"But, mamma," continued he, "won't I have a nice story to tell Charlie and Susie when I get home, about this big pop-corner?"
Mamma.
WHAT DEMPSEY IS PROUD OF
"What are you proudest of?" said Mattie to Bertie. "I'm proudest of my new red-top boots," said Bertie. "
I'm
proudest of my new black hat," said Clay. Mattie was proudest of her muff and boa. Little Bell was proudest of her wax doll.
But Dempsey had the queerest pride of all. He had no boots or mittens; and his clothes were coarse and worn. What had he to be proud of? This is what he said, "I'm proudest of my papa's wooden leg." The other little people were too polite to laugh at him; but they looked at him with wonder.
"Let me tell you," said he, "why I'm proud of my papa's wooden leg. One time when there was a war, and men were wanted to help fight the battles, my papa took his gun, and went into the army. And when there was a great battle, and men were shot down all around him, my papa stood beside the man that held the flag. And, when the man was killed, my papa would not let the flag fall, but took it in his own hands. Then the soldiers on the other side fired at the flag with a big cannon; and the ball took off my papa's leg. He was sick a long time; but he got a letter from his commander that said he was a brave man, and had done his duty nobly. This is why I am proud of my papa's wooden leg."
Mattie and Bertie and Clay and Bell all thought that this was a pretty story; and Clay said, "Dempsey is right. He has something more to be proud of than any of us."
Fannie.
JENNY AND TIMOTHY WREN
Sweet little, neat little Miss Jenny Wren,
On a white hawthorn spray,
In the bright month of May,
Sat chirping so sweet,—
"Pewhit and pewheet,"
Where daisies unfold.
And kingcups of gold
Shine out on a glad May morning.
Down-crested, brown-breasted Timothy Wren,
As he fluttered along,
Trilled the snatch of a song;
Then chirruped her name
As near her he came,
And told of his love,
As meek as a dove,
To Jenny, that bright May morning.
"Hear, Jenny, dear Jenny, sweet Jenny Wren:
If you'll be my own wife,
I will love you through life;
We'll gather the moss,
Soft feathers, and floss;
And build us a nest,
The neatest and best,
And sing through the bright May mornings."
May blossoms, gay blossoms, curtained their nest:
Through the tiny mouse-hole,
Little Jenny she stole;
There, of no one afraid,
Ten fine eggs she laid,
While Timothy dear
Sang blithely and clear,
"How sweet are the bright May mornings!"
George Bennett.
WHAT MAMIE DID
Mamie is a little girl five years old, with bright black eyes, and rosy red cheeks.
She is very fond of "The Nursery," as are a great many other Mamies.
Now, which Mamie is this story about? They are all wondering, but cannot tell certainly, till they have heard it read.
Well, one cold winter's day,
this
little Mamie came to her mother with a very urgent request. What do you suppose it was? To go out coasting? No.
To go to visit her little friend Nellie? No.
To take a sleigh-ride with