94 



California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal. 



101)0 and (Sivljsi, 



Trust. 



Searching for strawberrieB ready to eat, 

 FindiBg tbem fragrant and liirge and bweet, 

 What do yon think I found at my feet, 



Deep in the ^reen hill side ? 

 Four young sparrows, the cunning things. 

 Feathered on back and breast aud wings. 



Opening their four mouths wide. 



Slooping lower to watch my prize. 

 Watching tlieir motious with eager eyes, 

 Dropping my berries with glad surprise, 



A plaintive snund I heard; 

 And looking up at the mournful call, 

 I spied OD a branch, near the old stone wall, 



Tne poor little mother bird. 



With g:*ief and terror her heart was wrung, 

 And while to the slender boughs she hung, 

 She felt that the lives of her birdlings hung, 



On a still more slender thread. 

 "Ah, birdie," I said, "if you only knew 

 That my heart was tender aud warm and true!" 

 But the thought that I loved her birdlings too 



Never entered her small round head. 



And so through this world of ours we go, 

 Bearing our burdens of needless wue. 

 Many a heart beating heavy and slow 



Under its load of care; 

 But oh! if we only, only knew 

 I'hat God was tender and warm and true, 

 Aud that He loved us through and through, 



Our hearts would be lighter than air. 



Dot Xiambs Sffary Kaf Got. 



Mary liaf got a leetle Iambs already; 

 Dose vool vos vite like Hbnow; 

 Und efery times dot Mary did Tend oiid 

 Dot lambs veut also oud, mit Mary. 



Dot lambs dit follow Mary von day of der 



(sbsohool hoiipe, 

 Vich vos obbosition to der rules of der shscliool 



master. 

 Also, vich it dit caused dose sohillen to sclimile 



oud loud , 

 Ven dey dit saw dose lambs on der inside of der 



shschool house. 



Und zo dot shchoojmaster dit kick der lambs 



gwick oud; 

 Likewise dot lambs dit loaf around on der out- 



outsides, 

 Und dit shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently 



aboud — 

 Undil Mary dit come also from dot shchool 



house oud. 



I'n den dot lambs din run right avay gwick to 



Mary, 

 fnd dit make his bet on Mary's arms, 

 Like he would f^aid, "I doud was scared, 

 Mary would kept me from all dhroubles ena- 



how." 



**Vot vos der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und 



Mary?" 

 Dose scliillen dit ask it, of dot shchoolmapter; 

 "Veil, dond you know it, dot Mary lofe dose 



lambs already ?" 

 Dot shchoolmaster dit said. 



"OUR CORNER.' 



£ UNT POLLY is happy to greet her 

 % dear nieces and nephews again. 

 L Isn't June a real sweet month? 

 . ,'(rf May was ushered in with blooming 

 Yi^ roses and has gone out in fragrance. 

 June, with a brighter sun, and just as 

 many sweet and beautiful flowers, shows 

 also the promise of fruits. Look at the 

 little baby apples and pears hanging 

 among the leaves that almost hide them. 

 The peaches, too, are the color of the 

 leaves, but in another month or two 

 they will begin to show some signs of 

 ripeness. Tlio cherries! Oh, the lus- 

 cious cherries that little children and 

 birds love so much, are now full ripe, 

 and Oh! so refreshing to eat, and so 

 pretty to look at as they hang down on 

 their long stems. Out in the fields the 

 gr.iss has grown to its full size, and the 

 men are mowing and making the fra- 

 grant hay. See the wheat and barley 

 and oats, with full-grown heads, waving 

 in the wind and reflecting the sun so 

 prettily! The hills are turning brown 

 with many colored flowers, and soon will 

 fade to a dry look for the want of rains. 

 So with suiiiiner comes bciiutv: and as 



ripeness grows the color of wild flowers 



and gi'een grass fades to a russet brown. 

 Then the fruits of the earth and the 

 grains that feed us all mature, aud man 

 and beast and bird eat of the good things 

 and praise the Giver of all good for the 

 blessings that are provided for all of 

 God's creatures. 



And now Aunt Polly wants you to read 

 this nice little story that she has selected 

 for you all; 



A TALK WITH BFETIE ABOUT THE DRAIN. 



"I guess crackers don't grow, do they, 

 auntie?" said Bertie, as he took one in 

 his little chubby hand for his lunch. 



"No; the man makes them and puts 

 them in the oven and bakes them as 

 Mary Ann bakes her bread." 



"What does the man make them of ?" 



"He makes them of wheat. Here is 

 some wheat. This grows in a field on a 

 stalk as high as your head, all wrajjped 

 in little husks at the top of the stalk. 

 When it is ripe the man cuts down the 

 stalks aud shells out the v.heat with a 

 big threshing machine, .and theu it looks 

 like this. After that it is taken to the 

 mill and ground very fine. Wait, ;ind 

 I will grind some for you in the coftee- 

 mill; there it is ground up finer than 

 that, and theu the baker makes it into 

 crackers and bakes them." 



"Well, the stufl' they make the crack- 

 ers of grows, then, doesn't it?" 



"0, yes. I told you the other day 

 that all our food grows out of the ground 

 in some way. There is a great deal of 

 this wheat grown, and when it is ground 

 into flour it is made into bread and cake 

 and puddings, and many other things 

 that we eat. There are also other kinds 

 of grain that we raise aud use in the same 

 way." 



Bertie ate a little while in silence, look- 

 ing now at the crackers, and now at the 

 wheat. At last he said: "Well, auntie, 

 they can't make any bad drink out of 

 this, can they? Because, you see, it is 

 all hard and dr}'." 



"Yes, Bertie, it is hard and dry, but 

 they wet it and soak it up, and I am 

 sorry to say they do make a great deal 

 of bad drink out of some kinds of grain." 



"What kinds of grain?" 



"Rye, for one, and corn and barley 

 and even of wheat." 



"What is rye, auntie?" 



"Well, it looks a good deal like wheat, 

 only it is not so large." 



"Is it good to eat?" 



"Yes; we make it up with cornmeal 

 into rye and Indian bread, and some 

 people make it into bread by itself. Then 

 it is good for food; but when it is 

 fermented and spoiled for food, it 

 makes a very bad drink." 



"Oh, yes; now I remember; that was 

 in the little verse you taught me a long 

 while ago, 



"I was made to he eaten. 



And not to be drank; 

 To be ground in a mill. 



And not soaked in tank." 



"I am glad you remember it. Y'ou 

 may say it all if you can." 



So he repeated it all very prettily, and 

 then he went ofi' to plaj' in his little gar- 

 den. 



After a while he came back to me with 

 a very serious face and said: "Auntie, 

 what would it do to me if I should drink 

 the cracker?" 



"What do you mean, Birtic?" 



"Why, when I was sick mamma put a 

 cracker into a cup with some hot water 

 and sugar and milk, aud when it was 

 soft I ate it, and then I driiuk up the 

 water, and some of the cracker, too." 



"Well, it didn't hurt you, did it?" 



"No, I guess not; but why didn't it if 

 I drank it instead of eating it?" 



"Boc;iuso you did not let it stand and 



rot; that's what makes the difference. 

 When they make it into a bad drink, 

 they let it sprout, and that makes it 

 sweetish ; and then they grind it or mash 

 it. and soak the sweetness all out into 

 the water; and theu they let it stand aud 

 rot, aud that is what spoils it. Y^ou 

 wouldn't eat your soaked cracker if it 

 should stand till it was sour and spoiled, 

 would you? Don't you know how 

 quickly mamma sent away from the table 

 the stewed berries that were sour?" 



"Oh, yes; audi remember the old lady 

 at the hotel last summer who went away 

 from the house because the cold beans 

 that she sent for were sour." 



"So you see people do not think of 

 eacing rotten things, aud why should 

 they drink them? It is the rotting that 

 makes them poisonous. That is the waj' 

 in which the poison alcohol gets into 

 them." 



"And is there alcohol in everything 

 that is rotten?" 



"No; only those things that have 

 sugar in them. It is the rotting of the 

 sugar that makes the alcohol. Rye 

 whisky has a great deal of alcohol in it." 



"Whisky! Oh, yes, that is what papa 

 called it. We saw a man on the street 

 one day who acted very bad, and papa 

 said that he had been drinking whisky. 

 I wonder what made him drink it?" — 

 Aunt JiiUa, in Touths' Temperance Ban- 

 ner. 



OUR BUDGET OF LETTERS. 



Here are three nice little letters that I 

 regret came to me too late to appear in 

 Ma}'. Never mind, dears, if j'ou did not 

 beat on the word "carpets." We have 

 got some more chromos left and will 

 give you a chance every month. I want 

 you to write often as you can. You have 

 done well any way, which is a credit 

 mark to you. We will let Mary speak 

 first : 



LivERMOBE, April, 1876. 



Dear Aunt Polly: I have tried again to 

 see how many more words I could make 

 out of "carpets." I succeeded in get- 

 ing 1G9, which I send yoti. The answer 

 to .Jennie's rebus is the letter M. It is 

 splendid fun, I thiuk, to make out words. 

 I hope you will give ns something to 

 puzzle our minds every month. 



Y'our little niece. Mart C. 



That is just what Aunt Polly intends 

 to do, Mary, and she hopes you will get 

 the chromos yet. The first list was mis- 

 laid, so that Aunt Polly doesn't know 

 whether this new list contains the same 

 words as the first one. If you have sent 

 334 Jilferent words, send you full name 

 for the chromos. 



Now hear what our little Tillie says: 

 Milpitas, April, 1876. 



Dear Aunt Polly: I look for the Agri- 

 culturist every mouth with as much in- 

 terest as the best farmer in the State, not 

 that I read all about horses and cows, 

 but I do love to read the letters your 

 nieces and nephews write to you. I 

 have tried how many words I could make 

 Ijy using the letters in "carpets," and 

 how well I have succeeded — 174 words — 

 you must judge for yourself. I will 

 write to you often if you will let me, and 

 sometimes I might have a puzzle to send. 



Tillie. 



We are looking for your puzzle, Tillie. 

 Send it along. 



And now who that reads Jennie's let- 

 ter will say she is not smart? She came 

 within one of earning the pair of chro- 

 mos, and considering that a boy got 

 them, and Jennie sent the largest list of 

 any girl, I shall send her a pair of chro- 

 mos, too. Isn't that right? Aunt Polly 

 thinks so. 



Liveumohe, April, 187(>. 



Annl Polly: I !UU sorry 1 did not get to 



write sooner and send the answers to the | 

 puzzles, but I have been aTay from home 

 and could not. I hope I am not too late 

 for a chance to get the pictures; but I 

 have not the least hopes of getting them, 

 for there are so many words can be 

 formed from the letters in the word "car- 

 pets." I thiuk the answer to Willie's 

 enigma is Washington Irving, and to 

 Tommy's, California Agriculturist 

 .AND Live Stock Journal. [Right.] 



Hoping I have not sent these in too 

 late, I will close, and remain, 



Y'our niece, Jennie D. 



P. S. — I have succeeded iu getting 313 

 words from "carpets.' J. D. 



Send your full name, Jennie, and get 

 the chromos. 



Here comes a letter from little Georgie 

 Jewell, who is only 7 years old, written 

 by herself without any help from any- 

 body : 



San Jose, May, 1876. 



Aunt Polly: I have anew little brother. 

 He is so cunning. He was born the day 

 after the opening of the Centennial Ex- 

 hibition. We have moved on Ninth 

 street. We had a little dog at first, and 

 then we had a little kitten. We made a 

 garden and thought the dog would dig 

 the garden up and break the flowers o2', 

 and so we gave him away. The kitten 

 was given to us just when we gave the 

 dog away. The kitten would cry all the 

 time, and so we gave it away as we did 

 the dog; and when we gave the kitten 

 away we had a babj'. We have got some 

 little chickens, too. And that is the way 

 we go along now. So good-by. I can't 

 stop to write any more to-day; I must go 

 and change my dress now to go out. 



Y'ours, truly, Georgie Jewell. 



Aunt Polly hopes, Georgie, that you 

 will help mamma with the baby all you 

 can, and tell us next time all what you 

 do every day to help her. 



Here is the letter that Walter Rose 

 promised a long time ago. Better late 

 than never, Walter; but best never late: 



Spring L.\ke, May, 1876. 



Dear Aunt J'oHy: My sister, Willa, 

 thinkp I am too little a boy to write you, 

 but I know I can if she can. If she is 

 bigger and older than I am, she needn't 

 think that, bec:iuse she is a girl, she can 

 do what a boy can't. I'll just show her, 

 if I do make mistakes, and don't write 

 the best of letters now. That is nothing. 

 I am not always going to be a little boy, 

 I reckon. 



She did not tell you that we used to 

 live away oft' in Southern Arkansas, right 

 close to where lots of wild Indians lived. 

 We used to be dreadfully afraid of them 

 sometimes. 



Sometime, Aunt Polly, I will tell you 

 about my big Newfouudland dog, Dick, 

 a splendid great fellow of a dog, who 

 loved Willa and me so much; how two 

 big Kansas rattlesnakes bit him once; 

 how somebody at Wichita, Kansas, stole 

 him ; then how papa lost him at last. 

 Then about our little Kansas kitten that 

 Auntie Lottie killed aud then brought to 

 life with mamma's machine oil can, 

 sweet oil and cream, and about mine and 

 Willa's two little bossy cows, and little 

 pig that auntie gave us; and — oh! ever so 

 many things more, .\unt Polly, if you 

 think you can spend time to read the 

 letters of a little boy like me. Don't ex- 

 pect the editor of that paper (I forget 

 what its name is) will print them, but I 

 don't care; maybe some day, when I am 

 bigger and have gone to school lots, he 

 will like my letters for his paper. 



Oh! I forgot. Santa Glaus didn't 

 have very much for sister and mo this 

 year, because, you see. Aunt Polly, there 

 were ever so many very poor little boys 

 and girls iu this place, and he hadn't 



