The Nursery, No. 109, January, 1876, Vol. XIX. | Page 6

a noise at the river-side one of these fine mornings, and a certain cat may get a ducking."
"Mee-ow, mee-ow! Fitt! Fitt!"
"You object to that, do you? Then, pussy, don't let me find you meddling with the little birds or watching their nests."
FRANK.

[Illustration]
"PROUD AS A PEACOCK."
A DIALOGUE.
Laura.--Why is it, Rachel, that you wear that old winter dress to church, this fine spring morning? Look at me.
Rachel.--What a pretty silk! And what a becoming hat and plume!
Laura.--I gave my mother no peace till she got them for me. Why don't you make your father buy you a new spring dress, Rachel?
Rachel.--He would have given me such a dress, if I had not told him I should like something else better.
Laura.--Indeed! Pray, what else would you like better than a beautiful spring dress?
Rachel.--I knew that if my father gave me a silk dress this spring, he could not afford to let me take music-lessons: so I told him I would rather study music than have a new dress.
Laura.--What a silly girl, to prefer music-lessons to a nice new dress!
Rachel.--Hark! What is that harsh noise?
Laura.--It is the cry of that foolish peacock from the balcony of the garden yonder. He wants us to admire him.
Rachel.--How he struts about, and arches his neck, and shows his fine feathers, bright with all the colors of the rainbow!
Laura.--I would not change my canary-bird for him.
Rachel.--And I would not change my music for your new silk dress, Laura.
Laura.--Why do you say that? But, first, who is that man standing there by the garden-gate?
Rachel.--That is Mr. Blunt, the clergyman who is to preach for us to-day.
Laura.--He looks at me, and now he looks at the peacock, and now at me again, and now, with a smile, at the peacock, and now--O Rachel! this is too bad. I know what he is thinking of.
Rachel.--Let us hurry on to church. The bell has begun to toll.
Laura.--Ah, Rachel, he says to me, as plainly as looks can say, that I am as vain as yonder peacock.
Rachel.--Why, Laura, how you blush! Do you think you deserve such a reproof?
Laura.--I do, I do. Here, this Sunday morning, I have been thinking more of my new summer silk than of any thing else. Like that screeching peacock, I have been vain of my fine feathers. Yes, let us hurry on to church. One sermon I have had already. It was all given in a look.
Rachel.--You are quick to take a hint, I see.
Laura.--I hope I may be as quick to profit by it. "Pride shall have a fall," says the proverb; and my pride has fallen.
Rachel.--I shall not try to help it up, my dear.
ANNA LIVINGSTON.

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
One summer afternoon, when grandmother was sitting in her old arm-chair, just outside of the door, little Jane looked fondly up in her face, and said,--
"Tell us a story, grandma."
"A story, child!" said grandma. "Why, I never made up a story in my life."
"But you can tell a true story," said Ruth, who was seated on the doorstep,--"about something that happened when you were a little girl."
While they were talking, George and Charles and Snap, the dog, had come running up to join the group. Grandma stopped in her knitting, thought a moment, and said,--
"Well, children, sit down, all of you, and I will tell you a true story."
So the children all took seats; and grandma began:--
When I was a little girl, about the age of Ruth, my father was preceptor of the Hingham Academy. You have all been in Hingham. It is only fifteen miles from Boston. We go there now, by rail or by steamboat, in less than an hour; but, in those days, we used to go by a sailing-packet; and it was sometimes a whole day's journey.
Well, in our family there was a French boy, named Bernard Trainier. His mother was not living. His father lived in Toulon, France. At that time, France, under the great Napoleon, was continually at war, and all her young men were forced into the army. I suppose it was to save Bernard from this fate, that he was sent to America. Mr. Trainier was acquainted with a French gentleman, Mr. Duprez, who then lived in Boston; and, through him, Bernard was placed in my father's care to be educated.
Well, he was a bright, pleasant boy. He soon learned to speak English; and I and my sisters and brothers became very fond of him. He would have been very happy, but for one thing. He longed to see his little brother John, whom he had parted with at Toulon.
One day, to his great delight, Bernard received a letter from his father, telling him that John was also to be sent to America, and that he would take passage from Marseilles by the first vessel bound for Boston.
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At that time there