The Nursery, No. 103, July, 1875. Vol. XVIII. | Page 5

not be induced to say it right till months afterwards.
MARY'S MAMMA.

[Illustration: From SIR EDWIN LANDSEER'S painting. In outline by MR. HARRISON WEIR, as a drawing lesson. VOL. XVIII.--No. 1]

A BIG DOG.
I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from the baby's hand.
For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of sight.
Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps, when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly; for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk together; then he takes himself off.
By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him. Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm, and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off.
Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him.
I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of
BOUNCER.

[Illustration]
THE BUTTERFLY.
Again, beside the roadside, blows The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose; Its purple head the clover raises; And all the fields are full of daisies; And in the sunshine flutters by A little white-winged butterfly.
From flower to flower I watch him go; He seems a floating flake of snow: Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging; There on a buttercup he's swinging; And now he makes a little stop Upon a scented thistle-top.
Could we change places, he and I, And I should turn a butterfly, How gayly, then, I'd hover over The elder-flowers and tufts of clover! I'd feast on honey all the day, With nobody to say me nay.
But, could I only honey eat, 'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet: The pretty flowers would quickly wither; And, all day flying hither, thither, My wings would ache: I'm glad that I Am not that little butterfly.
MARIAN DOUGLAS.

THE YOUNG CRITIC.
Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.
Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in the building.
Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for a quarter of an hour at a time.
One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton," said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than the other?"
Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."
[Illustration]
Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one.