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DNA repair and mutagenesis 2nd ed Edition Errol C
Friedberg Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Errol C Friedberg; et al
ISBN(s): 9781555813192, 1555813194
Edition: 2nd ed
File Details: PDF, 24.46 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 A CHILD’S REASONING.
She was ironing dolly’s new gown,
Maid Marian, four years old,
With her brows puckered down
In a painstaking frown
Under her tresses of gold.

’Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in

Exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
“Don’t you know it’s a sin
Any work to begin
On the day that the Lord sanctifies?”

Then, lifting her face like a rose,

Thus answered this wise little tot:
“Now, don’t you suppose
The good Lord He knows
This little iron ain’t hot?”

A SWELL DINNER.
A plain, grave man once grew quite celebrated;
Dame Grundy met him with her blandest smile,
And Mrs. Shoddy, finding him much feted,
Gave him a dinner in her swellest style.

Her dining-table was a blaze of glory;

Soft light from many colored candles fell
Upon the young, the middle aged, and hoary—
On beauty and on those who “made up” well.

Her china was a miracle of beauty—

No service like it ever had been sold,
And, being unsmuggled, with the price and duty,
Was nearly worth its weight in gold.

The flowers were wonderful—I think that maybe

Only another world has flowers more fair;
Each rose was big enough to brain a baby,
And there were several bushels of them there.

The serving was the acme of perfection;

Waiters were many, silent, deft, and fleet;
Their manners seemed a reverent affection
And oh! what stacks of things there were to eat!

And yet the man, for all this honor singled,

Would have exchanged it with the greatest joy
For one plain meal of pork and cabbage mingled,
Cooked by his mother when he was a boy.

LITTLE JACK.
He wore a pair of tattered pants,
A ragged roundabout,
And through the torn crown of his hat
A lock of hair stuck out;
He had no shoes upon his feet,
No shirt upon his back;
His home was on the friendless street,
His name was “Little Jack.”

One day a toddling baby-boy

With head of curly hair
Escaped his loving mother’s eyes,
Who, busy with her care,
Forgot the little one, that crept
Upon the railroad near
To play with the bright pebbles there,
Without a thought of fear.
But see! around the curve there comes
A swiftly flying train—
It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieks
With all its might and main;
The mother sees her child, but stands
Transfixed with sudden fright!
The baby clasps his little hands
And laughs with low delight.

Look! look! a tattered figure flies

Adown the railroad track!
His hat is gone, his feet are bare!
’Tis ragged “Little Jack!”
He grasps the child, and from the track
The babe is safely tossed—
A slip! a cry! the train rolls by—
Brave “Little Jack” is lost.

They found his mangled body there,

Just where he slipped and fell,
And strong men wept who never cared
For him when he was well.
If there be starry crowns in heaven
For little ones to wear,
The star in “Little Jack’s” shall shine
As bright as any there!

Eugene J. Hall.

A STORY OF AN APPLE.
Little Tommy and Peter and Archy and Bob
Were walking one day, when they found
An apple; ’twas mellow and rosy and red,
And lying alone on the ground.

Said Tommy: “I’ll have it.” Said Peter: “’Tis mine.”

 Said Archy: “I’ve got it; so there!”
Said Bobby: “Now let us divide in four parts,
And each of us boys have a share.”

“No, no!” shouted Tommy, “I’ll have it myself.”

Said Peter: “I want it, I say.”
Said Archy: “I’ve got it, and I’ll have it all;
I won’t give a morsel away.”

Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he fought,

(’Tis sad and distressing to tell!)
And Archy held on with his might and his main,
Till out of his fingers it fell.

Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew,

And then down a green little hill
That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled
As if it would never be still.

A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass

And switching her tail at the flies,
When all of a sudden the apple rolled down
And stopped just in front of her eyes.

She gave but a bite and a swallow or two—

That apple was seen nevermore!
“I wish,” whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom,
“We’d kept it and cut it in four.”

Sydney Dayre.

IDLE BEN.
Idle Ben was a naughty boy;
(If you please, this story’s true;)
He caused his teachers great annoy,
And his worthy parents, too.
Idle Ben, in a boastful way,
To his anxious parents told,
That, while he was young, he thought he’d play,
And he’d learn when he grew old.

“Ah, Ben!” said his mother, and dropped a tear,

“You’ll be sorry for this by-and-by.”
Says Ben, “To me, that’s not very clear,
But at any rate I’ll try.”

So Idle Ben, he refused to learn,

Thinking that he could wait;
But, when he had his living to earn,
He found it was just too late.

Little girls, little boys, don’t delay your work;

Some day you’ll be women and men:
Whenever your task you’re inclined to shirk,
Take warning by Idle Ben.

BABY ALICE’S RAIN.

The drouth had been long—oh, very long—
The whole long month of blithesome May;
The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong,
From the pinched, brown land so far away:
Leaves fell; and the blue-birds hushed their song,
As field and forest grew dim and gray.

Then one night the clouds had gathered: the wind

Came in from the east; but it needed trust
To believe that the soft rain lurked behind,
To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust:
So soon we forget that God is kind!
So easily cease to hope and to trust!

But it rained at morning: oh, welcome fall

Of the drops from heaven, that had such need!
Those drops that have fallen alike on all,
Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed,
Since the plant of life was so tiny and small
When the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed.

Did we wonder, to see it come at last—

This coveted blessing?—wee Alice did not,
As quick to the window all dimpled she passed,
Springing up in glee from her little cot,
And bearing a love so holy and vast
In such limited space—dear baby tot!

“Look, mamma! look, papa!—oh yes, it yanes!

“I tought dere ood be some ’ittle showers!
“Detoration Day—Dod take such pains!
“Don’t ’u see Dod’s waterin’ de soldiers’ f’owers?”
Oh, lips of the children!—there’s something remains
Yet, of Eden’s prime, in this world of ours.

John Hay Furness.

GIVE US LITTLE BOYS A CHANCE.

Here we are! don’t leave us out,
Just because we’re little boys!
Though we’re not so bold and stout,
In the world we’ll make a noise.
You are many a year ahead,
But we’ll step by step advance;
All the world’s before you spread—
Give us little boys a chance!

Never slight us in our play;

You were once as small as we;
We’ll be big, like you, some day,
Then perhaps our power you’ll see.
We will meet you, when we’re grown
 With a brave and fearless glance;
Don’t think all this world’s your own—
Give us little boys a chance!

Little hands will soon be strong

For the work that they must do;
Little lips will sing their song
When these early days are through.
So, you big folks, if we’re small,
On our toes you needn’t dance;
There is room enough for all—
Give us little boys a chance!

PUSS IN THE OVEN.

While sitting at our breakfast rather late
One winter’s morn a little after eight,
We heard a noise;
But from the shuffling of feet and legs,
Of drinking coffee and of eating eggs,
We girls and boys
Thought little of it, but looked at one another;
Fred looked at Polly—Polly at her brother.
Just then we heard a feeble cry, so wee,
Where could it come from—and what could it be?
“It’s puss,” cried one, “she must be in the ‘aery.’”
And so we went with footsteps soft and wary.
But, no; Puss in the aery was not found,
And once again we heard the plaintive sound,
“M-e-o-w, M-e-w,”
What could we do?

We looked again and Clara searched the house;

Was pussy in the coal-hole, with a mouse?
“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Much louder now.
“She’s in the cupboard,” so, we search the shelves,
But find no pussy. Have some fairy elves
Been imitating puss? But once again
Poor pussy gives a cry as if in pain;
The drawers are searched; in every little nook
Where puss could hide we take a hasty look.

“M-e-w, M-e-o-w,”
Still louder now,
We all look frightened, so while one declares
That pussy’s hidden underneath the stairs;
And while we stood upon the kitchen rug,
Wondering where pussy was so nice and snug,
The oven door was opened just a bit
To warm some toast, when out jumped little Kit!
And as she shook her furry brindled form,
She seemed to say, “My bed was rather warm.”

WHAT WAS IT?

Guess what he had in his pocket.
Marbles and tops and sundry toys
Such as always belong to boys,
A bitter apple, a leathern ball?—
Not at all.

What did he have in his pocket?

A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw,
A brassy watch-key, broken in two.
A fish-hook in a tangle of string?—
No such thing.

What did he have in his pocket?

Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made,
Buttons, a knife with a broken blade,
A nail or two and a rubber gun?—
Neither one.
What did he have in his pocket?
Before he knew it slyly crept
Under the treasures carefully kept,
And away they all of them quickly stole—
’Twas a hole!

Sidney Dayre.

THE COBBLER’S SECRET.

A waggish cobbler once in Rome,
Put forth this proclamation,
That he was willing to disclose
For due consideration,
A secret which the cobbling world
Could ill afford to lose;
The way to make in one short day
A hundred pairs of shoes.
From every quarter soon there came
A crowd of eager fellows;
Tanners, cobblers, bootmen, shoemen,
Jolly leather sellers,
All redolent of beef and smoke,
And cobbler’s wax and hides;
Each fellow paid his thirty pence
And called it cheap besides.
Silence! The cobbler enters
And casts around his eyes,
Then curls his lips—the rogue!—then frowns
And looks most wondrous wise;
“My friends,” he says, “’tis simple quite,
The plan that I propose;
And every man of you, I think,
Might learn it if he chose.
A good sharp knife is all you need
In carrying out my plan;
So easy is it none can fail
 Let him be child or man,
To make a hundred pairs of shoes,
Just go back to your shops,
And take a hundred pairs of boots
And cut off all their tops!”

A SAD CASE.
I’m a poor little kitty,
And alas! when born, so pretty,
That the morning I was found,
Instead of being drowned,
I was saved to be the toy
Of a dreadful baby-boy,
Who pinches and who pokes me,
Holds me by my throat and chokes me,
And when I could vainly try
From his cruel clutch to fly,
Grabs my tail, and pulls so hard
That some day, upon my word!
I am sure ’twill broken be,
And then everybody’ll see
Such a looking Kitty!

That baby has no pity!

Thinks I’m “only a kitty”—
I won’t stand it, nor would you!
’Tis no use to cry out m-e-w!
Listen! Some day I shall scratch,
And he’ll find he’s met his match;
That within my little paws
There are ever so many claws!
And it won’t be very long,
If this sort of thing goes on,
Till there’ll be a kitten row
Such as has not been till now;
Then, my lad, there will be found,
 Left upon that battle-ground,
Such a looking Baby!

Clara D. Bates.

THE HEIR APPARENT.

A small boy who can adopt the air and demeanor of the
“afflicted parent” will make this soliloquy very amusing.
A Baby! Yes—a baby—a real, definite, unquestionable baby! What of
it? do you ask. Well, that’s queer. Don’t know what a baby is? I’m
sorry for you. My advice is—go and get one.
Heigho! I’m weighted down with my responsibility. Solferino in color
—no hair on its head—kicks—yowls—mews—whines-sneezes—squints
—makes up mouths—it’s a singular circumstance—that baby is, and—
but never mind.
Cross? I guess that’s a beginning of the truth, so far as it’s
concerned, but, why did it happen along just at the moment when
muslin, linen and white flannel were the highest they had been since
Adam built a hen-house for Mrs. Eve’s chickens? when the doctors
charge two dollars a squint, four dollars a grunt, and, on account of
the scarcity in the country, take what is left in a man’s pocket, no
discount for cash, and send bill for balance, Jan. 1st? Queer, isn’t it?
(A pause.)
A queer little thing is that baby; a speck of a nose like a wart, head
as bald as a squash, and no place to hitch a waterfall; a mouth just
situated to come the gum-game and chew milk. Oh! you should hear
her sing. I have stuffed my fur cap down its throat, given it the
smoothing-iron to play with; but that little red lump that looks as if it
couldn’t hold blood enough to keep a musketo from fainting, persists
to swallow its fists, and the other day they dropped down its throat, to
the crook in its elbows. That stopped its music, and I was happy for
one and a half minutes.
 It is a pleasant thing to have a baby in the house—one of your achy
kind. Think of the pleasures of a father in his night costume, trembling
in the midnight hour, with his warm feet upon a square yard of
oilcloth, dropping paregoric in a teaspoon, by moonlight, the nurse
thumping at the door, and the wife of your bosom crying “hurray,” and
the baby yelling till the fresco drops from the ceiling. It’s a nice time
to think of dress coats, pants, ties, and white kids.
Its mother says the darling is troubled with—oh, don’t mention it. I
have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms—it
uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night; it was no go.
I rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the
room, upsetting the flower-stand. It didn’t make any noise then! Oh,
no! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. (A pause.) That baby’s mother says
only wait until it gets bleached (it’s been vaccinated) and old enough
to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I’m going to wait. Won’t it be
delightful?
John, run for the doctor; it’s fallen into the slop pail; it’s choking
with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs; or has swallowed the
tack-hammer; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough,
small pox, cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the
doctor take the money laid by for my winter’s donation to the poor.
Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties?
Oh, no more of that! No—more—of—that. A baby—oh! I’m an old
fellow now. Adieu, vain world!

AN EGG A CHICKEN.
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!
For didn’t I break an egg to see?
There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,
With a bit of mucillage round it all—
Neither beak nor bill,
Nor toe nor quill,
Not even a feather
To hold it together;
Not a sign of life could any one see.
An egg a chicken? You can’t fool me!

“An egg a chicken! Didn’t I pick

Up the very shell that had held the chick—
So they said?—and didn’t I work half a day
To pack him in where he couldn’t stay?
Let me try as I please,
With squeeze upon squeeze,
There is scarce space to meet
His head and his feet.
No room for any of the rest of him—so
That egg never held that chicken I know.”

Mamma heard the logic of her little man,

Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can!
Took an egg from the nest—it was smooth and round:
“Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this sound?”
Faint and low, tap, tap;
Soft and slow, rap, rap;
Sharp and quick,
Like a prisoner’s pick.
“Hear it peep, inside there!” cried Tom, with a shout;
“How did it get in, and how can it get out?”

Tom was eager to help—he could break the shell.

Mamma smiled and said, “All’s well that ends well.
Be patient awhile yet my boy.” Click, click,
And out popped the bill of a dear little chick.
No room had it lacked.
Though snug it was packed,
There it was, all complete,
From its head to its feet.
The softest of down and the brightest of eyes,
And so big—why, the shell wasn’t half its size.

Tom gave a long whistle, “Mamma, now I see

That an egg is a chicken—though the how beats me,
An egg isn’t a chicken, that I know and declare;
Yet an egg isn’t a chicken—see the proof of it there.
Nobody can tell
 How it came in that shell;
Once out all in vain
Would I pack it again.
I think ’tis a miracle, mamma mine,
As much as that of the water and wine.”

ONE OF GOD’S LITTLE HEROES.

The patter of feet was on the stair,
As the Editor turned in his sanctum chair,
And said—for weary the day had been—
“Don’t let another intruder in.”

But scarce had he uttered the words, before

A face peered in at the half-closed door,
And a child sobbed out—“Sir, mother said
I should come and tell you that Dan is dead.”

“And pray who is ‘Dan’?” The streaming eyes

Looked questioning up, with a strange surprise:
“Not know him?—Why, sir, all day he sold
The papers you print, through wet and cold.

“The newsboys say that they could not tell

The reason his stock went off so well:
I knew!—with a voice so weak and low,
Could any one bear to say him ‘No?’

“And the money he made, whatever it be,

He carried straight home to mother and me:
No matter about his rags, he said,
If only he kept us clothed and fed.

“And he did it, sir—trudging through rain and cold,

Nor stopped till the last of his sheets was sold;
But he’s dead—he’s dead! and we miss him so!
And mother—she thought you might like to know!”
In the paper, next morning, as “leader,” ran
A paragraph thus: “The newsboy Dan,
One of God’s little heroes, who
Did nobly the duty he had to do—
For mother and sister earning bread,
By patient endurance and toil—is dead.”

Margaret J. Preston.

WHAT THE COWS WERE DOING.

Little Rosie, walking slowly
Past the verdant meadow, sees
Many cows, and some are standing,
Others lying ’neath the trees.

In the road stands little Rosie,

Caring not for dust or mud,
While her eyes are bent upon them
As they calmly chew their cud.

Great surprise her face expresses,

For awhile her lips are dumb;
Then she cries out, “Mamma! Mamma!
All the cows are chewing gum!”

MAMMA’S HELP.
“Yes, Bridget has gone to the city,
And papa is sick, as you see,
And mamma has no one to help her
But two-year old Lawrence and me.

“You’d like to know what I am good for,

 ’Cept to make work and tumble things down;
I guess there aren’t no little girlies
At your house at home, Dr. Brown.

“I’ve brushed all the crumbs from the table,

And dusted the sofa and chairs,
I’ve polished the hearthstone and fender,
And swept off the area stairs.

“I’ve wiped all the silver and china,

And just dropped one piece on the floor,
Yes, Doctor, it broke in the middle,
But I ’spect it was cracked before.

“And the steps that I saved precious mamma!

You’d be s’prised, Doctor Brown, if you knew.
She says if it wasn’t for Bessie
She couldn’t exist the day through!

“It’s ‘Bessie, bring papa some water!’

And ‘Bessie dear, run to the door!’
And ‘Bessie love, pick up the playthings
The baby has dropped on the floor!’

“Yes, Doctor, I’m ’siderably tired,

I’ve been on my feet all the day;
Good-bye! well, perhaps I will help you
When your old Bridget ‘goes off to stay!’”

HOW TWO BIRDIES KEPT HOUSE.

The morning was sunshiny, lovely, and clear,
And two little wrens were both hovering near,
Chirping and warbling with wonderful zest,
Looking for some place to build them a nest.

They searched the veranda, examined the trees,

But never a place could they find that would please;
Till Mabel, whose eyes were as blue as the sky,
And very observing, their trouble did spy.

Then, quick as the thought darted through her wee head,

“I’ll help you, dear birdies,” she lispingly said;
“You just wait a minute, I’ll give you my shoe;
’Twill make you a nice nest—as good as if new.”

With much toil and trouble she undid the knot,

Took off the small shoe, and picked out a spot
Behind a large pillar: there tucked it away;
And soon she forgot it in innocent play.

But the wrens chirped, “Why, here’s a nest ready-made,

In the very best place, too, and quite in the shade!”
They went to work quickly, without more ado,
To keep house like the woman “that lived in a shoe.”

When evening shades came, at the close of the day,

And dear little Mable was tired of play,
She thought of the birdies, and went off alone,
To see, if she could, what the birdies had done,

With heads under their wings the wrens were asleep;

Side by side, in the shoe, they were cuddled down deep,
Then, clapping her hands, Mable said, “Keep my shoe;
My new ones I’ll wear, and this one’s for you.”

WHY HE WOULDN’T DIE.

Listen, my boy, and you shall know
A thing that happened a long time ago,
When I was a boy not as large as you,
And the youngest of all the children, too.
I laugh even now as I think it o’er,
And the more I think I laugh the more.
’Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day;
We were all in the kitchen, cheery and gay;
 The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth,
And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth.
My elder sister, addressing me,
“To-morrow’s Thanksgiving, you know,” said she;
“We must kill the chickens to-night, you see.
Now light the lantern and come with me;
I will wring their necks until they are dead,
And have them all dressed ere we go to bed.”

My sister, unused to sights of blood,

And, pale with excitement, trembling stood;
But summoning courage, she laid her plans,
And seized the old rooster with both her hands,
And, with triumph written all over her face,
Her victim bore to the open space.
Then she wrung and wrung with might and main,
And wrung and twisted and wrung again,
’Till, sure that the spark of life had fled,
She threw him down on the ground for dead.

But the rooster would not consent to die,

And be made up into chicken-pie,
So he sprang away with a cackle and bound,
Almost as soon as he touched the ground,
And hiding away from the candle’s light,
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night.
My sister, thus brought to sudden stand,
And looking at what she held in her hand,
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead—
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head!

THE SICK DOLLY.

It needs a cute little girl who can make appropriate
gestures to recite this piece.
My dolly is very sick!
 I don’t know what to do;
Her little forehead it scowls quite horrid,
Her lips are turning blue.

She’s got a dreadful pain,

I know it from her face;
I’ll fetch a pellet and make her smell it,
From mamma’s medicine-case.

There, there, my child, lie still;

That’s sure to do you good.
Now don’t be ugly, I’ll wrap you snugly
All in your scarlet hood.

I know what made her sick!

She’s had too much to eat!
A piece of cheese, six blackberries
And a little bit of meat!

That’s too much for a doll,

(Hush, Baby dear, don’t cry!)
All those blackberries, besides stewed cherries,
And huckleberry pie.

I ought to be ashamed
(That’s just what mamma said)
To let my dolly commit such folly,
And get a pain in her head.

Some gruel would do her good;

What fun ’twill be to make it!
Just flour and water, and then, my daughter,
You’ll have to wake and take it!

I’d like to be a cook!

How nice the gruel does smell!
Oh, there it goes all over her nose!
Now dolly has got well.
 DAYS OF THE WEEK.
For seven little boys and girls. Teacher or some large boy
or girl should speak.
The days of the week once talking together
About their housekeeping, their friends and the weather,
Agreed in their talk it would be a nice thing
For all to march, and dance, and sing;
So they all stood up in a very straight row,
And this is the way they decided to go:

(Let seven children stand up, and as day of week is

called, take places, each one equipped with
the things the speaker mentions.)

First came little Sunday, so sweet and good,

With a book in her hand, at the head she stood.
Monday skipped in with soap and a tub,
Scrubbing away with a rub-a-dub-dub;
With board and iron comes Tuesday bright,
Talking to Monday in great delight.
Then Wednesday—the dear little cook—came in,
Riding cock horse on his rolling-pin.
Thursday followed, with broom and brush,
Her hair in a towel, and she in a rush.
Friday appeared, gayly tripping along;
He scoured the knives and then he was gone.
Saturday last, with a great big tub,
Into which we all jump for a very good rub.

(The children march and sing to the tune of

“Good Morning, Merry Sunshine.”)

Children of the week are we,

Happy, busy, full of glee.
Often do we come this way,
And you meet us every day.
Hand in hand we trip along,
Singing, as we go, a song.
Each one may a duty bring,
Though it be a little thing.

(All bow, and, taking up the articles, retire from

the stage in order, Sunday, Monday etc.)

Mary Ely Page.

POPPING CORN.
And there they sat, a popping corn,
John Styles and Susan Cutter—
John Styles as fat as any ox
And Susan fat as butter.

And there they sat and shelled the corn,

And raked and stirred the fire,
And talked of different kinds of care
And hitched their chairs up nigher.

Then Susan she the popper shook,

Then John he shook the popper,
Till both their faces grew as red
As saucepans made of copper.

And then they shelled, and popped and ate,

All kinds of fun a-poking,
While he haw-hawed at her remarks,
And she laughed at his joking.

And still they popped, and still they ate—

John’s mouth was like a hopper—
And stirred the fire and sprinkled salt,
And shook and shook the popper.

The clock struck nine—the clock struck ten,

And still the corn kept popping;
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve,
And still no signs of stopping.
 And John he ate, and Sue she thought—
The corn did pop and patter—
Till John cried out, “The corn’s afire!
Why, Susan, what’s the matter?”

Said she, “John Styles, it’s one o’clock;

You’ll die of indigestion;
I’m sick of all this popping corn—
Why don’t you pop the question?”

HOW THE FARMER WORKS.

For Several Boys.

This is the way the happy farmer(1)

Plows his piece of ground,
That from the little seeds he sows
A large crop may abound.

This is the way he sows the seed,(2)

Dropping with careful hand,
In all the furrows well prepared
Upon the fertile land.

This is the way he cuts the grain(3)

When bending with its weight;
And thus he bundles it in sheaves,(4)
Working long and late.

And then the grain he threshes thus,(5)

And stores away to keep;
And thus he stands contentedly(6)
And views the plenteous heap.

1. Arms extended forward as though holding a plow. 2. A motion as

of taking seed out of a bag or basket, and scattering with the right
hand. 3. Motion as of cutting with a scythe. 4. Arms curved and
extended forward. 5. Hands as though grasping a flail. Strike with
some force. 6. Erect position arms folded, or hands on the hips.

THE BIRDS’ PICNIC.

The birds gave a picnic, the morning was fine,
They all came in couples, to chat and to dine;
Miss Robin, Miss Wren and the two Misses Jay,
Were dressed in a manner decidedly gay.

And Bluebird, who looks like a handful of sky,

Dropped in with her spouse as the morning wore by;
The yellow-birds, too, wee bundles of sun,
With brave chickadees, came along to the fun.

Miss Phœbe was there, in her prim suit of brown;

In fact, all the birds in the fair leafy town.
The neighbors, of course, were politely invited;
Not even the ants and the crickets were slighted.

The grasshoppers came, some in gray, some in green,

And covered with dust, hardly fit to be seen:
Miss Miller flew in, with her gown white as milk;
And Lady Bug flourished a new crimson silk.

The bees turned out lively, the young and the old,
And proud as could be, in their spencers of gold.
But Miss Caterpillar, how funny of her,
She hurried along in her mantle of fur.

There were big bugs in plenty, and gnats great and small—
A very hard matter to mention them all.
And what did they do? Why, they sported and sang,
Till all the green wood with their melody rang.

Whoe’er gave a picnic so grand and so gay?

They hadn’t a shower, I’m happy to say.
And when the sun fell, like a cherry-ripe red,
 The fire-flies lighted them all home to bed.

A VERY SMART DOG.

For a boy eight or ten years old.

I have a pretty little dog, he’s just about so high,(1)

And sometimes you would think he knew as much as you(2) or I;(3)
When e’er a letter I would write, he jumps around in glee,(4)
For then he knows that he can take it to the mail for me,(5)

I hold a stick out in my hands,(6) o’er it he jumps in joy—

He shoulders(7) arms as soberly as any soldier boy—
He jumps on table, box(8) or chair, which e’er I tell him to.
I think he is the smartest dog—now, really do not you?

My little dog will sit up straight(9) and open wide his eyes,
And hold his pretty paws just so,(10) and look so very wise.
If e’er to him I crossly speak(11) I very soon regret,
And just as soon my little dog my anger will forget.

He says bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow,
No word but this alone,
And yet he is the smartest dog that ever I have known.

At place marked 1 hold right hand out, palm downwards,

as if measuring height. At place marked 2, point to
audience. At 3, the reciter points to himself. At 4, downward
motion of hand. At 5, point to right. At 6, hold out both
hands, as if holding stick. At 7, double up right arm, with
hand in front of shoulder. At 8, point to left. At 9, hold head
up very straight. At 10, cross hands on breast. At 11, hold
out right hand, with finger pointed, as if in command.
 OPPORTUNITY.
ADDRESSED TO THE BOYS OF AMERICA.
A judgeship is vacant, the ermine awaits
The shoulder of youth, brave, honest and true,
Some one will be standing by fame’s open gates,
I wonder, my boys, will it be one of you?

The president’s chair of a great railroad maze,

Is empty to-day, for death claimed his due,
The directors are choosing a man for his place,
I wonder, my boys—Will it be one of you?

A pulpit is waiting for some one to fill,

Of eloquent men there are only a few,
The man who can fill it must have power to thrill;
The best will be chosen—Will it be one of you?

The great men about us will pass to their rest,

The places be filled by the boys who pursue
The search for the highest, the noblest—the best,
I wonder who’ll fill them; I hope ’twill be you.

THE LITTLE LEAVES’ JOURNEY.

A motion exercise for six little girls.

Some little leaves one autumn day

From maple(1) branches high,
Looked down(2) upon the lovely world
And upward(3) at the sky;
Then each one sighed, “Had I(4) but wings,
 (5)Away, away I’d fly.”

At last the wind(6) aweary grew

Of hearing them complain,
He(7) shook the sturdy maple boughs
With all his might and main;
He shook(8) the little leaflets all,
And down(9) they fell like rain.

They huddled(10) close in little heaps

To keep all snug and warm,
When Nature(11) came, a tender nurse,
With bed(12) clothes on her arm;
She tucked(13) them ’neath soft snowy folds
And hid(14) them from the storm.

1. Motion upward with right hand. 2. Look downward. 3. Look

upward. 4. Wave hands back and forth. 5. Extend right arm. 6. Close
eyes, faces expressive of weariness. 7. Double the hands up, moving
them quickly backwards and forwards. 8. Same as 7. 9. Move hands
downward. 10. Put palms of hands together. 11. Look toward right.
12. Extend right arm, looking at same. 13. Downward motion with
right hand. 14. Motion toward the north.

THE BROOM DRILL.

Marches and drills by the little folks are always very
attractive and entertaining. The preparation for these
benefits young people by requiring them to move the body
quickly and gracefully, assuming an erect attitude, then
other positions at the word of command. Such exercises also
aid in forming a habit of strict attention.
 The Broom Drill is one of the most entertaining, and can
readily be learned. It should be practiced until it can be
performed promptly and without any mistakes. Twelve or
sixteen girls—in fact, any even number, according to the size
of the stage—may take part in it.
All should be dressed alike, in blouse waist of Turkey red
chintz, sleeves and collar trimmed with white braid; skirt
made of white cheese cloth, trimmed above the hem with
band of red chintz, four or five inches wide; a red cap
completes the costume.
During the marching there should be music, and the notes
of the piano should be struck sharply. Any good march will
answer for the music. The following exercises conform very
nearly to the “Manual of Arms” used in the army. The cuts
will be found very serviceable in showing the different
positions.

Standing in rank near the front side of the stage, the

teacher gives the command to “present arms,” “carry arms,”
“trail arms,” etc. Each command consists of two words: the
first is to indicate what the pupil is to do, and on the second
word the movement is made, all acting in concert.
The following exercises are suitable for this drill, and
always prove very entertaining to the audience.
Carry—Arms!—The broom is held in the right hand, handle
upward, with the hand clasping the handle where it joins the
brush. The left hand hangs at the side. (Fig. 1.)
 Fig. 1.

Present—Arms!—Place the broom with the right

hand in front of the centre of the body, clasping the
handle with the left hand above the right. Hold the
broom perfectly perpendicular. (Fig. 2.)

Fig. 2.
 Order—Arms!—Let go the handle with the left
hand, and carry the broom to the side with the right
hand; then drop the broom to the floor. (Fig. 3.)

Fig. 3.

In place—Rest!—Grasp the handle with both

hands, the left above the right, and place both hands
in front of the lower part of the breast. (Fig. 4.)