nicest dog in the world, I will tell my "Nursery" friends
why people think so.

First I must tell you how I got him, and how he came to have such an odd
name. One cold, rainy day, about three years ago, I heard a strange
noise under the window, and ran to the door to see what it was. There
stood a homely little puppy, dripping wet, shivering from the cold, and
crying, oh, so mournfully!

I took him in, and held him before the fire till he was dry and warm.
Then I got him some nice fresh milk, which he drank eagerly; and he
looked up in my face in such a thankful way, that he quite won my heart.

"Poor little dog!" said I. "He hasn't had a very nice time in this world
so far; but I will ask mamma to let him stay and be my dog." Mamma
consented; and, if that dog has not enjoyed himself since then, it is
not my fault.

I was bothered not a little to find a name for him. I wanted one, you
see, that would remind me always of the way he came to me,--not a common
name, such as other little dogs have. No; I did not want a "Carlo," or a
"Rover," or a "Watch." After trying in vain to think of a name fit for
him, I asked mamma to help me.

[Illustration]

She said, "Call him Waif." I was such a little goose then (that was over
three years ago, you know), that I had to ask her what "Waif" meant.

"A waif," said she, "is something found, of which nobody knows the
owner. On that account 'Waif' would be a good name for your puppy." So I
gave him that name, and he soon got to know and answer to it.

Waif grew fast, and we taught him ever so many tricks. He has learned to
be very useful too, as I shall show you.

On a shelf in the kitchen stands a small basket, with his name, in red
letters, printed upon it. To this basket he goes every morning, and
barks. When Ellen the cook hears him, she takes the basket down, and
places the handle in his mouth. Then he goes to mamma, and waits
patiently till she is ready, when he goes down town with her, and brings
back the meat for dinner.

When papa gets through dinner, he always pushes back his chair, and
says, "Now, Waif:" and Waif knows what that means; for he jumps up from
where he has been lying,--and, oh! such fun as we have with him then! He
walks on his hind-feet, speaks for meat, and catches crumbs.

Last summer I went out to Lafayette to visit grandma. Mamma says, that,
while I was away, Waif would go to my room, and sniff at the
bed-clothes, and go away whining and crying bitterly. When I came back,
he was nearly beside himself with delight.

We never found out where he came from that rainy day. But I don't love
him a bit the less because he was a poor, friendless puppy; and when I
look into his good, honest brown eyes, and think what a true friend he
is, I put my arms around his neck, and whisper in his ear, that I would
not change him for the handsomest dog in the country.

                                                      S. E. R.

[Illustration]

AMY AND ROBERT IN CHINA.

AMY and Robert, with their papa and mamma, live in China, in a place
called Foochow. They came here last January, when Amy was just three
years old, and Robert a little over one year. They came all the way from
Boston by water.

They have a good grandma at home, who sends Amy "The Nursery" every
month, and she is never tired of hearing the nice stories.

Out here, the children see many things that you little folks in America
know nothing about. When they go to ride, they do not go in a carriage
drawn by horses, but in a chair resting on two long poles, carried by
some Chinamen called _coolies_. When it is pleasant, and the sun is not
too hot, the chair is open; but, if it rains, there is a close cover to
fit over it.

It is so warm here, that flowers blossom in the garden all winter; and
Amy is very fond of picking them, and putting them into vases. When it
is too warm to go into the garden, she has a pot of earth on the shady
piazza, and the cooly picks her flowers, to plant in it.

Foochow is on a large river; and the children like much to go out in the
sail-boats, called "house-boats." These boats are fitted up just like a
house, with a dining-room, sleeping-room, bath-room, and pantry.

The night before Fourth of July, Amy and Robert started with their papa,
mamma, and Amah (their colored nurse), and went to Sharp Peak, on the
seashore, twenty-five miles from here. They found the boat very nice to
sleep in, but were glad enough to get into their own beds the next
night.

I am afraid you would not know what these little children say, if you
should hear them talk; for they pick up words from their Amah, and do
not speak like little American girls and boys.

By and by I shall have more to tell you about them.

                                                  AMY'S MAMMA.

ABOUT TWO OLD HORSES.

IN my great-great-grandfather's barn-yard stood an old-fashioned well,
with a long sweep or pole, by which the bucket was pulled up. This well
was used entirely for the horses and cattle.

Grandfather had a horse named Pete, who would walk out of his stall
every morning, go to the well, take the pole, by which the bucket was
attached to the well-sweep, between his teeth, and thus pull up the
bucket until it rested on the shelf made for it. Then old Pete would
drink the water which he had taken so much pains to get.

But one of my uncles had a horse even more knowing than old Pete. This
horse was named Whitey. Every Sunday morning, when the church-bell rang,
Uncle George would lead Whitey out of his stall, harness him, drive him
to church, and tie him in a certain shed, where he would stand quietly
till church was done.

After a while, Whitey grew so used to this weekly performance, that,
when the bells rang, he would walk out of his stall, and wait to be
harnessed. One Sunday morning, Old Whitey, on hearing the bells, walked
out of his stall as usual, and patiently waited for Uncle George. But it
happened that uncle was sick that morning, and none of the family felt
like going to church.

I do not really know what Whitey's thoughts were; but I have no doubt
that they were something like this: "Well, well! I guess my master is
not going to church this morning; but that is no reason why I should not
go. I must go now, or I shall be late."

Whitey had waited so long, that he was rather late; but he jogged
steadily along to his post in the shed, and there took his stand, as
usual.

As soon as old Mr. Lane, who sat in one of the back-pews and always came
out of church before anybody else, appeared at the door, Whitey started
for home. At the door of the house he was greeted by several members of
the family, who had just discovered his absence, and who learned the
next day, from Mr. Lane, that old Whitey had merely been attending
strictly to his church-duties.

                                                      K. H. S.

FOR ETHEL.

          "GOOD-BY! little Ethel, good-by!" says the Light;
          For what does my sleepy one need but the night?--
          The soft quiet night, like a great downy wing,
          To shelter the wee ones, too tired to sing.

              Good-by till the dawning:
                Some bright star will keep
              Its watch o'er your pillow
                When you are asleep!

          "Good-by, little Ethel," so many things say,--
          The wind, that has played in the grasses all day,
          The pretty red squirrels you never can catch,
          And the kitten, that tries all your playthings to snatch.

              When bird, bee, and blossom
                Their bright eyes must close,
              Is Ethel awake?
                Go to sleep like a rose.

                                         CHARLOTTE M. PACKARD.

[Illustration]

BABY'S EXPLOIT.

IN the first place baby had her bath. Such a time! Mamma talked as fast
and as funny as could be; and the baby crowed and kicked as if she
understood every word.

Presently came the clean clothes,--a nice, dainty pile, fresh from
yesterday's ironing. Baby Lila was seven months old that very May
morning; but not a sign had she given yet of trying to creep: so the
long white dresses still went on, though mamma said every day, "I must
make some short dresses for this child. She's too old to wear these
dragging things any longer."

When baby had been dressed and kissed, she was set down in the middle of
the clean kitchen-floor, on her own rug, hedged in by soft white
pillows. There she sat, serene and happy, surveying her playthings with
quizzical eyes; while her mamma gathered up bath-tub, towel, and
cast-off clothes, and went up stairs to put them away.

Left to herself, Lila first made a careful review of her treasures. The
feather duster was certainly present. So was the old rattle. Was the
door-knob there? and the string of spools? Yes; and so was the little
red pincushion, dear to baby's color-loving eyes.

[Illustration]

She was slowly poking over the things in her lap, when mamma came back,
bringing a pot of yeast to set by the open fire-place, where a small
fire burned leisurely on this cool May morning. She put a little tin
plate on the top of the pot, kissed the precious baby, and then went out
again. Baby Lila was used to being left alone, though seldom out of
mamma's hearing. At such times she would sit among the pillows, tossing
her trinkets all about, and crowing at her own performances. Sometimes
she would drop over against a pillow, and go to sleep.

But this morning Lila had no intention of going to sleep. She flourished
the duster, and laughed at the pincushion; then gazed meditatively at
the bright window, and reflected gravely on the broad belt of sunshine
lying across the floor. That speculation over, she fell to hugging the
cherished duster, rocking back and forth as if it were another baby.

A smart little snap of the fire,--a "How-do-you-do?" from the
fire-place,--made the baby twist her little body to look at it. She
watched the small flames dancing in and out, as long as her neck could
bear the twist.

As she turned back again, her eyes fell on the pot of yeast. Oh! wasn't
that her own tin plate shining in the sunlight? Didn't she make music on
it with a spoon every meal-time? and hadn't her little gums felt of
every A, B, C, around its edge? Didn't she want it now? And wouldn't she
have it too?

How she ever did it, nobody knows. How she ever got over the pillows,
and made her way across to the fire-place in her long, hindering skirts,
nobody can tell.

[Illustration]

Mamma was busy in another room, when she heard the little plate clatter
on the kitchen-floor. Not a thought of the real mischief-maker entered
her head. She only said to herself,--

"I didn't know the cat was in there. Well, she'll find out her mistake.
I'm not going in till I get this pie done, any way. The baby's all
right, and that's enough."

As soon as mamma's hands were at liberty, she thought she would just
look in and see what kept the darling so quiet. "All right," indeed!
What a spectacle she beheld!

On the bricks before the fire, her pretty white skirts much too near the
ashes, sat Baby Lila, having a glorious time. She had found her dear
little plate empty; but the brown pitcher was full enough. She had
dropped the plate, dipped the feather-duster into the yeast, and
proceeded to spread it about, on her clean clothes, on the bricks, on
the floor, everywhere.

So, when mamma opened the door, she saw this wee daughter besmeared
from head to foot, the yeast dripping over her head and face as she held
the duster aloft in both hands.

Just then papa came in by another door. "O John! do you see this child!
What if she had put the duster into the fire instead of the yeast!"
Mamma shuddered as she took little Lila into her lap for another bath
and change of clothes. Papa standing by said,--

"You don't seem to mind having all that to do again."

"Indeed I don't. To think how near she was to that fire! I can never be
thankful enough that she dusted the yeast instead of the coals. But how
do you suppose she ever got over there?"

                                                   S. D. L. H.

THE FOX AND THE CROW.

          A CROW, one day, stole a nice bit of cheese,
          And flew up in a tree to eat it at her ease.
          A sly young Fox, who was passing below,
          Saw her as she flew, and he said, "Oh, ho!
                    Madam Crow."

          "What a fine bird you are, with your feathers so gay!
          As brilliant as the rainbow, and fairer than the day.
          If your voice is as sweet as your form would show,
          Then sing me a song: pray don't say 'No,'
                     Madam Crow."

          The crow began her song, when down fell the cheese:
          The fox sprang and caught it as quickly as you please;
          And as he trotted off, he said, "Oh, ho!
          That is just what I wanted. I'll go,
                    Madam Crow."

                                                  ANNIE MOORE.

[Illustration: DRAWING-LESSON.]

[Illustration]

THE SWALLOWS AND THE ROBIN.

          THE woods were showing autumn tints
            Of crimson and of gold;
          The sunny days were growing short,
            The evenings long and cold:
          So the swallows held a parliament,
            And voted it was time
          To bid farewell to northern skies,
            And seek a warmer clime.

          Southward with glad and rapid flight
            They flew for many a mile,
          Till in a quiet woodland glen
            They stopped to rest a while:
          A streamlet rippled in the dell;
            And on a hawthorn-tree
          A robin-redbreast sat alone,
            And carolled merrily.

          The wandering swallows listened,
            And eagerly said they,
          "O pretty bird! your notes are sweet:
            Come, fly with us away.
          We're following the sunshine,
            For it is bright and warm:
          We're leaving winter far behind
            With all its cold and storm.

          "The iron ground will yield no food,
            The berries will be few;
          Half-starved with hunger and with cold,
            Poor bird, what will you do?"
          "Nay, nay," said he, "when frost is hard,
            And all the leaves are dead,
          I know that kindly little hands
            Will give me crumbs of bread."

                                                            C.

[Illustration: THE ENGLISH ROBIN.]

BIRDIE'S PIG STORY.

I TOLD my story first, as mammas usually do; and it was all about a
naughty little pig, who did not mind his mother when she bade him stay
in the sty, but crawled through a hole in the wall.

Of course this pig got into the garden, and was whipped by the farmer,
and bitten by the dog, and had all sorts of unpleasant things happen to
him, till he was glad to get back again to the sty.

"Now I'll tell you a pig story," said Birdie, with a very wise look.

          "Once there was a big mother-pig, and she had
          _lots_ of children-pigs. One was spotted, and his
          name was Spotty; one's tail curled, and he was
          Curly; another was white, and he was Whitey;
          another was Browny; and another was Greeny."

"Oh, dear! the idea of a _green_ pig!" said I.

But Birdie's eyes were fixed on the floor. He was too busy thinking of
his story to notice my remark. He went on,--

          "One day the pigs found a hole in the wall, and
          they crawled through,--all of 'em, the mother-pig
          and all; and, when they got out, they ran off,
          grunting with--with joy. And when the farmer saw
          them, he went after them on a horse; but he
          couldn't catch them, for they all ran down under a
          bridge where there had been a brook; but the water
          was all dried up.

          "Then the farmer got a long pole, and poked under
          the bridge; but he couldn't reach them. He put
          some potatoes down there too, but the pigs weren't
          going to be coaxed out. And when they had staid as
          long as they wanted to, they came out themselves,
          and got home before the farmer did."

That was the story, and I forgot to ask how they got home before the
farmer did unless he drove them; but I think they must have gone home
across the field, because it is plain that Birdie's pigs did just as
they liked all through. What I did ask was, "Well, what was the good of
it all?" for I thought nobody ought to tell a story without meaning some
good by it.

"_Why, they got some fresh air!_" cried Birdie, triumphantly; and
considering that most farmers keep their pig-sties in a filthy
condition, which can't be healthy for the pigs, nor for those who eat
them, I thought Birdie's story had a very good moral, which is only
another way of saying that it had a good lesson in it.

                                               BIRDIE'S MAMMA.

[Illustration]

OUR FRIEND THE ROBIN.

ONE very hard winter, a robin came, day after day, to our window-sill.
He was fed with crumbs, and soon became tame enough not to fly away when
we opened the window. One cold day we found the little thing hopping
about the kitchen. He had flown in at the window, and did not attempt to
fly out again when we came near.

We did not like to drive him out in the bitter cold: so we put him in a
cage, in which he soon made himself quite at home. Sometimes we would
let him out in the room, and he would perch on our finger, and eat from
our hand without the least sign of fear.

When the spring came on, we opened the cage-door and let him go. At
first he was not at all inclined to leave us; but after a while he flew
off, and we thought we should never see him again.

All through the summer and autumn, the cage stood on a table in a corner
of the kitchen. We often thought of the little robin, and were rather
sorry that the cage was empty.

When the winter set in, we fancied we saw our old friend again hopping
about outside the window. We were by no means sure that it was the same
robin; but, just to see what he would do, we opened the window, and set
the cage in its old place.

Then we all left the room for a few minutes. When we returned, we found,
to our great delight, that the bird was in the cage. He seemed to know
us as we petted him and chirruped to him; and we felt certain that it
was our dear old friend.

                                                         T. C.
  CHISWICK, LONDON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FRANK'S HIGH HORSE.

FRANK wanted a high horse: so he took the sewing-chair, put the hassock
on it, put the sofa-pillow on that, and mounted.

How he got seated up there so nicely I don't know; but I know just how
he got down.

The horse did not mind the bridle, but he would not stand the whip. He
reared, lost his balance, and fell over.

Down came Frank with sofa-pillow, hassock, and all. By good luck, he was
not hurt; but he will not try to ride that horse again.

                                                      A. B. C.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

SAGACITY OF A HORSE.

A YOUNG gentleman bought a hunting-mare from a farmer at Malton in
England, and took her with him to Whitby, a distance of nearly sixty
miles. One Wednesday morning the mare was missing from the field where
her owner had placed her. A search was made for her, but with no
success.

The next day the search was renewed. The owner and his groom went some
ten miles, and were told that the mare had crossed the railway the
morning before. At this point the trail was easy. The mare had taken the
high road to her old home at Malton.

Six men had tried, but in vain, to stop her. At a place called
Pickering, she jumped a load of wood and the railway gates, and then,
finding herself in her old hunting country, made a bee-line for home. In
doing this, she had to swim two rivers, and cross a railway.

She was found at her old home, rather lame, and with one shoe off, but
otherwise no worse for her gallop of nearly sixty miles across the
country,--all done in one day; for her old owner found her on Wednesday
night, standing at the gate of the field where she had grazed for two
previous years. Was she not a pretty clever horse?

                                                UNCLE CHARLES.

PHANTOM.

WE have a little white dog whose name is Phantom. This is his portrait.
I hope you are glad to meet him. Ask him to shake hands. He would do so
at once if you could only see him in reality.

When he was only a few months old, he followed us all to church without
our knowing it; nor did we see him, till, in the most solemn part of the
service, we heard a patter, patter, patter, coming up the aisle, and
there stood Phantom at the door of our pew. In his mouth was a
long-handled feather duster, which he had found in some obscure corner
of the building, and where it had been put (as it was supposed)
carefully out of everybody's way.

Phantom is very intelligent, and has learned a number of tricks. He can
understand what is said to him better than any dog I ever knew; but he
is best known among the children here for his love of music and singing.

He has only learned one song yet; but he knows that as soon as he hears
it. Wherever he may be,--up stairs, or down stairs, or out of doors,--if
he hears that song, he will sit up, throw his head back, and you will
hear his voice taking part in the music.

[Illustration]

You may sing a dozen songs, all in about the same tone; but he will take
no notice till he hears the tune he has learned, and then he will sing
with you--not in a bark or a yelp, but in a pure, clear voice, as if he
enjoyed it.

If you could see him sitting up, with his nose in the air, his mouth
open, and his fore-paws moving as if playing the piano, and could hear
his music, I am sure you would laugh till the tears came into your eyes.

                                                  UNCLE TIFFY.
  CARONDELET, MO.

[Illustration]

CHRISTMAS.

    Words by ALFRED SELWYN.[A]            Music by T. CRAMPTON.

[Illustration: Music]

    Treble clef lyrics:               Bass clef lyrics:
    Hark! the bells are sounding,     Welcome to our pleasures
    Christmas draweth nigh;           And our Christmas cheer!
    Now let joy abounding,            We'll not stint the measures,
    Bid all sorrow fly.               Would you all were here!

    Ye who pine in sorrow,            Boys and girls together--
    Come be cheer'd to-day;           From all parts and climes,
    Of our gladness borrow,           To enjoy this weather,
    As you freely may.                And these Christmas times!

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Nursery, 1876.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

The July edition of the Nursery had a table of contents for the next six
issues of the year. This table was divided to cover each specific issue.
A title page copied from this same July edition was also used for this
number and the issue number added after the Volume number.

The notes about treble and bass clef lyrics were added to indicate what
the original music score represented.

Page 176, period added to end of paragraph (in both hands.)


End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Nursery, December 1877, Vol. XXII. 
No. 6, by Various
{'title': 'The Nursery, December 1877, Vol. XXII. No. 6 by Various', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}