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Page 59
I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have
told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what
would have become of all the wedding tours? Mrs. Sigourney, my birds
tell me, was a poet of the right sort. She sang, "Roll on,
Niagara!"--and it has rolled on ever since.
Talking of fluids, here's a letter telling
HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.
A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story:
At my summer home, the very coolest and pleasantest spot to be
found on a hot day is a grassy knoll, shaded by a great tree. Close
by is the horse-trough, which is supplied with water from the well
a few rods off. One sultry day, my little boy and I went to play
under the shade of this tree. The trough was full of clean,
sparkling water, and I lingered there even after the two horses,
"Cherry" and "Dash," had been brought out and tied to the tree; for
they, too, had found their house uncomfortable, and had begged with
their expressive eyes to be taken out-of-doors.
Now, the water in the trough looked very tempting, and soon my boy
Willy put his little hand in, and then rolling up his sleeve,
plunged in his arm and began to splash the water, throwing it
around, wetting us all, horses included. We left the tree, and were
going into the house, when we heard a loud thumping, and splashing;
turning round, we saw Cherry, with his fore-leg in the trough,
knocking his great iron shoe against the side of it, sending the
water flying in all directions, and making the water in the trough
all black and muddy. Now, these horses had drunk from this trough
three times a day for two months, and spent many a morning under
that very tree, and it had never occurred to either of them to play
such a trick until they had seen Willy do it.
Willy was so much pleased that he gave Cherry several lumps of
sugar to reward him for his naughtiness; but James, the coachman,
took a different view, and gave him a sound scolding, and I am
afraid whipped him; although I protested that Willy was more to
blame than poor Cherry, who had only imitated his little master.
C.C.B.
THREE SPIDERS.
Another enemy to my friends the birds! This time it's a spider. He
lives near the Amazon River, they tell me, builds a strong web across a
deep hole in a tree, and waits at the back of the hole until a bird or
a lizard is caught in the meshes. Then out he pounces, and kills his
prey by poison. And yet this dreadful creature has a body only an inch
and a half in length!
Then there's a spider named Kara-Kurt, who lives in Turkestan; and,
though he is no bigger than a finger-nail, he can jump several feet. He
hides in the grass, and his bite is poisonous; but I'm glad to say he
doesn't kill birds.
In the same country is a long-legged spider, who has long hair and a
body as big as a hen's egg. When he walks he seems as large as a man's
double fists. What a fellow to meet on a narrow pathway! I think most
people would be polite enough to let him have the whole of the walk.
Little Miss Muffett would have been scared out of her senses if such a
huge spider had "sat down beside her."
SPECIAL DISPATCH.
The Little Schoolma'am says Thomson didn't say "_Hail_, gentle Spring!"
He said, "Come, gentle Spring!" Dear, dear! I beg his pardon. But, like
as not, some other poet said it, if Thomson didn't. Or perhaps they've
sung so much about Spring that March, taking it all to herself, thinks
she may as well blow her own trumpet, too.
Poor March! In old times she used to be the first month of the
year,--and now she is only the third. May be, that is what troubles
her. Nobody likes to be put back in that way.
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