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Monkey Jack and Other Stories

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Edited by Palmer Cox


A lit-tle maid weeps pit-e-ous-ly,
In dire dis-tress de-mand-ing aid;
Her pre-cious ball is up a tree,
And ev-ery boy shrinks back a-fraid.

It hangs a-loft, a shin-ing thing,
Caught by the ve-ry top-most spray,
Where slen-der branch-es ta-per-ing
'Neath the light bur-den move and sway.

Hur-rah! he comes whom all ad-mire,
Whose nim-ble legs, and lis-som back,
And read-y pluck, that naught can tire,
Win him the name of "Mon-key Jack."

See how he leaps from bough to bough
To gain that most be-lov'd of balls!
His out-stretch'd hand has caught it now;
The branch gives way--the he-ro falls!

The fright-en'd chil-dren ut-ter cries,
But e-ven yet he does his best;
His vic-tor hand re-tains the prize,
And clasps it to his faith-ful breast.

Laid on his bed, com-pos'd, though sad,
With bro-ken leg and in-jured back,
We find a lit-tle pa-tient lad,
A-las, no long-er "Mon-key Jack!"


With books and toys, what-e'er is best,
His com-rades seek him, one and all,
And shy-ly peep-ing through the rest,
Poor lit-tle Ro-sa brings her ball.

Placed at the win-dow, day by day,
While pil-lows raise his wea-ry head,
His wist-ful eyes be-hold the play
Which once with joy-ous heart he led.

And in his hand the ball is laid,
And if to fling it is his whim,
The sig-nal is at once obey'd,
With ea-ger feet they run to him.


But more than this they glad-ly do--
Each coin they get they save with care,
And Ro-sa brings her six-pence, too,
To swell the splen-did treas-ure there.

Mon-ey can pur-chase any-thing.
The hap-py chil-dren send to town,
And to the crip-ple's bed they bring
A sur-geon of the first re-nown.

Oh, beau-ti-ful tri-um-phant day!
When light of heart and free from pain,
The pa-tient lad has slipped away,
And "Mon-key Jack" climbs trees again!


Here are a num-ber of lit-tle tots, and what do you think they are
do-ing? I think the lit-tle girl on her knees is pay-ing for-feits.



Tab-by and Rover are very good friends, so that she is not at all a-fraid
to eat out of his dish when-ev-er she has not din-ner e-nough of her own.


Rain, rain, rain! How it did rain! The great drops ran down the glass in
streams. Tom, Jack, and lit-tle Meg watched it for a long time. "O dear!"
they said at last, "do you think it will nev-er clear? We want to go out
and play."


"Why do you not go up to the gar-ret, and play?" asked their mam-ma.

That struck them as a fine plan; and off they trooped, pound-ing up
the bare stairs with their nois-y feet. They found three old brooms,
and be-gan to play soldier,--Tom first, then Jack, with Meg last of
all. The gar-ret was ver-y large; and their mam-ma could hear them
as they tramped a-long, and could hear Tom's com-mand to right a-bout
face when they had reached the farth-er end.

By and by they tired of play-ing sol-dier; and then they pulled down
some old dress-es and hats that hung on a peg, and put them on, and
made be-lieve that they were grown peo-ple. Then, out of an old box,
they dragged a scrap-book full of pic-tures, and sat them down to
look them o-ver.


Mean-time their friend Rose had come, all wrapped up, through the
rain, to make them a call. She brought a bas-ket, in which were her
two kit-tens.

"The chil-dren are in the gar-ret," said their mam-ma.

So Rose ran up to find them. She did find them; but what do you
think?--they were fast a-sleep.


Sweet is the voice that calls
From bab-bling wa-ter-falls
In mead-ows where the down-y
seeds are fly-ing,
And soft the breez-es blow,
And ed-dy-ing come and go,
In fad-ed gar-dens where the
rose is dy-ing



Grace and Bell have had a quar-rel. Bell was most at fault, but now she
is ver-y sor-ry for what she has done. So she kiss-es her sis-ter, and
the trou-ble is all o-ver.



Old Win-ter is com-ing; a-lack, a-lack!
How i-cy and cold is he!
He's wrapped to the heels in a snow-y white sack;
The trees he has lad-en till read-y to crack;
He whis-tles his trills with a won-der-ful knack,
For he comes from a cold coun-tree.

A fun-ny old fel-low is Win-ter, I trow,
A mer-ry old fel-low for glee:
He paints all the no-ses a beau-ti-ful hue,
He counts all our fin-gers, and pinch-es them too;
Our toes he gets hold of through stock-ing and shoe;
For a fun-ny old fel-low is he.

Old Win-ter is blow-ing his gusts a-long,
And mer-ri-ly shak-ing the tree:
From morn-ing to night he will sing us his song,
Now moan-ing and short, now bold-ly and long;
His voice it is loud, for his lungs are so strong,
And a mer-ry old fel-low is he.

Old Win-ter's a rough old chap to some,
As rough as ev-er you'll see.
"I with-er the flow-ers when-ev-er I come,
I qui-et the brook that went laugh-ing a-long,
I drive all the birds off to find a new home
I'm as rough as rough can be."

A cun-ning old fel-low is Winter, they say,--
A cun-ning old fel-low is he:
He peeps in the crev-i-ces day by day,
To see how we're pass-ing our time a-way,
And mark all our do-ing from so-ber to gay;
I'm a-fraid he is peep-ing at me!




"I can nev-er, nev-er learn it," said Bell; and she burst in-to tears.

"Car-rie has learned it," said Miss Gray; "and I am sure you can. Try,
try a-gain."

"Yes, Bell," said Car-rie; "and then per-haps we can have a romp in
the hay-field. You will have to hur-ry, for the men are cart-ing it
in-to the barn."

Thus urged, Bell made a fresh ef-fort; and soon the les-son was learned
and re-cit-ed.

Off scam-pered the two girls to the hay-field. Soon Miss Gray fol-lowed,
but there was noth-ing to be seen of them. She looked all a-bout, and at
last walked up to the man who was load-ing the hay on the cart.


"Can you see an-y thing of two lit-tle girls from where you are?" she

"I don't see them," he an-swered, stand-ing up and look-ing a-round.

Miss Gray turned a-way, when all at once she heard a laugh be-hind her.
She looked back, and there were the laugh-ing fa-ces of Bell and Car-rie.
They had been on the cart, all hid-den un-der the hay in or-der to play
a lit-tle joke on Miss Gray. Then they scram-bled down, and came run-ning
to her.

The man on the cart smiled to see their fun. Then he said sadly, "Dear me,
I wish my lit-tle lass could run a-bout like that."


"Is she ill?" asked Car-rie.

"Yes," said the man; "but she is get-ting bet-ter now."

"We'll ask mam-ma to take us to see her," said Bell.

The ver-y next day their mam-ma did take them. They found Ruth sit-ting
pil-lowed up in a chair, ver-y pale and white. Bell had picked her a
bunch of flow-ers, which she seemed ver-y glad to get; and the three
girls soon be-came good friends. Car-ree found a lit-tle gray kitten
with which she played.

The vis-it seemed to do Ruth a great deal of good; for a pink flush came
in her cheeks, and she e-ven laughed, which her moth-er said she had not
done before for weeks.

They came a-gain the ver-y next day. Miss Gray was with them, and car-ried
a bas-ket on her arm in which were some dain-ties to tempt the sick girl's
ap-pe-tite. She was glad to see them, and told them they should have the
kit-ten for their ver-y own. So pus-sy went back in the bas-ket which had
brought the dain-ties.

Near-ly ev-er-y day af-ter this the chil-dren went to see Ruth, for at
least a week. By that time she was well e-nough to be out, and some-times
came to see them.


What is it that these lit-tle tots are all so anx-ious to see? It must
be a Christ-mas-tree.



Rob Jack-son's dog jumped off the lit-tle bridge in-to the mill pond to
fetch a stick that Hal Jones threw for him. The wheel was in full mo-tion,
and Jack, for that was the dog's name, was drawn in toward it. Rob was
a-fraid that Jack was go-ing to be drowned and was just a-bout to jump
in af-ter him, when one of the mill hands held him fast. "Wait a bit,"
said the man, and he held out a long pole to Jack who clutched it with
his teeth and was drawn safely to land.



The merry boats of Brixham
Go out to search the seas;
A staunch and sturdy fleet are they,
Who love a swinging breeze;
And before the woods of Devon,
And the silver cliffs of Wales,
You may see, when summers evenings fall,
The light upon their sails.

But when the year grows darker,
And gray winds hunt the foam,
They go back to Little Brixham,
And ply their toil at home.
And thus it chanced one winter's night,
When a storm began to roar,
That all the men were out at sea,
And all the wives on shore.

Then as the wind grew fiercer,
The women's cheeks grew white,
It was fiercer in the twilight.
And fiercest in the night.
The strong clouds set themselves like ice,
Without a star to melt,
The blackness of the darkness
Was darkness to be felt.

The storm like an assassin
Went on its wicked way,
And struck a hundred boats adrift,
To reel about the bay.
They meet, they crash--God keep the men!
God give a moment's light!
There is nothing but the tumult,
And the tempest and the night.

The men on shore were anxious,
They dreaded what they knew;
What do you think the women did?
Love taught them what to do!
Out spake a wife, "We've beds at home,
We'll burn them for a light:
Give us the men and the bare ground!
We want no more to-night."


They took the grandame's blanket,
Who shivered and bade them go;
They took the baby's pillow,
Who could not say them no;
And they heaped a great fire on the pier,
And knew not all the while
If they were heaping a bonfire,
Or only a funeral pile.

And fed with precious food, the flame
Shone bravely on the black,
Till a cry rang through the people,
"A boat is coming back!"
Staggering dimly through the fog,
Come shapes of fear and doubt,
But when the first prow strikes the pier,
Cannot you hear them shout?

Then all along the breadth of flame
Dark figures shrieked and ran,
With "Child, here comes your father!"
Or, "Wife, is this your man?"
And faint feet touch the welcome stone,
And wait a little while;
And kisses drop from frozen lips,
Too tired to speak or smile.

So, one by one they struggled in,
All that the sea would spare;
We will not reckon through our tears
The names that were not there;
But some went home without a bed,
When all the tale was told,
Who were too cold with sorrow
To know the night was cold.

Author of poem written for a child.



This is the picture of a kit-ten who lived once at a farm-house. He was
such a pret-ty lit-tle cat as to be made a great pet and used to trot
a-bout af-ter the peo-ple like a lit-tle dog. His name was A-grip-pa
and he knew it quite well.

To this farm-house came a boy and girl named Ned and Lau-ra, to spend the
sum-mer. Both were fond of pets and both played so much with A-grip-pa
that he grew rath-er la-zy and did not try to catch ma-ny mice.

Ned and Lau-ra were ver-y good friends, but it happened now and then that
both want-ed the same thing and then, sad to say, some loud words might
be heard. Ned would say, "Give me Grip-pa," and Lau-ra would an-swer,
"You shan't have Grip-pa!" and Ned would say a-gain, "I will have Grip-pa,"
and so it would go on till some-times poor Grip-pa would run a-way. But
they al-ways made up and were friends a-gain.

Grip-pa grew up a large, fine cat, and lived some years. But he was at
length taken ill. He came no more to the house, but stayed in the barn
and grew ver-y weak, till he could hard-ly walk. At last, one day he
came walk-ing fee-bly to the house. He went in-to the kitch-en, then
to the pan-try, then to the din-ing room. In-to all the rooms went
Grip-pa, and in each room sat down and looked a-round, as if tak-ing
a last fare-well; then slow-ly walked out of doors. It was in-deed his
last vis-it. Next morn-ing poor Grip-pa was found dead.



Frank More had been out skat-ing near-ly the whole af-ter-noon, for there
was no school this week, and the ice was in fine or-der. It was al-most
dark, and he was go-ing home, skates in hand, when a poor boy a-bout as
large as him-self came up and be-gan to beg from him.


"Go home with me," said Frank, "and you shall have some sup-per."

The boy went glad-ly, and on the way Frank asked him ma-ny ques-tions.
When they ar-rived, Frank took him to the kitch-en, where Jane the cook
gave him a warm seat and plen-ty of sup-per, for his thin face made her
feel sor-ry.

When Frank had seen him com-fort-a-bly set-tled, he went up stairs to
tell his fa-ther and moth-er a-bout the lad.

"Don't you think, fa-ther," he said, "that grand-pa would like such a
boy? He says he will be glad to work, and if moth-er will let me give
him my old suit, I can take him to see grand-pa in the morning."

"Well, Frank, you may try," said his fa-ther. So poor Sam had a good
bed to sleep in that night, and next morn-ing the two boys went to see
a-bout work for him. Dressed in the warm clothes Frank's moth-er gave
him, he looked like quite a dif-fer-ent boy, and was ve-ry grate-ful
for her kind-ness.

It was soon set-tled that Sam should live at old Mr. More's. He had a
good ma-ny things to do: to help take care of the chick-ens, the sheep
and lambs, the cows and horses; and be-sides all this, he went to school,
and with all the other boys, had great fun at coast-ing and skat-ing when
school was out. But he worked as well as he played, and proved so trust-y,
that grand-ma said: "Frank's boy was a boy worth hav-ing."

So Sam found a good home and Frank had the pleas-ure of know-ing that he
had helped one boy to be both use-ful and hap-py.


Jo-ey Hart was a boy who was sent by his fath-er to spend the sum-mer
with an un-cle in the coun-try. Jo-ey had been ill, and the doc-tor
said that there was noth-ing like coun-try air to make him well a-gain.

So he set off one bright morn-ing, and be-fore night was safe at his
un-cle's farm. His pa-pa had thought that Jo-ey might go to school
dur-ing the sum-mer, but when the doc-tor heard of it he said no.
"Let the boy run wild for three months. He will learn twice as fast
next win-ter."

He was wild with joy when he was at last at his un-cle's. He was so
hun-gry, and the bread and but-ter and milk tast-ed so nice-ly, that
he thought he should nev-er have e-nough. Each day he was up with the
sun, and by night had played so hard that al-most be-fore it was dark
he was read-y to go to bed.

It was great fun to watch the men in the fields at work. Some-times his
un-cle let him ride the mow-ing ma-chine, and at such times he was ve-ry
proud. Then it was ve-ry ex-cit-ing to ride on the top of a great sway-ing
load of hay, right in on to the barn floor.

La-ter on, when the hay was all gath-ered, the wheat be-gan to rip-en,
and the men were bu-sy cut-ting it and gath-er-ing it in-to sheaves. The
birds act-ed as if they thought it was cut for them on-ly, for they came
in such swarms that it looked as if they would eat it all and leave none
for the farm-er.


Some-times his aunt would ask him to take their lunch-eon to the men
at work in the fields, for dur-ing hay-ing and har-vest when the work
is heav-i-est the men al-ways have a lunch at ten in the morn-ing.

Now on one day when Jo-ey took his bas-ket and left the house for the
fields, he got him-self in-to trou-ble, and this was the way. Close by
his un-cle's house on the main street lived a gen-tle-man who had a
fine gar-den. All a-round it was a high fence and a no-tice was post-ed
up, "Tres-pas-sers will be pros-e-cu-ted." That no-tice was be-cause
the school house was not far a-way, and the boys some-times helped
them-selves to the old gen-tle-man's ap-ples.

Jo-ey had to pass di-rect-ly by the gar-den wall, and it so hap-pened
that his bas-ket was heav-y and he set it down to rest.

What took place you can see in the pic-ture on the next page bet-ter
than I can tell you. Jo-ey got the ap-ples but a bad fall, and when
he went to get up he found that he could not stand and that one an-kle
hurt him se-vere-ly.

How long he would have staid there I can not tell, had not the men in
the field grown hun-gry and sent one of their num-ber to see what had
be-come of their lunch.

The mes-sen-ger found Jo-ey, and picked him up and car-ried him home.
Then, com-ing back, he took the bas-ket and all the ap-ples that lay
a-bout, and went back to the field and the men ate them all for lunch-eon.

And so Jo-ey not on-ly got no ap-ples but had to lie in bed for a week
be-fore his an-kle got well e-nough for him to run a-bout a-gain.

[Illustration: "Oh, I say! and pippins too!!"
"I'll help myself to some of these, see if I don't Mister Notice."
Joey helps himself to more than he intended.]


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Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's
eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII,
compressed (zipped), HTML and others.

Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take over
the old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is renamed.
VERSIONS based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receiving
new filenames and etext numbers.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:


Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

EBooks posted prior to November 2003, with eBook numbers BELOW #10000,
are filed in directories based on their release date. If you want to
download any of these eBooks directly, rather than using the regular
search system you may utilize the following addresses and just
download by the etext year.


(Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99,
98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90)

EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, are
filed in a different way. The year of a release date is no longer part
of the directory path. The path is based on the etext number (which is
identical to the filename). The path to the file is made up of single
digits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename. For
example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at:


or filename 24689 would be found at:

An alternative method of locating eBooks:


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