Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text her corner by the fence. He did not speak of it, however.
There were prints of small feet on the edge. He only smoothed down the
earth and raked the bed. He did this for three mornings, then he led
Chuckie Wuckie again to the canna-bed.
"Papa," she said earnestly, "I did not dig there. Truly, I didn't. The
hole is there every morning. I found it to-day before you came out, but
I did not dig it." There were tears in her brown eyes.
"I believe you, Chuckie Wuckie dear," said her father, earnestly.
That night the little girl stood at the gate, watching for her father to
jump off the car. She could hardly wait for him to kiss her. She took
his hand and led him to the canna-bed.
"Look!" she cried eagerly.
She was pointing excitedly to a hole beside the roots of a fresh, green
canna plant.
"That hole again," said her father. "There's a stone in it now, isn't
there?"
"No, that's what I thought; stoop down and look close, papa!" cried
Chuckie Wuckie.
It was the head of a fat hop-toad, but all that could be seen was its
mouth and bright eyes. It was staring at them. Papa poked it with the
point of his umbrella. It scrambled deeper into the hole, until there
was nothing to be seen but the dirt. It was slowly changing to the color
of the black earth.
"I watched him," cried Chuckie Wuckie, excitedly--"oh, for an hour! When
I found him he was just hopping on the canna-bed. He was looking for his
house. He acted as if the door had been shut in his face. Then he began
to open it. He crawled and scrambled round and round, and threw up the
dirt, and poked and pushed. At last he had the hole made, just as it is
every morning, and he crawled in. Then he lay and blinked at me."
"Clever fellow," said papa. "Well, we won't grudge him a home, and we
won't shut the door again in his face, will we, Chuckie Wuckie?"
The cannas have grown very tall now--almost as tall as Chuckie Wuckie's
papa--and so thick that you cannot see where the roots are; but a fat,
brown hop-toad has a snug, cool, safe little nest there, and he
gratefully crawls into it when the sun grows very hot.
The Conceited Mouse
BY ELLA FOSTER CASE
Once upon a time there was a very small mouse with a very, very large
opinion of himself. What he didn't know his own grandmother couldn't
tell him.
"You'd better keep a bright eye in your head, these days," said she, one
chilly afternoon. "Your gran'ther has smelled a trap."
"Scat!" answered the small mouse--"'s if I don't know a trap when I see
it!" And that was all the thanks she got for her good advice.
"Go your own way, for you will go no other," the wise old mouse said to
herself; and she scratched her nose slowly and sadly as she watched her
grandson scamper up the cellar stairs.
"Ah!" sniffed he, poking his whiskers into a crack of the dining-room
cupboard, "cheese--as I'm alive!" Scuttle--scuttle. "I'll be squizzled,
if it isn't in that cunning little house; I know what that is--a
cheese-house, of course. What a very snug hall! That's the way with
cheese-houses. I know, 'cause I've heard the dairymaid talk about 'em.
It must be rather inconvenient, though, to carry milk up that step and
through an iron door. I know why it's so open--to let in fresh air. I
tell you, that cheese is good! Kind of a reception-room in there--guess
I know a reception-room from a hole in the wall. No trouble at all about
getting in, either. Wouldn't grandmother open her eyes to see me here!
Guess I'll take another nibble at that cheese, and go out. What's that
noise? What in squeaks is the matter with the door? This is a
cheese-house, I know it is--but what if it should turn out to be
a--O-o-o-eeee!" And that's just what it did turn out to be.
[Illustration: End of ye Tale]
#RHYMES CONCERNING "MOTHER"#
A BOY'S MOTHER[O]
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
My mother she's so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn't be as good--no, sir!--
Can't any boy be good as her.
She loves me when I'm glad er sad;
She loves me when I'm good er bad;
An', what's a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.
I don't like her to punish me--
That don't hurt--but it hurts to see
Her cryin'.--Nen _I_ cry; an' nen
We both cry an' be good again.
She loves me when she cuts an' sews
My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes;
An' when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves him 'most as much as me.
She laughs an' tells him all I said,
An' grabs me up an' pats my head;
An' I hug _her_, an' hug my Pa,
An' love him purt' nigh much as Ma.
[O] From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley. Used by special
permission of the publishers. The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
MOTHER
BY ROSE FYLEMAN
When mother comes each morning
She wears her oldest things,
She doesn't make a rustle,
She hasn't any rings;
She says, "Good-morning, chickies,
It's such a lovely day,
Let's go into the garden
And have a game of play!"
When mother comes at tea-time
Her dress goes shoo-shoo-shoo,
She always has a little bag,
Sometimes a sunshade too;
She says, "I am so hoping
There's something left for me;
Please hurry up, dear Nanna,
I'm dying for my tea."
When mother comes at bed-time
Her evening dress she wears,
She tells us each a story
When we have said our prayers;
And if there is a party
She looks so shiny bright
It's like a lovely fairy
Dropped in to say good-night.
THE GOODEST MOTHER
Evening was falling, cold and dark,
And people hurried along the way
As if they were longing soon to mark
Their own home candle's cheering ray.
Before me toiled in the whirling wind
A woman with bundles great and small,
And after her tugged, a step behind,
The Bundle she loved the best of all.
A dear little roly-poly boy
With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue,
Laughing and chattering full of joy,
And here's what he said--I tell you true:
"You're the goodest mother that ever was."
A voice as clear as a forest bird's;
And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause
To utter the sweet of the lovely words.
Perhaps the woman had worked all day
Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed;
I knew, by her weary footfall's way
That life for her was an uphill road.
But here was a comfort. Children dear,
Think what a comfort you might give
To the very best friend you can have here,
The lady fair in whose house you live,
If once in a while you'd stop and say,--
In task or play for a moment pause,
And tell her in sweet and winning way,
"You're the GOODEST mother that ever was."
MOTHER'S WAY
BY CARRIE WILLIAMS
Nowadays girls go to cooking-school
And learn to cook just so by rule;
But all I know, I'm glad to say,
My mother taught me day by day.
She did not need a great cook-book;
She knew how much and what it took
To make things good and sweet and light.
What Mother does is always right.
WHO IS IT?
BY ETHEL M. KELLEY
Whose hair is all curly, an' eyes "baby-blue"?
Who wakes up too early 'fore night-time is fru?
Who dresses her pillow all up in the clo'es,
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