Happy Days for Boys and Girls

But at length, with a sudden bound upward, the fisher fell with his whole weight upon the back of his lathy antagonist. Old long-legs was upset, and down they both went in the water, where a prodigious scuffle ensued. Now one of the heron’s big feet would be thrust up nearly a yard; then the cat would come to the top, sneezing and strangling; and anon the heron’s long neck would loop up in sight, bending and doubling about in frantic attempts to peck at its foe, its cries now resembling those of a hen when seized in the night, save that they were louder and harsher. Over and over they floundered and rolled. The mud and water flew about. Long legs, shaggy paws, wet, wriggling tail, and squawking beak, fur and feathers – all turning and squirming in inextricable confusion. It was hard telling which was having the best of the mêlée, when, on a sudden, the struggle stopped, as if by magic.

“One or t’other has given in,” muttered Ben.

Looking more closely, we saw that the fisher had succeeded in getting the heron’s neck into his mouth. One bite had been sufficient. The fray was over. And after holding on a while, the victor, up to his back in water, began moving towards the shore, dragging along with him, by the neck, the body of the heron, whose great feet came trailing after at an astonishing distance behind. To see him, wet as a drowned rat, tugging up the muddy bank with his ill-omened and unsightly prey, was indeed a singular spectacle. Whatever had brought on this queer contest, the fisher had won – fairly, too, for aught I could see; and I hadn’t it in my heart to intercept his retreat. But Ben, to whom a “black cat” was particularly obnoxious, from its nefarious habit of robbing traps, had no such scruples, and, bringing up his rifle with the careless quickness of an old woodsman, fired before I could interpose a word. The fisher dropped, and after writhing and snapping a few moments, stretched out – dead.

Leaving Ben to take off its skin, – for the fur is worth a trifle, – I was strolling along the shore, when upon coming under a drooping cedar, some six or seven rods from the scene of the fight, another large heron sprang out of a clump of brambles, and stalked off with a croak of distrust. It at once occurred to me that there might be a nest here; and opening the brambles, lo, there it was, a broad, clumsy structure of coarse sticks, some two or three feet from the ground, and lined with moss and water grasses. In it, or, rather, on it, were two chicks, heron chicks, uncouth little things, with long, skinny legs and necks, and sparsely clad with tufts of gray down. And happening to glance under the nest, I perceived an egg, lodged down among the bramble-stalks. It had probably rolled out of the nest. It struck me, however, as being a very small egg from so large a bird; and having a rule in my pocket, I found it to be but two and a half inches in length by one and a half in width. It was of a dull, bluish-white color, without spots, though rather rough and uneven. I took it home as a curiosity.

On the edge of the nest I saw several small perch, a frog, and a meadow-mouse, all recently brought, though the place had a suspicious odor of carrion.

All this while the old heron had stood at a little distance away, uttering now and then an ominous croak. I could easily have shot it from where I stood, but thought the family had suffered enough for one day.

The presence of the nest accounted for the obstinacy with which the old male heron had contested the ground with the fisher.

Both old birds are said to sit by turns upon the eggs. But the nests are not always placed so near the ground as this one. Last summer, while fishing from the “Pappoose’s Pond,” I discovered one in the very top of a lofty Norway pine – a huge bunch of sticks and long grass, upon the edge of which one of the old herons was standing on one foot, perfectly motionless, with its neck drawn down, and seemingly asleep.

The artist who could have properly sketched that nest and bird would have made his fortune then and there.

    C. A. Stephens.

LITTLE HOME-BODY

LITTLE Home-body is mother’s wee pet,
Fairest and sweetest of housekeepers yet;
Up when the roses in golden light peep,
Helping her mother to sew and to sweep.
Tidy and prim in her apron and gown,
Brightest of eyes, of the bonniest brown;
Tiniest fingers, and needle so fleet,
Pattern of womanhood, down at my feet!

Little Home-body is grave and demure,
Weeps when you speak of the wretched and poor,
Though she can laugh in the merriest way
While you are telling a tale that is gay.
Lily that blooms in some lone, leafy nook;
Sly little hide-away, moss-sided brook;
Fairies are fine, where the silver dews fall;
Home fairies – these are the best of them all!

    George Cooper.

NEDDY’S HALF HOLIDAY

WE’VE had a good time, Tony, old fellow, haven’t we?” said Neddy Harris, who was beginning to feel tired with his half day’s ramble in the fields. As he said this he sat down on some boards in the barn.

Tony replied to his young master by rubbing his nose against his face, and by a soft “baa,” which was as near as he could come to saying, “A first-rate time, Master Neddy.”

“A grand good time,” added the boy, putting his arms around the lamb’s neck and laying his face on its soft wool.

“And now,” he continued, “as father says we should always do, I’ll just go back and think over what I’ve done this holiday afternoon; and if I forgot myself in anything and went wrong, it will be best for me to know it, so that I can do better next time.

“I’m sorry about that poor squirrel,” said Neddy; “he never did me any harm. What a beautiful little creature he was, with his bright black eyes and shiny skin!”

And the boy’s face grew sad, as well it might, for he had pelted this squirrel with stones from tree to tree, and at last knocked him to the ground.

“But it was so cruel in me! Now, if I live a hundred years, I’ll never harm another squirrel. God made these frisky little fellows, and they’ve just as much right to live as I have.”

Neddy felt better about the squirrel after this good resolution, which he meant to keep.

“That was curious about the spider,” he went on, trying to push all thoughts of the dead squirrel from his mind. Let me tell you about this spider. In the corner of a fence Neddy saw a large circular spider’s web, shaped like a funnel, down in the centre of which was a hole. As he stood looking at the delicate thing, finer than any woven silk, a fly struck against it and got his feet tangled, so that he could not escape. Instantly a great black spider ran out of the hole at the bottom of the web, and seizing the poor fly dragged him out of sight and made his dinner off of him.

Neddy dropped a piece of dry bark about the size of his thumb nail into the web, and it slipped down and covered the hole through which the spider had to come for his prey. Instantly the piece of bark was pushed up by the spider, who came out of his den and ran around on the slender cords of his web in a troubled kind of way. Then he tried to get back into his hidden chamber, but the piece of bark covered the entrance like a shut door. And now Mr. Spider was in a terrible flurry. He ran wildly up one side of his web and down another; then he tugged at the piece of bark, trying to drag it out, but its rough edges took hold of the fine silken threads and tore them.

“You’ll catch no more flies in that web, old chap,” said Neddy as he stood watching the spider.

But Neddy was mistaken. Spider did not belong to the give-up class. If the thing could not be done in one way, it might in another. He did not reason about things like human beings, but then he had instinct, as it is called, and that teaches animals how to get their food, how to build their houses or make their nests, and how to meet the dangers and difficulties that overtake them in life. After sitting still for a little while, spider went to work again, and this time in a surprising way. He cut a circle close around the piece of bark as neatly as you could have done with a pair of sharp scissors, and lo! it dropped to the ground, leaving a hole in the web about the size of a ten-cent piece.

“Rather hard on the web, Mr. Landpirate,” said Neddy, laughing. “Flies can go through there as well as chips.”

When he called the spider a land-pirate, Neddy was wrong. He was no more a pirate – that is, one who robs and murders – than is the woodpecker or swallow, for they feed on worms and insects. The spider was just as blameless in his work of catching and eating flies as was Neddy’s white bantam when she went off into the fields after grasshoppers.

But Neddy’s laugh at the spider was soon cut short. The most difficult part of his work was done when he got rid of the piece of bark. As soon as that was out of his way he began moving backward and forward over the hole he had cut in the web, just as if he were a weaver’s shuttle, and in about ten minutes it was all covered with gauzy lacework finer than ever was worn by a queen.

“I’ll give it up, old fellow,” exclaimed Neddy, taking a long breath as he saw the work completed. “This just beats me out.” Spider crept down into his den again to wait for another fly, and Neddy, leading Tony, went on his way pleased and wondering.

THE SPARROW

THOU humblest bird that wings the air, the Master cares for thee;
And if he cares for one so small, will he not care for me?

His eye looks on thee from above, he notices thy fall;
And if he cares for such as thee, does he not care for all?

He feeds thee in the sweet spring-time, when skies are bright and blue;
He feeds thee in the autumn-time, and in the winter too.

He leads thee through the pathless air, he guides thee in thy flight;
He sees thee in the brightest day, and in the darkest night.

Oh, if his loving care attends a bird so mean and small,
Will he not listen to my voice when unto him I call?

MRS. PIKE’S PRISONERS

A TRUE STORY

EARLY on a cloudy April afternoon, many years ago, several little girls were playing in a village door-yard, not far from the fence which separated it from a neighbor’s. They were building a play-house of boards, and were so busily occupied, that none of them had noticed a lady standing at a little four-paned window in the house the other side of the fence, who had been intently regarding them for some time. The window was so constructed as to swing back like a door, and being now open, the lady’s face was framed against the dark background of the room, producing the effect of a picture. ’Twas a strange face, sallow and curiously wrinkled, with a nose like the beak of a hawk, and large black eyes, which seemed to be endowed with the power of perpetual motion. These roved from one to another of the busy builders, till suddenly one of them seemed to be aware that some one was looking at her, and turned towards the little window.

“Ah, I know you, Wealthy Robbins! Come here a minute, my little dear,” spoke the lady, in a shrill, quavering voice. And she beckoned to her with a hooked finger like a claw. But Wealthy shrank back, murmuring, “I don’t want to,” almost under her breath, and nudging with her elbow the nearest girl; “Hannah, Mrs. Pike wants something. See!”