Cinderella by - (e ink ebook reader txt) 📕

on my pillow lay my bead,

For when I’m there I never see

That thing in front or back of me.

 

JOHN’S BRIGHT IDEA.

 

Mrs. Meredith was a most kind and thoughtful woman. She spent a

great deal of time visiting the poor. One morning she told her

children about a family which she had visited the day before.

There was a man sick in bed, his wife who took care of him, and

could not go out to work, and their little boy. The little

boy—his name was Bernard—had interested her very much.

 

“I wish you could see him,” she said to her own children, John,

Harry, and Clara, “he is such a help to his mother. He wants very

much to earn some money, but I don’t see what he can do.”

 

After their mother had left the room, the children sat thinking

about little Bernard.

 

“I wish we could help him to earn money,” said little Clara.

 

“So do I, said Harry.

 

For some moments John said nothing, but, suddenly, he sprang to

his feet and cried:

 

“I have an idea!”

 

The other children also jumped up all attention. When John had an

idea, it was sure to be a good one.

 

“I tell you what we can do,” said John. “You know that big box

of corn Uncle Sam sent us for popping? Well, we can pop it, and

put it into paper bags, and Bernard can take it round to the

houses and sell.”

 

When Mrs. Meredith heard of John’s idea, she, too, thought it a

good one.

 

Very soon the children were busy popping the corn, while their

mother went out to buy the paper bags. When she came back, she

brought Bernard with her.

 

In a short time, he started out on his new business, and, much

sooner than could be expected, returned with an empty basket.

 

Tucked into one of his mittens were ten nickels. He had never

earned so much money before in his life. When he found that it

was all to be his, he was so delighted he could hardly speak, but

his bright smiling face spoke for him. After he had run home to

take the money to his mother, John said:

 

“We have corn enough left to send Bernard out ever so many times.

May we do it again?”

 

“Yes, said Mrs. Meredith, “you may send him every Saturday

morning, if you will pop the corn for him yourselves. John, will

you agree to take charge of the work?”

 

“Indeed I will,” replied John, and he kept his word. For many

weeks, every Saturday morning, no matter what plan was on foot,

no matter how good the coasting or skating, he saw that the corn

was all popped, the paper bags filled, and arranged in the basket

when Bernard arrived.

 

People began to watch for the “little pop-corn boy,” and every

week he had at least fifty cents to take home, and often more.

And all this was because of John’s bright idea, and the way he

carried it out.

 

A SAD THANKSGIVING PARTY.

 

Four hungry-looking animals

All seated in a row;

Why does not some one speak to them?

That’s what I want to know.

 

They all of them were bidden to

A fine Thanksgiving feast,

And now, it seems to me, their host

Might welcome them, at least.

 

‘Twas Master Pug invited them,

Why does he not appear?

‘Tis plain they think his absence looks

Extremely rude and queer.

 

Alas! poor Pug’s in trouble sore,

The host he cannot play;

No feast for self or friends has he

On this Thanksgiving Day.

 

He saw a turkey, large and fat,

Upon the kitchen shelf.

“That’s just the very thing I want,”

Said he unto himself.

 

He caught the turkey, but the cook

Caught him with firmer grasp,

And shook him till he could not bark

But only choke and gasp.

 

Meanwhile, those hungry animals,

Who’d waited there in vain,

Declared they never would be guest

Of Mr. Pug again.

GUY AND THE BEE

One day a jolly bumble-bee,

In coat of black and yellow,

Got caught inside a window-pane;

The silly little fellow.

 

He buzzed and buzzed against the glass,

To Guy’s great enjoyment,

Who thought to watch this funny thing

Was just the best employment.

 

But soon to touch those gauzy wings,

Became Guy’s great desire,

Although mama had told him that

A bee could sting like fire.

 

But Guy, silly as the bee,

Paid no heed to mama,

He touched the bee, then gave a howl

Which could be heard afar.

 

Mama a soothing poultice mixed,

And on his finger laid.

“Another time you’ll be more wise,”

Was everything she said.

 

A MEAN BOY.

 

Harry Burton woke one night and heard a strange noise in his

closet. He got out of bed, crossed the floor in his bare feet,

and carefully opened the closet door. The noise stopped,

instantly.

 

“Ah!” said Harry, “I knew it was mice made that noise. How I wish

I could catch them.”

 

The next morning he told his mother about the noises he had

heard.

 

“I will get you a mousetrap,” she said.

 

“I don’t want the kind that kills the mice, I only want to catch

them and tame them,” said Harry.

 

His mother laughed and told him when he had tamed his mice he

must keep them well out of her way.

 

The trap was set, the mice were caught, and sure enough, in a

short time were so tame they would eat from Harry’s hand. He made

a little house for them, and kept in it his bedroom. Whenever he

went out, he always shut the door carefully.

 

Now it happened that among Harry’s acquaintances, there was one

very disagreeable boy. His name was Dick Taft. Harry did not play

with him very often, for he was so ugly it was hard to get along

with him.

 

Dick never liked to be beaten at any game, and sometimes made it

very uncomfortable for the one who got ahead of him.

 

One day Harry happened to beat him at one of their school games.

Dick called after him when it was over, “I’ll pay you for this,

see if I don’t.”

 

Harry only laughed as he walked away going in the opposite

direction from his own house.

 

When he was out of sight, Dick ran to Harry’s house, made some

excuse to go up in his bedroom, and let in the big cat, who was

eagerly watching outside.

 

When Harry came home, the mouse house was open, and not one of

his pets was to be seen. The poor fellow was almost heart-broken.

He asked every one in the house who had left his door open. The

maid told him she thought it must have been that boy he sent up

to his room.

 

She described the boy, and Harry knew in a moment that it was

Dick Taft.

 

“So that is the way he paid me for beating him at a game,” cried

Harry. “Well, never again, so long as I live, will I play with a

boy who is mean enough to do such a trick as that.”

 

And he kept his word.

 

A NAUGHTY PUMPKIN’S FATE.

 

A queer little pumpkin, a jolly fat fellow,

Stood close to his mother so rotund and yellow.

“What a stupid old place! how I long to aspire,”

Cried he, “I was destined for something much higher.”

 

“My son,” said the mother, “pray do be content,

There’s great satisfaction in life that’s well spent!”

But he shrugged up his shoulders, this pumpkin, ‘t is true,

And acted just like some bad children will do.

 

With a shout and a whoop, in the garden they ran,

Tom and Ned, for they’d thought of the loveliest plan

To astonish their friends from the city, you see,

With a fine Jack-o’-lantern—“Ah, this one suits me!”

 

Neddie seized the bad pumpkin, and dug out his brains,

Till he felt so light-headed and brimful of pains;

Then two eyes, a long nose, and a mouth big and wide,

They cut in a minute, and laid him aside

 

Until night, when they hung him upon a stout limb,

With a candle inside; how his poor head did swim,

As they twisted him this way, then twirled him round that,

Till at last, with a crash, he fell on the ground flat,

 

A wreck of the once jolly, fat little fellow,

Who stood by his mother so rotund and yellow.

Just then a lean cow, who was passing that way,

Ate him up, just to finish HER “Thanksgiving Day.”

 

SOMETHING ABOUT FIRES.

 

It was a cold day. Fred was tired of reading, tired of looking

out of the window, and so he poked the fire for a change.

 

“I suppose there are a good many different sorts of fires,” he

said to his mamma, as he laid down the poker.

 

“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “It is very interesting to know how

people keep warm in all parts of the world, especially where fuel

is scarce and dear. In Iceland, for example, fires are often made

of fish-bones! Think of that. In Holland and other countries a

kind of turf called peat is dug up in great quantities and used

for fuel. And in France a coarse yellow and brown seaweed, which

is found in Finistere, is carefully dried and piled up for winter

use. A false log, resembling wood, but made of some composition

which does not consume, is often used in that country. It absorbs

and throws out the heat, and adds to the looks of the hearth and

to the comfort of the room.

 

“The French have also a movable stove, which can be wheeled from

room to room, or even carried up or down stairs while full of

burning coke. In Russia the poorer people use a large porcelain

stove, flat on top like a great table, with a small fire inside

which gives out a gentle, summer-like warmth. It often serves

as a bed for the whole family, who sleep on top of it.

 

“There are, besides gas-stoves, oil-stoves, various methods of

obtaining warmth by heated air and steam, and, doubtless, other

devices that I never heard of.

 

“In some countries, however, no fires are needed. In looking at

pictures of tropical towns you will at once notice the absence of

chimneys.”

 

Fred looked admiringly at his mamma as she paused.

 

“There never was such a little mother,” he said; “you can think

of something to say about everything.”

 

His mamma was pleased at this pleasant compliment.

 

“Oh!” she replied, laughing, “I could go on and tell you more

about bonfires, beacon-fires, signals, drift-wood fires, and

gypsy-tea fires; but I have told you enough for to-day.”

 

THE ICE-KING’S REIGN.

 

The sun had gone down with promises sweet,

When, keen from the north, the wind

Came blustering along on its coursers fleet,

And left frozen tracks behind.

 

Maude stood at the window; the moon shimmered down

On whirling leaves, stiff and dead,

All piteously driven; she turned with a frown,

And soft to herself she said:—

 

“The old tyrant Winter leaves nothing to prize,

Leaves nothing that’s bright or fair;

He has stolen the blue from the bending skies,

The warmth from the earth and air.

 

“The summer’s dear blossoms are withered and dead;

My garden is brown and bare;

The chipper of birds in the nest overhead

Is hushed, for no birdlings are here.

 

“The woodlands no longer are shady