Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Goat and Her Kid by Harriet Myrtle (little red riding hood ebook free TXT) 📖
- Author: Harriet Myrtle
Book online «The Goat and Her Kid by Harriet Myrtle (little red riding hood ebook free TXT) 📖». Author Harriet Myrtle
Transcriber's Note:
The last story "Winter Pleasures" seems to end abruptly. But this is so in the book. There is no missing text.
The Rose-Bud Stories, FOR YOUNG CHILDREN. Illustrated.THE GOAT AND HER KID. BY MRS. HARRIET MYRTLE.
New York: SHELDON AND COMPANY. 1870.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by Sheldon and Company, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
The Goat and her Kid.
he grass plot at the back of the cottage was a very bright green, and sparkled with the morning dews. It was kept smooth, and level, and short, by the garden-roller going over it once a week, and still more by the constant nibbling of the goat, who was allowed to be there all day, because she had a pretty little young kid that ran by her side.
But it is not to be supposed that this kid was contented with always running close to its mother's side. Kids are very fond of dancing and frisking about, and this one was more fond of it than any other in the whole village.
One day a poor Italian boy came down the lane playing upon a pipe, and beating a little tabor. He used to play these for two dolls that danced upon a board by means of a string which went through their bodies, and was fastened to his knee, so that when he moved his knee quickly the dolls seemed to dance about upon the board.
The boy stopped at the gate, put down his board, placed his dolls upon it, with the string at his knee, began to play his pipe, and beat upon his tabor, and, as he played, the dolls danced up and down, and round and round, first on one side, then on the other, now bobbing down their heads, now frisking about their feet.
But while this was going on at the gate, the kid heard the pipe and tabor, and after listening to it a minute, with its head on one side, suddenly jumped up in the air, gave a great many little kicks, very quick and funny, then ran frisking round its mother, and at last stood upon its hind legs, and danced all across the grass plot.
Little Mary, who had been looking at the dolls, happened to turn round at the moment when the kid was dancing. "O, you little dear, dear kid!" cried Mary, first running towards the kid, then back to look at the dolls, then again at the kid, then at the dolls, and the Italian boy played away with his pipe and tabor, and made his dolls jump up in the air, and reel, and set, and hop; but it was all nothing to the jumps in the air of the kid, and its frisking kicks and flings, and its fun and its fancies.
At last the Italian boy went away, with a large piece of bread and cheese in his hand, and his dolls and dancing-board at his back; but playing his pipe and tabor all down the lane. The goat stood looking after him, with her head raised tall in the air, and a serious face; but the kid continued to dance as long as the pipe and tabor could be heard.
The Little Foundling.
n the beginning of June, when the young birds have got nearly all their principal feathers, but have not yet learned to fly, it is a sad thing if by any accident one of them tumbles out of the nest. This misfortune sometimes happens when a nest is too full. Five or six little birds are a good many for a nest no bigger than a teacup; and there are often as many as five. We have also to recollect that these young things are always very wild, and impatient, and unreasonable, and make a great fluttering together, and scramble and climb over each other, especially when their mother brings them food in her bill. There is, of course, not enough food for all of them at once, but they all try to get it at once, and some of them are naughty and greedy, and try to get a second morsel before their brothers and sisters have had any at all. Now, the careful mother-bird knows this very well, and she, therefore, divides everything among them, so that each has a bit in turn, and while she feeds them she begs the rest to be as patient as they can, and not flutter, and chirrup, and gape so widely, and above all things, to mind they do not tumble, or push each other, over the edge of the nest.
It happened one day that this very accident occurred in a hedge-sparrow's nest which had been built in the largest branch of a hawthorn-tree. This tree grew in the middle of a hedge that went round a large field, where there were at this time a number of haymakers, all very busy with the hay. While some were tossing the hay about in order to spread it out in the sun and dry it, others were raking up the hay that was already dry enough, and piling it up into haycocks. Men and women, and boys and girls too, were all at work in this way, and singing in the sun as they tossed the hay with forks, or raked it up with large wooden rakes. When the hay was thus moved about on the field, a frog sometimes jumped up, and went silently leaping away towards the hedge; and sometimes a field-mouse sprang out from the short grass, with a loud squeak, and ran off to hide himself in the hedge, squeaking all the way, not because he was in the least hurt, but because he had waked in a great fright.
At the same time that all this was going on, the sparrow, whose nest was in the hawthorn-tree, had brought a few seeds and a morsel of crust to her young ones. The seed she distributed with ease, but the morsel of crust was rather hard, and required her to pinch and peck it a good deal with her bill before it could be soft enough for the young birds. The young ones, however, were all so anxious to be first to receive the crust the moment it was ready, that they all began to make a loud chirruping, and scrambling, and pushing, and fluttering, and trampling, and climbing over each other, till at last two of them were on the very edge of the nest, and had each got hold of the crust. But the mother-bird did not approve of such rudeness, so she took it away from them in her own bill just as the two were beginning to pull with all their might, standing on opposite sides of the nest. They could not recover themselves, but over they went, fluttering down into the tree. One fell into the next bough below, but the other went fluttering into the hedge under the tree. The mother helped the nearest one up again into the nest, by showing it how to hop and fly from branch to branch; the other, however, was too low down, so there sat the unfortunate little fellow all alone upon a twig, chirruping and looking up in vain at his lost nest.
This unlucky nestling had not long sat in this way before some boys, who had brought the haymakers their dinners, and were returning home, saw him in the hedge, and immediately began to try to catch him. But though he could not fly, he could flutter, and if he was not able to run, at least he could hop; so every time one of the boys got near to him, the nestling scrambled on to the next bough, and thus from bough to bough all along the hedge. If the boys had only known how dreadfully frightened the poor little bird was, they never could have been so cruel as to hunt him in this way. They did not know this, however, and only thought of catching him. At last he had got to the end of the hedge, and then went fluttering down upon the field with the boys after him. They soon were so close to him, as he hopped and fluttered along the short grass, that the poor little fellow felt their hands would presently be upon him, and as a last chance of escape, he crept and hid himself under a wisp of hay.
Just at that moment there came into the field Charles Turner, with his sister Fanny, and their maid, each having a little wooden rake to make hay with. They saw the boys all running very eagerly after something in the grass, and they ran directly towards them to see what it was.
"O," cried Charles, "it is a poor little bird that cannot fly!"
"Do not hurt it," cried Fanny. "Pray, Charley, ask them not to hurt it!"
The nestling had been obliged to hop from beneath his little morsel of hay, and had now crept underneath a haycock.
"We did not mean to hurt it, Miss," said one of the boys; "we only wanted to catch it, and we could not. But I am afraid one of us trod upon it somehow by accident, when it was under the bit of hay there; and, perhaps, it has been hurt somewhere. I'm very sorry if it is hurt." As he said this, the boys all went away; and the one who had spoken really did look sorry.
"I wonder where the little fellow is hiding," said Charles. "If he has been hurt, we had better look for him, to see if we can help him to find his nest."
"Yes, let us look for him," said Fanny; and they both went to work directly to remove the hay and search underneath the haycock,—Sarah, their maid, helping them.
They were not long in finding the nestling. He was crouching close to the ground, with one bright little round black eye looking up at them, and was panting as if his little heart would break.
"We will not hurt you, poor little thing!" cried Fanny, as her brother stooped down and took him up softly in both hands. The nestling's breast panted quicker than ever, and every now and then he gave a flutter, when Charles tried to look at him to see where he was hurt. At last, when he found how gently he was held, and that all they did to him was to smooth down the feathers of his back and wings, he began to be quiet, and to pant less, and gradually to cease making any fluttering.
"Now then," said Charles, "he is quiet, and we may examine him." So he slowly began to open his hands, and Fanny began to blow the little bird's feathers with her mouth close down to him, to blow them on one side that they might see where he was hurt. But no bruise or scratch could be found. Presently, however, Charles said, "O, I see what has happened. The boys in running after him have trod upon his feet, and bruised them dreadfully. They are all red, and swelled, and crooked, and I do not believe they can ever get properly well again. His little claws have been twisted and broken. He will never be able to hop about any more; and I am sure he can never perch upon a twig. He will have nothing to hold fast with. What is to become of him?"
Fanny began to cry as she heard all this, and looked at the nestling's bruised feet, and saw how badly they were injured. "He will die," said she, "if we let him go: he will never be able to get up to his nest, nor hop about to find his food; and he will be starved. Do, Charley, let us take him home with us. If he gets well enough to hop and fly, we will give him his liberty; and if not, let us take care of him."
Accordingly, home they all went, carrying the bird, gently wrapped up in a white handkerchief, and held loosely in Fanny's double hands, so as not to press him. When
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