The Jumble Book Part 21

"Who'll get the last one?" Here and there they ran, looking with the utmost care, but the little egg still defied the hunters. "Let's give up and let Donald have it," they at last agreed, and Donald, proudly marching up to a big cherry tree, from a crotch of a limb just above their reach picked out a red egg, the only one that had resisted successfully all efforts of capture.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

WHEN ROBIN RED-BREAST ARRIVES

Everybody loves Robin Redbreast. Who of us in early spring is not gladdened by the sight of this red waistcoated little chap hopping about on the lawn? But few of us stop to think that our robin is totally unlike the English robin, the dear old Robin Redbreast of nursery days; he who covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood and was shot by the Sparrow with his little arrow!

The Redbreast of Europe is only half the size of our robin, being about five inches and three-quarters from the tip of its bill to the end of its tail feathers. Its color is a yellowish olive-brown. The throat and breast are of a reddish orange color, and this gives to him the name of Redbreast.

They remain all the year round, and when the fields and gardens are covered with snow, making it difficult for them to obtain food they come up to the door steps, picking up the crumbs which are thrown to them.

When they are well treated they soon become very familiar and make themselves quite at home, entering the cottage door and often roosting confidently over night in the warm kitchens. Their trust and confidence have made friends for them everywhere and they become domestic pets in almost every country in Europe. Their song is sweet and plaintive and is heard from early spring until late in the autumn. In this respect they are very like our own bluebird.

English books of natural history are full of interesting narratives of the beautiful confidence in man shown by the Redbreast in selecting a place for its nest.

Our pair chose for their nest a shelf in a schoolroom in which there were seventy children and directly over the heads of a little cla.s.s of girls, who never once disturbed them. One of the little birds died and the parents carried out its dead body during school hours. The other four little robins were fed and reared, day by day, in the presence of the seventy children. Do you wonder that the boys and girls of England are so fond of their Robin Redbreast?

The robin of North America belongs to a very different family--that of the thrushes. It is nearly twice the length of the English bird and more than twice its size. Audubon calls it the Migratory Thrush, because it leaves us when winter comes on and does not return until the frost is out of the ground.

Like the robin of Europe, our bird also has a confiding disposition. It builds its nest early in the spring, long before there are any leaves to hide it. It is a devoted parent and when taken sufficiently young is easily tamed and becomes strongly attached to its benefactor.

With the coming of the first robin we feel sure that spring is here.

Looking out of the window, we see our little friend with his red breast shining in the sunlight, singing his simple song of faith and hope.

AFTER MOTHER'S SAID GOOD NIGHT

When I'm in bed I feel so small, And all the shadows seem so tall.

The little light out in the hall A thin bright line throws on the wall; It squeezes thro' the crack between The half-closed door and nursery screen.

And after I have said my prayer And mother's footstep on the stair Grows fainter, fainter, fainter, there Creeps over me a sort of scare; It p.r.i.c.kles me from toe to head And seems to wiggle all the bed.

But if I cuddle down and keep Real quiet, and don't kick my feet, And have the clothes all smooth and neat, Why, pretty soon I fall asleep; And then the fairies from their glen Play with me till it's day again.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

LITTLE SIR CAT

The Fire-Engine

_Lady Bug, Lady Bug, fly away home; Your house is on fire, your children are gone!_

Sang the little yellow bird whose name I shall tell you some day when Little Sir Cat finishes his journey through Mother Goose Country.

And just then the fire engine went by, so he jumped up behind and away they went over a bridge across the River Dee near which the Jolly Miller on his pillow found a flea.

Well, pretty soon they came to a meadow in which a little bush was on fire. And right there close beside it, was the poor Lady Bug flapping her red wings wildly in fear and panic for hidden under the bush were all her little lady bugs.

"Oh, save my children!" she cried.

Little Sir Cat scrambled under the thicket but the brambles kept catching in his boot straps and pulling him back. So he kicked them off, taking care not to burn his bare toes on the hot stubbles, and carefully felt his way through the smoke until he finally reached the nest near the heart of the thicket. There lay all the Lady Bug's children, hundreds of them huddled together, frightened and smothered nearly to death.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FIRE ENGINE]

"Oh, I hope they are not quite dead," he said, tenderly picking up the smallest one. "But what shall I do now? How can I carry them all out?"

Then, quick as a wink, before the fire reached him, he picked them all up and put them in his hat.

"Hurry, my brave fireman!" called the Mother Lady Bug; "save my treasures."

And in less time than I can take to tell it, he carried them out of danger.

Just then up came Dapple Gray, so Little Sir Cat said good-by and rode away.

By-and-by, he whispered to Dapple Gray, "Yonder stands the lady who rode you far away. Do you want to run right by her, or do you want to stay behind this clump of bushes until she walks away?"

Dapple Gray made no reply. He stood perfectly still and didn't even peek around until the lady was out of sight. So that was answer enough for Little Sir Cat, and he rode off towards a little church, for it was vesper time and the bell was ringing for the people to come to worship.

Pretty soon the organ began to play, so he stopped to listen, and so did the stars and the big moon up in the sky. They didn't move, but shone right down on the little white building. After a while he got down and led Dapple Gray into a grove of trees and lay down on some leaves for the night. And pretty soon you shall hear how he and his pony had another adventure,--unless--

_A giant goes down the street for a stroll, And thinks a peppermint stick is a barber's pole._

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Harvey Peake_]

There was an old woman lived under a hill On auto'bile wheels that wouldn't stand still.

So she drove around selling her cranberry pies,-- And she's the old woman who never told lies.

The Little Goose-Girl

Many years ago there lived a little goose-girl named Helena. Every morning at sunrise she left the hut where her mother lived, and trudged away in the midst of her flock of geese. All day long she stayed in the fields with them to see that they did not wander away, and in the evening she brought them back to the village.

The hamlet she lived in was very small, and Helena had the care of all the geese in the place. Ten of the flock belonged to her mother, the rest belonged to the neighbors.