The Adventures of Johnny Chuck  by Thornton Burgess

Johnny Has Another Adventure

J OHNNY CHUCK lay stretched out on the cool, soft grass of the Green Meadows, panting for breath. He was very tired and very sore. His face was scratched and bitten. His clothes were torn, and he smarted dreadfully in a dozen places. But still Johnny Chuck was happy. When he raised his head to look, he could see a gray old Chuck limping off towards the Old Pasture. Once in a while the gray old Chuck would turn his head and show his teeth, but he kept right on towards the Old Pasture. Johnny Chuck smiled.

It had been a great fight, and more than once Johnny Chuck had thought that he should have to give up. He thought of this now, and then he thought with shame of how he had bragged and boasted just before the fight. What if he had lost? He resolved that he would never again brag or boast. But he also made up his mind that if any one should pick a quarrel with him, he would show that he wasn't afraid.

It was getting late in the afternoon when Johnny finally felt rested enough to go on. He had got to find a place to spend the night. He hobbled along, for he was very stiff and sore, until he came to the edge of the Green Meadows, where they meet the Green Forest.

Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun was almost ready to go down to his bed behind the Purple Hills. Shadows were already beginning to creep through the Green Forest. Somehow they gave Johnny Chuck that same lonesome feeling that he had had when he first left his old home. You see he had always lived out in the Green Meadows and somehow he was afraid of the Green Forest in the night.

So, instead of going into the Green Forest, he wandered along the edge of it, looking for a place in which to spend the night. At last he came to a hollow log lying just out on the edge of the Green Meadows. Very carefully Johnny Chuck examined it, to be sure that no one else was using it.

"It's just the place I'm looking for!" he said aloud.

Just then there was a sharp hiss, a very fierce hiss. Johnny Chuck felt the hair on his neck rise as it always did when he heard that hiss, and he wasn't at all surprised, when he turned his head, to find Mr. Blacksnake close by. Mr. Blacksnake glided swiftly up to the old log and coiled himself in front of the opening. Then he raised his head and ran out his tongue in the most impudent way.

"Run along, Johnny Chuck! I've decided to sleep here myself to-night!" he said sharply.

Now when Johnny Chuck was a very little fellow, he had been in great fear of Mr. Blacksnake, as he had had reason to be. And because he didn't know any better, he had been afraid ever since. Mr. Blacksnake knew this and so now he looked as ugly as he knew how. But you see he didn't know about the great fight that Johnny Chuck had just won.

Now to win an honest fight always makes one feel very strong and very sure of oneself. Johnny looked at Mr. Blacksnake and saw that Mr. Blacksnake didn't look half as big as Johnny had always thought he did. He made up his mind that as he had found the old log first, he had the best right to it.

"I found it first and I'm going to keep it!" snapped Johnny Chuck, and with every hair on end and gritting his teeth, he walked straight towards Mr. Blacksnake.

Now Mr. Blacksnake is a great bluffer, while at heart he is really a coward. With a fierce hiss he rushed right at Johnny Chuck, expecting to see him turn tail and run. But Johnny stood his ground and showed all his sharp teeth. Instead of attacking Johnny, Mr. Blacksnake glided past him and sneaked away through the grass.

Johnny Chuck chuckled as he crept into the hollow log.

"Only a coward runs away without fighting," he murmured sleepily.

 

The Real Mother Goose  by Blanche Fisher Wright

Myself

As I walked by myself, And talked to myself, Myself said unto me: "Look to thyself, Take care of thyself, For nobody cares for thee." I answered myself, And said to myself In the selfsame repartee: "Look to thyself, Or not look to thyself, The selfsame thing will be."

 

Bobby and the Big Road  by Maud Lindsay

The Picture-Book

B OBBY told his mother all about the ox-wagon man's little boy Johnny, who could make whistles for himself, and about his string ball and his flag.

"How would you like to send Johnny something by the ox-wagon man?" asked Mother. "We might make him a picture-book."

Mother could think of the nicest things!

Bobby wanted to begin the picture-book that very day. "What shall we do first?" he asked, dancing up and down with delight.

Mother thought that they had better find pictures for the book first, so she and Bobby got out some old magazines that had been stored away to use for something like this. Bobby remembered hearing Mother say when she put them in the closet: "If we should ever need pictures, we'll know where to find them."

He and Mother looked over every magazine and chose the pictures that they thought Johnny would like best. Then they cut the pictures out. That was hard work because they had to be so careful.

Then they cut the pictures out.

Once Bobby's scissors slipped and cut an ear from a picture rabbit, and once Mother almost snipped a wheel from a picture automobile. After that they took so much pains that not another picture was spoiled.

When the pictures were all cut out, Mother and Bobby pasted them on sheets of gray cardboard. Mother pasted one page, and Bobby another, till all the pictures were pasted. Then Mother fastened the pages together with a blue cord; and the book was ready to send to Johnny.

It was a beautiful book. One page had an elephant in the middle of it and a clown in each corner. That was Bobby's favorite page.

One page was like a flower-garden with red picture roses and blue picture violets all over it. Mother liked that one best. And one page had—what do you think? A picture of Bobby! His father drew it and it was just as much like Bobby, smile and all, as it could be.

Father printed under the picture:

"When upon this page you look, You'll see the boy who sends this book."

Bobby showed this page to the ox-wagon man when he took the book out to him.

"It is really and truly a picture of me," he said.

"Bless your heart!" said the ox-wagon man, "I'd have known it anywhere."

 

Bobby and the Big Road  by Maud Lindsay

The Little Log Cabin

T HE same Big Road that passed the little brown house where Bobby and his mother and father lived ran by the ox-wagon man's house, too.

His house was made of logs piled upon each other, with plaster in the cracks to keep the wind out. There were only two rooms in the house, with a wide, open hall between them. The ox-wagon man and his wife and Johnny ate their breakfast, dinner, and supper in the hall; and while they were eating they could look right out into their flower garden. Red princes'-feathers and orange marigolds, purple bachelor's buttons, and pretty-by-nights that never open their cups till the sun is going down, grew in their garden. Touch-me-nots and hollyhocks and sweet spice pinks grew there, too.

The ox-wagon man said that his wife was a master hand with flowers. As for Johnny, he was a master hand with pets. He had a bantam hen, and a spotted calf, and the yellow dog whose name was Towser.

On the days when the ox-wagon man carried his kindling-wood to sell in town Johnny and Towser always went out to watch for him just as the pretty-by-nights opened their cups, and the sun was going down. The ox-wagon man said that he wouldn't feel as if he were getting home if Johnny were not waiting by the road to call to him, and Towser to bark.

One evening Johnny and Towser spied the ox-wagon man coming with a package in his hand. He held it up for them to see before he was in calling distance.

That was almost sure to mean that it was something for Johnny.

"Oh, Daddy, what have you brought me?" called Johnny.

"Bow-wow!" barked Towser.

Both of them hurried down the road to meet the ox-wagon man. They could not wait for him to come with slow Buck and Bright.

"It's a present from the little fellow I've been telling you about," called the ox-wagon man.

Johnny's fingers trembled so that he could scarcely open the package, but at last he got the string off and unfolded the paper. And there was the picture-book!

He sat down on the doorstone in front of the log cabin and looked at every picture in the book.

Which page do you think he liked best? The one with Bobby's picture on it.

 

Mother Goose  by Frederick Richardson

Sing a Song of Sixpence

 

The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher  by Beatrix Potter

The Tale of Jeremy Fisher

O NCE upon a time there was a frog called Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in a little damp house amongst the buttercups at the edge of a pond.

T HE water was all slippy-sloppy in the larder and in the back passage.

But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet; nobody ever scolded him, and he never caught a cold!

H E was quite pleased when he looked out and saw large drops of rain, splashing in the pond—

"I WILL get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for my dinner," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "If I catch more than five fish, I will invite my friends Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise and Sir Isaac Newton. The Alderman, however, eats salad."

M R. JEREMY put on a macintosh, and a pair of shiny goloshes; he took his rod and basket, and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kept his boat.

T HE boat was round and green, and very like the other lily-leaves. It was tied to a water-plant in the middle of the pond.

M R. JEREMY took a reed pole, and pushed the boat out into open water. "I know a good place for minnows," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

M R. JEREMY stuck his pole into the mud and fastened the boat to it.

Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He had the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, his line was a fine long white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm at the end.

T HE rain trickled down his back, and for nearly an hour he stared at the float.

"This is getting tiresome, I think I should like some lunch," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

H E punted back again amongst the water-plants, and took some lunch out of his basket.

"I will eat a butterfly sandwich, and wait till the shower is over," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

A GREAT big water-beetle came up underneath the lily leaf and tweaked the toe of one of his goloshes.

Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eating his sandwich.

O NCE or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash amongst the rushes at the side of the pond.

"I trust that is not a rat," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher; "I think I had better get away from here."

M R. JEREMY shoved the boat out again a little way, and dropped in the bait. There was a bite almost directly; the float gave a tremendous bobbit!

"A minnow! a minnow! I have him by the nose!" cried Mr. Jeremy Fisher, jerking up his rod.

B UT what a horrible surprise! Instead of a smooth fat minnow, Mr. Jeremy landed little Jack Sharp the stickleback, covered with spines!

T HE stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping until he was quite out of breath. Then he jumped back into the water.

A ND a shoal of other little fishes put their heads out, and laughed at Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

A ND while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolately on the edge of his boat—sucking his sore fingers and peering down into the water—a much  worse thing happened; a really frightful  thing it would have been, if Mr. Jeremy had not been wearing a macintosh!

A GREAT big enormous trout came up—ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash—and it seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"—and then it turned and dived down to the bottom of the pond!

B UT the trout was so displeased with the taste of the macintosh, that in less than half a minute it spat him out again; and the only thing it swallowed was Mr. Jeremy's goloshes.

M R. JEREMY bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and the bubbles out of a soda water bottle; and he swam with all his might to the edge of the pond.

H E scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped home across the meadow with his macintosh all in tatters.

"W HAT a mercy that was not a pike!" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "I have lost my rod and basket; but it does not much matter, for I am sure I should never have dared to go fishing again!"

H E put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came to dinner. He could not offer them fish, but he had something else in his larder.

S IR ISAAC NEWTON wore his black and gold waistcoat,

A ND Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a string bag.

A ND instead of a nice dish of minnows—they had a roasted grasshopper with lady-bird sauce; which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but I  think it must have been nasty!

 

The Real Mother Goose  by Blanche Fisher Wright

Over the Water

Over the water, and over the sea, And over the water to Charley, I'll have none of your nasty beef, Nor I'll have none of your barley; But I'll have some of your very best flour To make a white cake for my Charley.

 

Among the Meadow People  by Clara Dillingham Pierson

The Story of the Lily-Pad Island

T HIS is the story of a venturesome young Spider, who left his home in the meadow to seek his fortune in the great world.

He was a beautiful Spider, and belonged to one of the best families in the country around. He was a worker, too, for, as he had often said, there wasn't a lazy leg on his body, and he could spin the biggest, strongest, and shiniest web in the meadow. All the young people in the meadow liked him, and he was invited to every party, or dance, or picnic that they planned. If he had been content to stay at home, as his brothers and sisters were, he would in time have become as important and well known as the Tree Frog, or the fat, old Cricket, or even as the Garter Snake.

But that would not satisfy him at all, and one morning he said "Good-by" to all his friends and relatives, and set sail for unknown lands. He set sail, but not on water. He crawled up a tree, and out to the end of one of its branches. There he began spinning a long silken rope, and letting the wind blow it away from the tree. He held fast to one end, and when the wind was quite strong, he let go of the branch and sailed off through the air, carried by his rope balloon, and blown along by the wind.

The meadow people, on the ground below, watched him until he got so far away that he looked about as large as a Fly, and then he looked no bigger than an Ant, and then no bigger than a clover seed, and then no bigger than the tiniest egg that was ever laid, and then—well, then you could see nothing but sky, and the Spider was truly gone. The other young Spiders all wished that they had gone, and the old Spiders said, "They might much better stay at home, as their fathers and mothers had done." There was no use talking about it when they disagreed so, and very little more was said.

Meanwhile, the young traveller was having a very fine time. He was carried past trees and over fences, down toward the river. Under him were all the bright flowers of the meadow, and the bushes which used to tower above his head. After a while, he saw the rushes of the marsh below him, and wondered if the Frogs there would see him as he passed over them.

Next, he saw a beautiful, shining river, and in the quiet water by the shore were great white water-lilies growing, with their green leaves, or pads, floating beside them. "Ah," thought he, "I shall pass over the river, and land on the farther side," and he began to think of eating his rope balloon, so that he might sink slowly to the ground, when—the wind suddenly stopped blowing, and he began falling slowly down, down, down, down.

How he longed for a branch to cling to! How he shivered at the thought of plunging into the cold water! How he wished that he had always stayed at home! How he thought of all the naughty things that he had ever done, and was sorry that he had done them! But it was of no use, for still he went down, down, down. He gave up all hope and tried to be brave, and at that very minute he felt himself alight on a great green lily-pad.

This was indeed an adventure, and he was very joyful for a little while. But he got hungry, and there was no food near. He walked all over the leaf, Lily-Pad Island he named it, and ran around its edges as many as forty times. It was just a flat, green island, and at one side was a perfect white lily, which had grown, so pure and beautiful, out of the darkness and slime of the river bottom. The lily was so near that he jumped over to it. There he nestled in its sweet, yellow centre, and went to sleep.

When he fell asleep it was late in the afternoon, and, as the sun sank lower and lower in the west, the lily began to close her petals and get ready for the night. She was just drawing under the water when the Spider awakened. It was dark and close, and he felt himself shut in and going down. He scrambled and pushed, and got out just in time to give a great leap and alight on Lily-Pad Island once more. And then he was in a sad plight. He was hungry and cold, and night was coming on, and, what was worst of all, in his great struggle to free himself from the lily he had pulled off two of his legs, so he had only six left.

He never liked to think of that night afterward, it was so dreadful. In the morning he saw a leaf come floating down the stream; he watched it; it touched Lily-Pad Island for just an instant and he jumped on. He did not know where it would take him, but anything was better than staying where he was and starving. It might float to the shore, or against one of the rushes that grew in the shallower parts of the river. If it did that, he would jump off and run up to the top and set sail again, but the island, where he had been, was too low to give him a start.

He went straight down-stream for a while, then the leaf drifted into a little eddy, and whirled around and around, until the Spider was almost too dizzy to stand on it. After that, it floated slowly, very slowly, toward the shore, and at last came the joyful minute when the Spider could jump to some of the plants that grew in the shallow water, and, by making rope bridges from one to another, get on solid ground.

After a few days' rest he started back to the meadow, asking his way of every insect that he met. When he got home they did not know him, he was so changed, but thought him only a tramp Spider, and not one of their own people. His mother was the first one to find out who he was, and when her friends said, "Just what I expected! He might have known better," she hushed them, and answered: "The poor child has had a hard time, and I won't scold him for going. He has learned that home is the best place, and that home friends are the dearest. I shall keep him quiet while his new legs are growing, and then, I think, he will spin his webs near the old place."

And so he did, and is now one of the steadiest of all the meadow people. When anybody asks him his age, he refuses to tell, "For," he says, "most of me is middle-aged, but these two new legs of mine are still very young."

 

A Book of Nursery Rhymes  by Francis D. Bedford

Jack and Jill

 

The Story-Teller  by Maud Lindsay

Little Maid Hildegarde

O NE evening Little Maid Hildegarde's father came home with wonderful news; the knights were coming to town. He had heard it as he came from the forest where he cut wood all day and he hurried every step of the way home to tell Hildegarde and her mother.

"They are on the king's business and will be at the Church Square to-morrow morning at the hour of ten. Everybody in town will be there to see them. Old Grandmother Grey is going to ask them to ride in search of her little lamb that has gone astray; and the mayor will tell them of the wolves that come in the winter. The good knights are always glad to help," he said.

Little Maid Hildegarde knew all about the knights. Her father was never tired of telling, or she of hearing, how they fought and killed the fierce dragon that had troubled the people of the border; and put out the forest fires in the time of the great drought and fed the hungry when the famine was in the land. And yet with all of their great deeds they were merry men, not too proud to sing at a feast or play with a child.

And many an evening, though Hildegarde was growing to be a great girl, her mother sat by her bed to sing a song that she had sung to her when she was a babe in the cradle:

"Hush, my baby, do not cry, Five brave knights go riding by. One is dressed in bonny blue; He's the leader, strong and true. One is clad from head to toe In an armor white as snow. One in crimson bright is drest, With a star upon his breast. One in gold and one in green, Cloth of gold and satin sheen. Hush, my baby, do not cry, Five brave knights go riding by."

Oh, how Hildegarde had longed to see those splendid riders! And now at last she was to have her heart's desire. It seemed almost too good to be true.

"Shall we start to town as soon as the new day comes?" she asked.

"Just as soon as the cows are taken to the pasture, and the little chicks are fed," said her mother; and the little maid went to bed well satisfied.

But alas, for Hildegarde and her hopes! The morning sun had scarcely shone when her mother awoke with a terrible pain in her head, and her father slipped on his way to the barn and sprained his foot so he could not walk. And there was no one to take the child to the Church Square. No, not even a neighbor, for Hildegarde and her mother and father lived apart from every one else, and the wood that is called Enchanted lay between them and the town.

There was no help for it. Hildegarde knew herself, without a word from any one, that she could not go; but as she ran about the house to wait on them, she heard her mother and father talking.

"It is not for the pain in my face that I grieve," said the good mother; "but for the disappointment of our little maid."

"Aye," said the father, "I would bear my hurt, and more too, willingly, if only she might see the gallant knights."

And when Hildegarde heard what they said she made haste to wipe away the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks, and went about her work with a pleasant face. All day long she was busy for there were the cows to take to the pasture, and the little chicks to feed, and the eggs to gather; but at sunset her tasks were done, and with her doll in her arms she sat in the doorway of the house and looked away toward the town, the towers of which just showed above the Enchanted Wood.

Highest of all was the spire of the church that stood in the square where the knights had been; and as Hildegarde watched it change from grey to gold in the sunset glow, she thought of them and wondered where they had gone when their business was done.

Some day they would come again and then she should surely see them, her father said; and already she had begun to look forward to that time.

"Perhaps they will come when the wolves do in the winter," she said to herself; but scarcely had she spoken when through an opening in the wood she spied a horseman riding at a stately pace. Behind him came another, and another till she had counted five— five brave knights! Yes, there they came with prancing steeds and shining shields, and splendid clothes!

One bore a banner blue as the sky on a summer's day, and the next held a wee lamb close within his arms. A dragon's head hung from another's saddle, and two had bugles by their sides.

Not a word was spoken. As silently as the stars shine out at evening they passed the door where the child sat wonder-struck; and as quietly as the sun goes down at the day's end they vanished into the wood again before she could move or call. But just as the green of the last one's coat faded away into the green of the trees, Hildegarde thought she heard a strain of sweetest music!

Now there were those, and Hildegarde's mother and father were among them, who believed that the little maid, tired from her long busy day, had fallen asleep, and dreamed a beautiful dream.

But as for Hildegarde, she kept the vision in her heart alway; and when as the years went by she had little ones of her own to rock to sleep, she told them of it, and sang to them as her mother had sung to her:

 

The Real Mother Goose  by Blanche Fisher Wright

Candle-Saving

To make your candles last for aye, You wives and maids give ear-O! To put them out's the only way, Says honest John Boldero.

 

The Sandman: His House Stories  by Willliam J. Hopkins

The Painter Story

O NCE upon a time there was a little boy, and he was almost five years old, and his name was David. And there weren't any other children near for him to play with, so he used to play happily all by himself.

He had his cat and his cart and his shovel and his hoe, and he always wore his overalls when he was playing.

They were building a new house in the field next to David's house, and the masons were through their work, and the bricklayers were through, and the water men were through, and the plumbers were through, and the gas men were through, and the plasterers were through, and the carpenters were almost through, for they were laying nice clean boards on the floors, and they had the floors almost done.

David had watched them do it, and had seen how they put one board down after another, and gave the last board whacks with a hammer, to drive it close up against the next board, and nailed it through the edge, so that the nails shouldn't show.

But they always put a piece of a board against the floor board, and whacked the hammer on that, because they wanted the floor to be all smooth and shiny and not to show any marks of a hammer.

And now the house had to be painted.

So, one morning, a great big wagon came to the new house.

And on the wagon were ladders, some of them very tall, and they stuck out far beyond the ends of the wagon and there were great enormous hooks, and boards that were all painty and a great many pots of paint, some dark green for the blinds, and some a lemon-yellow for the corners of the house and what the painters call the trimmings.

But most of the paint was white.

There were two kinds of white paint, one kind for the outside of the house and another for the inside.

And there were all the kinds of brushes that the painters would need, and there were great bundles of cloth, which the painters would spread over the floors, so that the nice clean floors shouldn't get all spattered with paint, and there were some odds and ends besides.

And the painters came, and they took the things all off the wagon.

Of course, the carpenters had some ladders that would reach, but those were the carpenters' ladders, not the painters'; and the carpenters had some boards, but those were the carpenters' boards, not the painters'.

That is why the painters had brought boards and ladders.

David had gone on the train with his father and his mother, that morning, but the painters didn't know about him, so they kept right on with their work.

The foreman was there, and he was sorry that David wasn't there to see what the painters were doing, but he knew that David would see them before they were through with their work.

The wagon was unloaded, and some of the painters went inside the house, to paint the parts that had to be painted in there and some of the painters got ready to paint the outside of the house.

And they took thick pieces of board, and bored a hole in the middle, and they nailed those pieces of board on the roof, near the edge.

And they put the great enormous hooks up there, with the pointed ends in the holes in the boards, and the other ends hanging over the edge of the roof, over the gutter and the eaves.

The ends of the hooks which hung over had pulleys in them, and through the pulleys ran long ropes which hung down to the ground.

And the painters fastened the end of one of the ropes to one end of a ladder, and the end of another rope to the other end of the ladder.

Then they put some of the painty boards along over the rungs, so that the men shouldn't fall through or drop their pots of paint through, and they had made a sort of a staging which could be highered or lowered by the ropes.

And they tried the ropes, to see that it was all right, and two painters got on it, with their pots of paint and their brushes and everything they needed.

And one man sat at each end, and they pulled on the ropes, and hoisted the staging, with themselves sitting on it, up off the ground.

And the staging, with the two men on it, and their pots of paint, went slowly higher and higher, until it was as high as it could go, and the men could reach the highest board that they had to paint.

Then they fastened the ropes carefully, and they stirred up the paint, and they took up the brushes and they dipped the brushes in the paint, and they knocked them gently against the side of the paint-pot, plop, plop, plop,  and they began to move them quickly over the boards, swish, swish, swish,  first one side of the brush, and then back again on the other side.

And the first thing you knew they had all those boards painted, and they had to lower the staging so that they could reach the boards lower down.

"Hello!" called a little clear voice, and the painters looked down.

The foreman was standing there, watching the painters; and he looked, and there was David, all dressed in his go-to-town clothes.

And the foreman looked again, and there was David's mother, standing by her gate and waiting for David.

And she had on her go-to-town clothes, too.

"Hello, Davie," the foreman called. "You're all dressed up, aren't you? You'd better go and get into your overalls, quick, and then come back."

David's mother had heard what the foreman said, and she nodded and smiled to thank him, because she would have to call very loud, indeed, to make him hear, and she didn't like to.

And David nodded, and he ran back to his mother.

"Mother," he said, "the foreman said to get into my overalls. What did he mean, mother? Does that mean to put them on?"

"Yes, dear," his mother said, smiling.

So David paid no attention to his cat, who was coming to meet him and to rub against him, but he hurried to change his clothes and to put on his overalls.

And when he had his clothes changed and his overalls on, he ran out, and there was his cat waiting for him.

And he took up the handle of his cart, and he walked off as fast as he could, dragging his cart, and his shovel and his hoe rattled in the bottom of it and his cat ran on ahead, with her bushy tail sticking up in the air.

I don't know why David took his cart that time, for there wasn't any mortar man, and there wasn't any sand-pile. He almost always took his cart.

When David got to the house, there was the foreman standing in almost the same place, but the painters had lowered the staging some more.

And David didn't say anything, but he dropped the handle of his cart, and he went to the foreman and reached up for the foreman's hand.

And the foreman's big hand closed over David's little one, and the foreman smiled, but he didn't say anything, either. He waited for David to speak.

David watched the painters for some time.

"What color are they painting it?" he asked at last. "It looks like white on the brushes, but sort of watery when they put it on, just as my paints look when I put a great deal of water with them. Have they got a great deal of water with their paint?"

"Not water, Davie," the foreman answered, "but oil. This is the first coat of paint, you see, put right on the bare wood, and the wood soaks the oil out of the paint at a great rate. They won't put so much oil in the second and third coats."

Painting

"Oh," said David, "will they paint it three times?"

"Three times for new wood," the foreman said.

He didn't say any more then, but he watched and so did David while the painters dipped their brushes and patted them against the sides of their paint-pots and brushed them quickly back and forth over the new clapboards.

"Come with me, Davie," the foreman said at last, "and let's see if we can't scare up something else that's interesting."

And so David went with the foreman, and they went around by the cellar door.

And there they saw a great pile of shutters or blinds which were to go on the outside of all the windows of the house.

These blinds were leaning, one against another, and they had already been painted a kind of bluish gray, and each one had whole rows of little slats that you could turn back and forth.

And beyond the pile of bluish gray blinds was a smaller pile of dark green blinds, and the dark green blinds glistened with fresh paint, and they were leaning, one against another.

And between the pile of bluish gray blinds and the pile of dark green blinds were two painters, painting for dear life, and they were painting the bluish gray blinds dark green.

David watched them for a few minutes. It seemed to be a good deal of trouble to get the slats well painted.

"These," said the foreman, putting his hand on the bluish gray blinds, "are just as they come from the mill—the factory where they are made. This first coat of paint is put on there. Then our painters paint them whatever color is wanted."

David nodded, but he didn't say anything, for he didn't understand why the carpenters didn't make the blinds.

Pretty soon he pulled at the foreman's hand.

"I want to go back," he said.

So they went back to the painters who were painting the side of the house.

They had lowered the staging so low that the foreman could reach it.

"I'll tell you what, Davie," the foreman said. "Do you suppose you could paint a clapboard?"

"Oh," cried David, "will they let me?"

"I guess so," the foreman answered. "You ask them."

David looked up at the painters, and the painters looked down at David, and they were smiling.

David started to speak, but he couldn't ask what he wanted to. And the painters saw what was the matter, and one of them spoke.

"Want to paint a board?" he asked. "Well, come on up here."

So the foreman put his hands under David's arms, and he lifted David right up, over the staging, and set him down with his feet hanging over. And the painter dipped his brush into the paint, and patted it gently against the side of the paint-pot, plop, plop, plop,  and he handed the brush to David.

"Oh," David said, "it's heavy!"

"So it is," the painter said. "The paint is mostly lead, that's why. Now, you move the brush away from you as if you were sweeping the floor or dusting the board. Then, when it has gone as far as you can reach, you bring it back on the other side."

David tried, but he didn't do it very well, and the paint squeezed out of the brush and ran down and dripped from the edge of the clapboard.

"Not that way," the painter said. "I'll show you."

Then he took hold of David's wrist, but he left the brush in David's hand, and he moved it the way it ought to go, and he swept up all the little rivers of paint and all the little drips, and spread it smoothly over the clapboard.

"There!" said the painter. "Now, do you see?"

David nodded, and he tried again.

This time he did better, but the paint was all gone from the brush, and he held it out to the painter for more.

So the painter dipped it again, and David took it, and painted some more.

And each time he did better than he had done the last time, and he hitched along on the staging, and that clapboard was all painted before he knew it.

And David sighed and started to get up on his feet.

But the other painter called to him.

"Hey, David!" he called. "Aren't you going to do any painting for me? That isn't fair. You come over and do a board for me."

David smiled with pleasure. "Yes, I will," he said.

So he crawled on his hands and knees along the staging, and the foreman walked along on the ground beside him.

And he painted a clapboard for that other painter, but a great drop of the paint got on the leg of his overalls.

"Oh," he said, "I got some paint on my overalls."

"Gracious!" said the painter. "That's nothing. Look at my overalls."

The painter's overalls were made of strong white cloth, and they were all splashed up with paint, all colors. But he had painted a great deal more than David had.

So David finished the clapboard, and then he got up on his feet, and the foreman took him and lifted him down to the ground.

"Thank you," said the painter.

"Thank you," said the other painter.

"You're welcome," David said. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said both the painters.

And David began to run to his cart.

"Good-bye, Davie," the foreman said.

David stopped a moment and looked around.

"Good-bye," he said.

Then his cat came running to meet him, and he grabbed up the handle of his cart, and he kept on running, dragging his cart, and his shovel and his hoe rattled away like everything in the bottom of it.

And when he got to his house, he didn't stop running, but just dropped the handle of the cart, and he climbed up the steps as fast as he could and ran into the house.

"Mother," he called, "I painted two boards and I got some paint on my overalls. But you ought to see the painter's overalls. They're awful  painty."

And that's all.

 

Mother Goose  by Frederick Richardson

Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary

 

The Nursery Book of Bible Stories  by Amy Steedman

St. Peter and the Angel

S T. PETER, the servant of Christ, lay in prison awaiting his execution, ready and willing to lay down his life in the cause of his King.

Many years had passed since that long ago day, when his brother had come to him and eagerly told him, "We have found the Christ," and he had first looked upon the beloved face of his Lord and Master. He had been a bold, active, young fisherman then, proud of his strength and his courage, and when the Master had called him to leave his nets and his boat, and to be instead "a fisher of men," he had thrown himself into the new work with all the energy and keenness he possessed.

Then came that dark, bitter time when the King had looked for courage in His bold follower, and had found cowardice—when St. Peter had deserted and denied his Lord. Could he ever forget how he had boastfully declared, "I will lay down my life for Thy sake," and how the sorrowful answer had come, "Wilt thou lay down thy life for my sake? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, the cock shall not crow till thou hast denied me thrice."

He had wept very bitterly when those words had come true, and the crowing of the cock had reminded him that he was a traitor and a coward. But no tears could wash away the remembrance of his Master's face when for a moment He turned and looked upon His cowardly servant.

St. Peter's Denial

All his pride then had been crushed and humbled, all his courage lost; but one true thing remained—his love for his Master. It was this love that had helped to make him once more a trusted friend and follower of the King. After that Resurrection morning his Lord had come to him, and had three times asked him the question which was to wipe out all traces of his three denials.

"Lovest thou me?" asked Jesus.

"Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee," cried St. Peter. And then came the command, "Feed my sheep."

Ever since that day St. Peter had striven to do his Master's bidding. There had been no signs of cowardice now. He was the boldest of the followers of the King; and so it was that, when a great persecution of the Christians was begun, he was one of the first to be seized and flung into prison, with a special company of soldiers to guard him.

It was springtime, and soon all the earth would be decked with flowers, and new life would be waking everywhere. It was the time when, many years ago now, his Lord had risen, and made Easter day a day of triumph.

Now it had been decided that when Easter dawned the people should enjoy the pleasure of seeing one of the King's followers put to death, and St. Peter waited quietly in his dungeon for the morning to break.

All the Christians in their houses and secret meeting-places were praying for him. He was sure of this, and the thought comforted him; so he settled himself to sleep peacefully between his soldier guards, to whom he was bound by two strong chains. Outside in the starlight more soldiers were keeping watch, but in the prison all was dark.

Then, all of a sudden, the darkness vanished, and a light shone clear and bright. It was neither starlight nor the glow of dawn, but an angel stood there in shining robes, and the dungeon was filled with a glorious radiance.

"Arise up quickly," sounded a voice in St. Peter's ear, as the angel bent over him and roused him from his sleep. St. Peter struggled to obey, forgetting his chains; but as the strong hand of the angel helped him to rise, the chains slipped from his hands and left him free.

"Behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison."

Again the angel spoke, and bade him clothe himself and put his sandals upon his feet and wind his cloak around him. All this St. Peter did without questioning. He was sure all this was only a dream or a vision. Presently he would awake, to find himself chained as usual to the sleeping guards.

But again the voice sounded, "Follow me," and St. Peter followed the shining messenger through the prison door and past the soldiers who kept guard outside. Every door silently opened to let them pass. Not a soldier challenged them; and when at last they came to the iron gate which led into the city, that too swung back to let them through. Into the city streets they went—streets which St. Peter knew well—and suddenly he found himself alone, with no guiding light and no angel companion.

It was not a dream. The cool night air blew upon his cheek, the stars were quietly shining overhead, and he knew every house of the street in which he stood. Then the truth flashed upon him. God had sent His angel to deliver him, and he was free. The people were baulked of their prey, and the Easter dawn would bring him life, not death.

There had been no sleep for St. Peter's friends that night. In a house close by they were still praying and watching for the dawn, when a knock sounded at the door of the gate, and a young maid, called Rhoda, went hastily to see who was there. In those terrible times a knock might mean some fresh terror. The maid would not open the door until she knew who it was who knocked, and she listened intently to the voice which answered her from without.

It was a voice she knew, she was quite sure of it. Overjoyed and full of wonder, she did not stop to open the gate, but ran swiftly back to tell the others. The very man they were praying for was standing there, knocking at the door, she declared.

"Thou art mad," they answered her almost roughly. This was no time for idle imaginations. But there was no doubt she believed what she said. There was a ring of absolute certainty in her voice, and at last some of them began to think that perhaps it was St. Peter's spirit which had stood there.

But the knocking still sounded on the door. Could a spirit knock so loudly? At least it was wiser to open the door and see who was there. And so at last the gate was cautiously opened, and St. Peter stood before them.

The cries of surprise and delight were checked almost as soon as uttered. There was much need still for caution, and St. Peter held up his hand to command silence. Then, in breathless hush, they led him in, and he told them the story of his deliverance, and how at the angel's touch the chains had fallen from his hands, and the bolts and bars had slipped back.

So for a time St. Peter was still free to carry on his Master's work. But the end, when it came, was as welcome to him as the shining angel had been, for this time it was through the gates of death that he passed into the presence of the King.

We cannot be quite sure by what death the old fisherman saint glorified his Master, but people think that it was at Rome that he gave up his life. An old story tells us that St. Peter was fleeing away from that city to escape death, when, on the great road leading to Rome, he met his Master walking wearily towards the city, carrying a cross upon His back.

"Master, whither goest Thou?" asked St. Peter.

"I go to Rome to be crucified in thy place," answered the King.

Then St. Peter knew that he had done wrong in leaving his post of duty at which God had put him, and he turned back bravely to meet his death.

It was the same death as that Master had suffered; only, to the humble, loving soul of His servant, it seemed too great an honour to die as his Master had done, and he begged that he might be crucified head downwards, to mark the difference between himself and his King.

 

The Real Mother Goose  by Blanche Fisher Wright

Fears and Tears

Tommy's tears and Mary's fears Will make them old before their years.