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GIFT OF
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MY LITTLE FRIEND,
LIVE high up in a city house all alone. My
room is a cosey little place, though there is
nothing very splendid in it,—-only my pic-
tures and books, my flowers, and my little
' 1 friend. When I began to live there, Iwas
,3: very busy and therefore very happy; but
_ by and by, when I had more time to myself,
l I often felt lonely. When I ate my meals I used to




, ,5 wish for a pleasant companion to eat with me; and
j when I sat by the fire evenings, I thought how much
> more social it would be if some one sat opposite.
[ ' 1;; I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, when
' all of a sudden I found one; for, sitting on my hand,
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MY LITTLE FRIEND.





I saw a plump, jOlly-looking fly. He sat quietly star-
ing at me, with a mild little hum, as if to say,—
“How are you? You wanted a friend, and here I
am. Will you have me?”
Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was
so cheery and confiding, and seemed as glad to see me
as I was to see him. I waggled one finger, by way of
welcome, fearing to shake my hand, lest he should
tumble off and feel hurt at my reception. He seemed
to understand me, and buzzed again, evidently saying,
“Thank you, ma’am; I should like to stay in your
warm room, and amuse you for my board. I won’t
disturb you, but do my best to be a good little friend.”
So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea.
I found that his manners had been neglected; for he
was inclined to walk over the butter, drink out of the
cream pot, and put his fingers in the jelly. A few
taps with my spoon taught him to behave with more
propriety, and he sipped a drop of milk from the wai-
ter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred fly should do.
On account of his fine voice, I named him
Buzz. He seemed to like his new quarters, and after
exploring every corner of the room, he chose his favor-
ite haunts and began to enjoy himself. I always knew
where he was, for he kept up a constant song, hum-
ming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting ready to
boil.
On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping


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MY LITTLE FRIEND.



r
his head against the window, and watching what went
on outside. Up in my hanging basket of ivy he made
his bower, and sat there on the moss, basking in the
sunshine, as luxuriously as any gentleman in his con-
servatory. He was interested in the plants, and exam-
ined them daily with great care.
The pictures also, seemed to attract his attention,
for he spent much time skating over the glasses and
studying the deSigns. Then he’d sit in'the middle of
a brook, as if bathing his feet. He frequently kissed
my mother’s portrait, and sat on my father’s bald head,
.as if trying to get out some of the wisdom stored up
there, like honey in an ill-thatched bee-hive.
I’m afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before the
glass a great deal, and I often saw him cleaning his
proboscis, and twiddling his feelers, and I know he
was “prinking,” as we say. The books pleased him,
too, and he used to run them over, as if trying to
choose which he would ,read, and never seemed able
to decide.
He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little
Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, and thought
it a charming residence for a single gentleman like
himself. The closet delighted him extremely, and he
buzzed in the most joyful manner when he got among
the provisions,—for we kept house together. Such
revels as he had in the sugar bowl! such feasts of
gingerbread and grapes; such long sips of milk, and
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sly peeps into every uncovered box and dish. But his
favorite nook was among the ferns in the vase which
a Parian dancing girl carried. She stood just over
the stove, on one little toe, rattling some castanets,
which made no sound, and never getting a step farther
for all her prancing. This was a warm and pretty re-
treat for Buzz, and there he spent much of his time,
swinging on the ferns, sleeping snugly in the vase, or
warming his feet in the hot air that blew up, like a
south wind from the stove. .
I don’t believe there was a happier fly in Boston
than my friend Buzz, and I grew fonder and fonder of
him every day. Then he was so interested in all I
did, it was delightful to have him round. When I
wrote he came and walked about over my paper to see
that it was right, peeped into my inkstand, and ran
after my pen. He never made silly or sharp criticisms
on my stories, but appeared to admire them very much;
so I am sure he was a good judge. -
Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks
and never got tired of one another, which is saying a
good deal. At Christmas I went home fora week,
and left my room to take care of itself. I put the hy-
acinths into the closet to be warm, and dropped the
curtain, so the frost should not nip my ivy; but I for-
got Buzz. I really would have taken him with me, or
carried him down to a neighbor’s room to be taken
care of while I was away, but I never thought of him


_-i\&_“'_ "kn". rxk’” k‘
MY LITTLE FRIEND.



in the hurry of getting my presents and myself ready.
Off I went without even saying “good-bye,” and never
thought of my little friend, till Freddy, my small
nephew, said to me one evening at dusk,—
“Aunt Weedy, tell me a story.”
So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a
sudden I cried out,—- .
“Mercy on me! I’m afraid he’ll die of cold while
I’m gone.”
It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know
how the poor little fellow was so much, that I would
have gone to see, if I had not been so far away. But
it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty miles to
look after one fly: so I finished my visit, and then
went back to my room, hoping to find Buzz alive and
well in spite of the cold.
Alas, no! my little friend was gone. There he lay
on his back on the mantel-piece, his legs meekly folded,
and his wings stiffand still. My poor little Buzzhad
sung his last song, danced his last dance, and gone
where the good flies go. I was very sorry, and buried
him among the ivy roots, where the moss lay green
above him, the sun shone warmly on him, and the bit-
ter cold could never come.
I... tit Arcorr.


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ON THE KEEL.


, Harry, how would you like a row
to Strawberry Island P ”
“First ratel—Just the day!
The strawberries must be ripe,
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“Ida was with us then. Per»
haps she’ll want to go today, Will.”
“So much the better. Ida never bothers us like
other girls. Come, we’ll get a lunch and start right
away.”
Entering the house they found their sister suffer-
ing with the teeth-ache. “ I’d like to go ever so much,”
she said, “but this old tooth has commenced a regular
grumble, I know; so I won’t spoil your fun by going."
“It’s too bad,” said Will, “Can’t you make the old
fellow grumble irregularly, and hush up just long
enough to go to our strawberry feast, Ida? ”
“Wish I could, but—O dear me ! ——What a twinge
that was! It’s no use, boys. You’d better go with!-
out me this time. Bring me lots of strawberries am?
I shan’t care so much."
363




















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ON THE KEEL.

As the boys were leaving, the tooth did ease off
long enough for her to say, “O Harry, here’s Tige!
Let him go in my place. He’ll enjoy it almost as
well as I should; wouldn’t you, Tige?”
The dog pricked up his ears and wagged his tail
affirmatively.
“ Is’t best, VV'ill ? ” asked Harry.
Will laughed to see Tige look from one to the
other so intelligently. “ He’s asking as plainly as Ida
did. Yes, Tige! Come along!”
The way the great, handsome creature bounded on
before, then raced back again, then on before, was
laughable to one who had never seen a dog express
thanks before.
“I should think you’s crazy, Tige,” said Harry, at
last. “Why not walk along like a sensible dog?”
At this Tige whirled round several times, then
seized a stick and jumped into the water to show his
sense.
“Keep your rain-drops to yourself!” exclaimed
Will, as Tige scrambled into the'boat and shook him-
self vigorously.
After rowing about half an hour they came to a
lovely little island, situated nearly in the centre of the
lake. It’s most attractive feature— to boys —— was the
abundance of large, finely flavored strawberries. Not
as large as cultivated berries, of course, but large for
wild ones.
ON THE KEEL.

The boys found them just right to pick. After a
delicious feast, their baskets were speedily filled, and
they, ready for the home trip.
“I saw some pond-lilies somewhere on the way
over, ” said Will, “let’s get some for Ida.”
“So I say. She’ll like them grandly.”
They were nearly half way home when they found
the lilies. A dozen or more of the beautiful flowers
lay in the bottom of the boat, when Harry spied one
still more perfect, he thought.
“There’s a beauty!” he cried. “I’ll have just one
more.”
Thinking it was within reach without moving the
boat, he stretched out his arm to grasp it. Will, just
at this moment, thoughtlessly stepped to that side of
boat to see what Harry was reaching after, and the
boat was upset. Neither of them could swim and the
water was deep. They sank and rose again dripping
and terrified. The boat was so wet and slippery that
they could not keep a firm hold.
They knew not what to do. 'But Tige did. He
seemed to have more presence of mind than either.
He watched their vain attempts to climb upon the bot-
tom of the boat with deep anxiety. They were al-
most ready to give up in despair, when Tige, with an
encouraging bark, leaped out of the water and plant-
ed his feet firmly upon the upturned keel.
Harry and Will were not slow to avail themselves


ON THE KEEL

of his help. By clinging to his strong, shaggy legs,
they managed to raise themselves and get astride the
boat. But their oars were gone, and what could be
done now?
They seemed. to remain perfectly motionless; but
to their great joy they soon perceived that the boat
was slowly drifting towards the shore. The moment
it reached shallow water, they jumped off and righted
the boat.
“Too bad about Ida’s strawberries; ain’t it? ” said
\Vill.
“Yes, I thought of them when the boat wentpver.
Two of the lilies got twisted round my arm. They
are safe here; but the berries may keep floating as
long as they please, for all me. Awful waste of straw-
berry juice, though; ain’t it?” said Harry, with a
thoughtful look back over the water.
“That’s a fact!” replied Will. “And there’s anoth-
er fact about it, Harry,—-but for Tige we might not
be standing on the land here.”
“That’s so! And we’d better not stand long now.”
Empty-handed, with the exception of two lovely
lilies, they entered the house after a run home.
Mother and sister looked at them in astonishment.
“Where in the world, boys, have you been? ” cried
Ida.
“After lilies.” Will smiled faintly as he laid the
flowers in her hand.
’ 1,11?“
























\



ON THE KEEL.

“But you are wet through!” She passed her hand
quickly over his sleeve, then on to Harry’s. “Why,
mother, do look! They are both just as wet as they
can be!”
“Of course we are, when we’ve been in the water
all over,” Harry answered. “And I’ll tell you what,
Ida, that was a lucky thought of yours about taking.
Tige with us. If he had stayed at home we might
not be here now to tell our story.”
“I’m thankful Ida wasn’t with you,” said their
mother, when the story was told. “You see, children,
just how trifles often affect our whole lives. But for
Ida’s toothache, she would have gone in Tige’s place,
and I mz'g/zz‘ now be childless. Never forget that
there is an over-ruling Hand in all the events of our
hves- L. M. ALCO'I‘T.


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OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY.


URRYING to catch a certain car, at
a certain corner, late one stormy
night, I was suddenly arrested
by the sight of a queer-looking
bundle lying in a door-way.
“Bless my heart, it’s a child!
O John! I’m afraid he’s frozen!”
I exclaimed to my brother, as
we both bent over the bundle.
Such a little fellow as he was,
in the big, ragged coat; such a tired, baby face, under
the fuzzy cap; such a purple, little hand, still holding
fast a few papers; such a pathetic sight altogether,
was the boy, lying, on the stone step, with the snow
drifting over him,--that it was impossible to go by.
“ He is asleep; but he’ll freeze, if left so long.
Here, wake up, my boy; and go home, as fast as you
can,” cried John, with a gentle shake, and a very gen-
tle voice.
The moment he was touched, the boy tumbled up,
and, before he was half awake, began his usual cry,
with an eye to business.
“Paper, sir? ‘ Herald! ’—-‘ Transkip ! ’— Last——”
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OUR LITTLE NEW'SBOY.

a great gape swallowed up the “last edition;” and he
stood blinking at us like a very chilly, young owl.
“I’ll buy ’em all, if you’ll go home, my little chap.”
“All of ’em?—why, there’s six!” croaked the boy,
for he was as hoarse as a raven.
“Never mind, I can kindle the fire with ’em.”
“Where do you live?” I asked, picking up the fif~
ty cents that fell from the little fingers, too benumbed
to hold it.
“Mills Court; out of Hanover.”
“He can’t go all that way in this storm, John.”
“Of course, he can’t; we’ll put him in a car,” be-
gan John; when the boy wheezed out,—
“No; I’ve got ter wait for Sam. He’ll be along,
as soon’s the theatre’s done. He said he would; and
so I’m waitin’.”
“Who is Sam?” I asked.
“He’s the feller I lives with. I ain’t got any folks,
and he takes care 0’ me.”
“Nice care, indeed,” I said, crossly.
“ Hullo! the lights is out!” cried the boy. “Why
the play’s done, and the folks gone; and Sam’s forgot
me. .
It was very evident, that Sam had forgottenhim,
and a strong desire to shake Sam possessed me.
“ No use waitin’ any longer; and now my papers is
sold, I ain’t afraid to gohome,” said the boy.
“Stop a bit, my little Casabianca; a car will be
along in fifteen minutes.”
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OU'R LITTLE NEWSBOY.

“My name’s Jack Hill, not Cassy Banks, please,
sir,” said the little party, with dignity.
“Have you had your supper, Mr. Hill?” asked
John, laughing.
“I had some peanuts, and two sucks of Joe’s
orange; but it warn’t very fillin’,” he said, gravely.
“I should think not. Herel—one stew; and be
quick, please,” cried John, as we sat down, in. a warm
corner of the confectioner’s, opposite.
“There goes our car; and it’s the last,” said John,
looking at me.
“Let it go, but don’t leave the boy.”
“Here is his car. Now, my lad, bolt your last
oyster, and come on.”
“Good-night, ma’aml—Thankee, sir!” croaked the
grateful, little voice, as the child was caught up in
John’s strong hands, and set down on the car-step.
We didn’t mind the storm much, as we plodded
home; and when I told the story to Rosy-face, next
day, his interest quite reconciled me to the sniffs and
sneezes of a bad cold.
“If I saw that poor little boy, Aunt Weedy, I’d
love him lotsl” said Freddy, with a world of pity in
his beautiful child’s eyes.
I... ALCQI'I".
OUR LITTLE GH OS'I‘.
OUR LITTLE GHOST.
OFT, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl’s shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.


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OUR LITTLE GHOST.

A Winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the “big dark” brings no dread.
And a baby’s boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl’s shrill call.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father’s shoulder laid,
Its head on mother’s breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings itsown soft lullaby.
L. M. ALCGTT.

















































































































































































































































































































































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UNCLE ED. AND THE CHILDREN.





“ ‘Dzopf’ called the teamster—”
Bump! Crash! This was not inv Uncle Ed.’s story.
The boys,—Don and Will,—had unthinkingly gone
a little too far on their “gallery,” and down they came;
striking illustrations of the crisis of their uncle’s word.
A' pretty serious illustration it proved. Will had
sprained his ankle badly—perhaps broken it. At any
rate, he was unable to walk or stand. I
Uncle Ed’s story was forgotten for the time being.
“I declare; that’s too bad!” said the kind uncle,
“but I can carry you home pick-a-back easier than not,
and we’ll soon have you all right again.”
“Oh, dear!” wailed’fretful Pussie, “you promised to
carry me home ‘pig back,’ and I’m so tired. I’ll have
heart disease or hip complaint, I don’t know which.”
“She is really delicate,” whispered sweet sister
Nellie to Uncle Ed. “ How can we manage?”
“Don, my boy, will you wait here with little cousin
till I can get back? Now, I’ll bear off the wounded,
and Nellie can be ‘ the daughter of the regiment’ and
go with us.” »
Don would far rather have been the one to go with
his beloved Will. He never was fond of the fussy
little Puss, but when the interesting part of the com-
pany were gone, and the pale little girl, quite tired
out, sank to sleep upon the grass, Don felt nothing
but pity for the child, and supported her kindly while
5221163 slept.


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UNCLE ED. AND THE CHILDREN.

Fortunately, the day grew warmer toward sunset,
or this out-of-doors nap would have been sure to make
little Pussie ill. She had been sleeping half-an-hour,
perhaps, when Don hearrJ slow steps among the
bushes. He could see no one, and judged, naturally
enough, that some wild animal might be there.
Just as his boyish heart was leaping as valiantly as
any full-grown hero’s, there rose up from the bushes
the well-known face of the village schoolmaster.
The good man had indeed been creeping about
under the bushes like a wolf for his prey. He was a
learned botanist, and had found there a root of a rare
yellow trillium, which he was digging up.
He carried little Pussie home in his arms, and was
glad, as was Don, to find that VVill’s ankle was not
injured so severely as they had feared.
“Oh, Uncle Ed!” exclaimed Will. “I beg your
pardon. There you’ve been hanging from that iron
bar for hours. Did you hit the ladder or come down
on the teamster’s head? ”
“Hit the ladder, of course! I didn’t come down the
style you and Don did out of that chestnut tree.
“And now, for the moral. (Good stories always
have a moral.) Don’t be hankering after wonderful
adventures; for, while it is true that ‘strange things
happen most years,’ as the Dutchman said, it is gener-
ally the case that strange things (270227 happen; peace
and quietness are the usual daily portion of our lot.”







UNCLE ED. AND THE CHILDREN.
“ All very well for you to say, Uncle Ed.,” said Will,
“but for the most of us boys, if nothing alarming
happened, we’d make it happen!”
“So I thought,” said their uncle, “when you came
down upon me out of that chestnut tree.”

Goon FOR EVIL.
HE little town of Benjamin was sleeping
in the sunshine. To all appearance,
everything out of doors had come to a
stand-still. The post-office was open,
but it was yet three hours of mail time,
and the postmaster was dozing in his
chair. The grocery store had not a
customer; the dry goods merchant was
lying on his counter, “asleep with one eye and awake
With the other.” A drowsy murmur, much like the
sound of bees, stole from the school-house windows.
Blinds were closed throughout the village homes, to
keep out the glaring heat. Sweet June roses drooped
their tired heads; 1ilies-of-the-valley slept in their
green hammocks.
The only out-doors person to be seen just at quarter
past two, was little Elsie Hallowell, sliding down the






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outside cellar doors. It was always a cool place there
summer afternoons, and especially charming to Elsie,
because her older sisters had forbidden her sliding
there.
Those big sisters, after a busy morning in the
kitchen were taking a nap, that they might be fresh
later in the day, for they had invited the Sunday-
school teachers to tea.
A tempting glimpse Elsie had into the buttery
window, where, behind the wire screen were slender
glasses filled with delicate “floating islands,” and
amid this archipelago stood a fruit dish made of fresh
lettuce-leaves and heaped with strawberries.
As Elsie stood on tip-toe, looking at the pleasant
sight, a gruff voice said,— 7 g , -
“ Go in and ask the folks to give us some dinner.”
Elsie was as accustomed to the sight of tramps as
she was to mosquitos, and thought that both were a
part of summer weather, so she answered readily, as
she had often heard Biddy, the kitchen girl, reply to
like requests“.
“Pump fifteen minutes for a cold bite, or half an
hour for something warm.”
The men laughed and looked at the pantry Window.
“Get something easier than that!” said one.
“Heard about the old Squire’s force-pump and how
the women folks keep the tank full. So this is the
place!”










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GOOD FOR EVIL.

They did not waste any more time talking, but
quickly cutting the screen bars, they clutched the
novel fruit-basket; and reaching farther under covers,
they seized a boiled ham, loaves of milk-yeast bread,
delicate plates of tarts and various kinds of cake, which
good Misses Sarah and Lydia had preparedfor the
teachers. .
“We’ll leave the custard for you, my dear,” said the
ugliest-looking tramp, “ ’coz that don’t pack good.”
Elsie was not frightened, but she was too aston-
ished to move till the men were off. Then she trotted
through the kitchen-door, along the entry and up to .
her sisters’ room.
Miss Sarah always claimed that she never let go
her cares, even in sleep; and, as Elsie opened the door
she was murmuring: “don’t leave the buttery open
--a fly might get in.”
“ They —— did— get— in, — two —— of — them,” pant-
ed Elsie, “and the supper is all gone !”
This bad news was enough to discourage tired
housekeepers, but Miss Sarah and Miss Lydia were
too brave to ‘give up at anything.’
Their own mother had died when they were women
grown, and for years they had comforted and managed
their somewhat difficult old father.’
He shocked them one day by bringing home a new
Wife, a silly young thing who wanted money to dress
with, more than any other good in this world.










































































































































































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GOOD FOR EVIL.

She had her Wish for two or three years and then
died, leaving little Elsie to tax the patience. and win
the love, too, of her faithful step-sisters.
Not a word of blame did they give the sorry little
girl now, but hastened to the kitchen to prepare
another supper, thankful that the tramps did not steal
Elsie along with the other good things. And, after
all, when the company sat down in the cool supper--
room to delicate muffins, just-picked strawberries, spicy-
seed-cakes, tall glass pitchers of cream and fragrant
coffee, they were not disposed to grumble.
The next day, the two sisters, leaving Elsie with a
neighbor, set off for a row down river. They were
capital oarswomen, and were at home in a boat, no
matter what the weather might be.
The very warm weather, which had glared like a
blaze for two or three days, was smouldering now like
a stifled fire, and a dull feeling was in the air.
As the young women rowed steadily homeward they
did not like the greenish tint of the gathering clouds.
Suddenly, there was a thunder-clap, coming after a
zigzag dance of lightning, and then wind and rain were
let loose. The shade hats which Miss Sarah and Miss
Lydia wore on their rowing-trips, were whisked away
like autumn leaves, and if the young women them
selves had been as slight as some young women,
they might have been blown after their hats.
But the Hallowell family were all of substantial
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build, and though there was for some minutes a fury
of tempest, the boat was well managed and no harm
came to it or its owners. All boats on that lively
river were not so lucky. When the darkness of the
storm was over and the blue sky smiled as sweetly'as
if it had never frowned, Miss Sarah was the first to
spy an upset boat with two men clinging to it.
They looked in desperate plight, as indeed they were.
Their boat had been struck by lightning and cap-
sized in the gale. They were almost stunned by the
shock and were not able to swim or to manage the boat.
It was all that. the brave women could do to land
their pitiful passengers. Miss Lydia left them with
her sister on the shore and went home for help. As they
neared the house, the men seemed much disturbed and
begged not to be taken in there. It was thought that
they were wandering in their minds. _
Little Elsie suddenly appeared and knew them for
the tramps that had stolen the company’s supper.
“I wouldn’t do another hand’s turn for the scamps,”
advised a neighbor.
The good sisters were not the persons to take that
sort of advice. The men were taken into the house
and well cared for. When they were able to work, they
found employment in Squire Hallowell’s felt factory
in the next village, and became faithful men. “Treat
folks as we were treated,” said the grateful fellows,
“and it’s enough to save tramps from being scamps.”
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GOING FISHING WITH PAPA.
ITTLE Genie lived very near the water. So
near that the spray flew over the house in
a storm. But Genie was never afraid when
papa was at home. Papa was so big and
strong, Genie thought no harm could come
to them when he was near.
Sometimes papa took mamma, and baby
Bess, and Genie out in his boat. What fun that was.
But papa couldn’t often spend time for that. He
went out nearly every day to catch fish. He sent the
fish to the market in the city.
Genie liked to go fishing. Now and then his papa
took him way out of sight of land; and what loads
of fish they brought home.
One night papa said, “You must be up early in the
morning, Genie, if you wish to go fishing with me
Be up before sunrise.” ,
Genie thought so much about the fish that he could
not sleep. So very early in the morning he was up
and sitting on a big rock near the water. His papa
found him there.
“You’ve beat me this time, Genie,” said papa,
laughing. Into the boat now, and we’ll be off. The
fish must be waiting for us.” '
“Guess they didn’t sleep much, papa, if they are
waiting now,” said Genie, who thought of his own
watching and “waiting.




A PANSY WITH WINGS.
UT in the garden wee Elsie
Was gathering flowers for me;
“Oh, mamma,” she cried, “hurry, hurry,
Here’s something I want you to see. "
I went to the window. Before her
A velvet-winged butterfly flew,
And the pansies themselves were not
brighter
Than the beautiful creature in hue.
“ Oh, isn’t it pretty? ” cried Elsie,
With eager and wondering eyes,
As she watched it soar lazily upward
Against the soft blue of the skies.
“ I know what it is, don’t you, mamma?”
Oh, the wisdom of these little things
When the soul of a poet is in them,
" It’s a pansy, a. pansy with wings."

.r—_ ..


TROUBLE IN THE SHRIMP FAMILY.
» 'r is curious how different the same
‘ thing will lOok to different people. '
Now the operation in this picture
to the boy, is fun; he enjoys it because
his Grandpa does it, and he likes to do
i _ as grown up men do; to the man it is
work, a matter of bread to eat; but to the Shrimp
family it is a dreadful tragedy, a mysterious calamity
that breaks into their quiet life, throws them into
prison, and ends in their death. But they say nothing,
and so people think nothing about their share of the
business.
Have you ever seen a Shrimp? Perhaps you may
know how they look on the table, and possibly you
have eaten them, though they are more common in
England than in our country.
A Shrimp is a pretty little creature, from two and
a half to three inches long, and having a peculiarly
bright look, almost as though he carried a light inside
of his dear little body, or what the big books call In-
minous. His dress is a fine speckle of brown, red,
gray, and orange, which altogether give him almost
the exact color of the sand on the shore, so that when
he lies very still, just at the surface of the sand, you
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TROUBLE IN THE SHRIMP FAMILY

han hardly see him. He can see you though, for he
has two big eyes on top of his head, like a pair of
windows in the roof, which he keeps wide open, and on
guard.
This pretty little fellow has also a shell, or series
of shells that slip over each other, which he keeps
' beautifully clean, and polished, for he has a pair of
scrubbing brushes on purpose for the work. They
are placed on his fore legs, and are made of stiff hairs,
set at right angles to the limb, like the bristles of a
bottle brush. ‘ l-
He lives on the beach, making a house for himself
by throwing up the sand in a little cloud, with his
many hind legs, and quickly settling himself in the
hole thus made. The sand falls around him, and he
is as well fixed as though he had a four story and
basement brown stone house. BetterQ-in fact—~for
he could not live without the sea water over him.
He eats everything that is left by other sea:
creatures. To tell you the truth he is a regular scav-
enger, and eats quantities of unpleasant stuff that
Would make the water impure, if left to decay. It is
rather curious, that after getting fat on this sort of
delicacy, which we would scorn, he should become food
{or our dainty tables,
All the Shrimp iarnily are well proVided with legs“
There are several pairs of fore legs for general use,
holding on to things, seizing food, cleaning their


TROUBLE IN THE SHRIMP FAMILY.
1“
smooth bodies, and other uses, and as many hind legs,
shorter than the others, and called false legs, but very
handy in throwing up the sand to form the little bur-
row in which they live.
Let me tell you about catching them. You must
know that it is a very large family, and they live just
in the edge of the sea, where the water is a foot or
two deep. So to catch them, a man called a Shrimp-
er has a net like that you see in the picture, long. and
narrow, and fastened to a pole. He \vades out in the
water, and pushes his net in such a way as to scrape
up an inch or two of sand, and catch every one of the
Shrimp family living in its path.
When the Shrimper has collected several quarts,
he sells them to the fish dealers, and for each quart
gets an English shilling, or about twenty-five cents of
our money. The unfortunate little fellows go to the
rooks, and are boiled, when their shells take a pretty
red color, like lobsters and crabs, and their funny little
bodies curl into a sort of half-moon shape, so they look
quite attractive on the table.
There are many kinds of Shrimps, some not longer
than half an inch; some that change their color to
match whatever they are on; and another kind that
have a sort of pocket on their hind legs, in which the
baby Shrimps are Carried. One _ kind is called the
Mantis Shrimp, because it is very fierce, and snatches
its food roughly, as you’ve seen rude children do,
TROUBLE IN THE SHRIMP FAMILY.

This Shrimp is a dro'll fellow. He is so long and thin
that he goes by the name of the Skeleton, but it is not
because he does not eat enough—-far from it! He’s
a regular gormandizer, fairly stuffing himself all the
time, yet all the time hungry. He has two pairs of
legs on purpose to feed himself. Just think of four
hands to use for stuffing one’s self! On these very
handy legs are joints shutting down into the others
like the blades into a pocket knife, and instead ,of fin-
gers they have sharp claws.
An Englishman, who has studied these little fel-
lows in his aquarium, says that their ways are very
funny. They will take hold of a weed with a pair of
hind legs, and hold the body straight out in the water,
pawing around with the terrible arms, or fore legs, and
every few seconds snapping them down to catch some-
thing to eat.
There’s another sort of Shrimp, one of the smallest
of the family, a sixteenth of an inch long, which makes
a house for itself, of a tough leathery stuff, shaped like
a small tube, in which it lives. It spends most of its
time in the doorway (like some people) sticking out
its queer oval head, with two black eyes, to see what
its neighbors are about, and one or two pairs of legs,
which it throws about, and clutches at the water, prob
ably to get something to eat.
There is still another variety, which digs a tunnel
in wood, and makes itself a great nuisance to owners


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docks and ships, by weakening and spoiling all
' j ‘ timbers that are under water.
" 7 ' Shrimps grow big by throwing off their old shelly
skins, and assuming new ones of larger size, and the
Englishman I spoke of, says that these old thrown
away coats, are most beautiful things to look at in a
microscope. The shape of every part is perfect, and
it is as delicate and exquisite as lace.
OLIVE Tnonnn
MY LITTLE ONE.
A PRAYER.
GOD bless my little onel How fair
The mellow lamp-light gilds his hair,
Loose on the cradle pillow there.
God bless my little onel
God guard my little onel To me,
Life, widowed of his life, would be
As sea-sands, widowed of the sea.
God guard my little onel




HY HAY~DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.

God love my little onel As clear, . .
Cool sunshine holds the first green spear ‘ 'l t
On April meadows, hold him dear! ‘ God love my little onel '
When these fond lips are mute, and when
I slumber, not to wake again,
God bless—God guard -God love him then.
My little one! Amen.
EDGAR FAWCETT.

MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIous
BIRDS AND BEASTS.
I ' EING alone in London, yet wishing
‘ to celebrate the day, I decided to
pay my respects to the lions at _
the Zoological Gardens. A love
ly place it was, and I enjoyed my-
self immensely; for May-day in
England is just what it should be,
mild, sunny, flowery, and spring-
_ I , _ like. As I walked along the well~
r143” kept paths, between white and
rosy hawthorn hedges, I kept coming upon new and


MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.





curious sights; for the birds and beasts are so skil-
fully arranged, that it is more like travelling through
a strange and pleasant country than visiting a menag-
erie.v
The first thing I saw, was a great American bison;
and I was so glad to meet with any one from home,
that I’d have patted him with pleasure, if he had
shown any cordiality toward me. He didn’t, however,
so I threw him some fresh clover, and went on to the
pelicans.
I never knew before what handsome birds they
were; not graceful, but with such snowy plumage,
tinged with pale pink and faint yellow. They had
just had their bath, and stood arranging their feathers
with their great bills, uttering a queer cry now and
then, and nodding to one another sociably. When fed,
they gobbled up the fish, never stopping to swallow
it, till the pouches under their bills were full; then
they leisurely emptied them.
Being in a hurry to see the lions, I went on to the
long row of cages, and there found a splendid sight.
Six lions and lionesses, in three or four different cages,
sitting or standing in dignified attitudes, and eyeing
the spectators with a mild expression in their fine
eyes. One lioness was ill and lay on her bed, looking
very pensive, while her mate moved restlessly about
her, evidently anxious to do something for her, and
much afflicted by her suffering. I liked this lion very
MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEAST‘S.

much, for, though the biggest, he was very gentle,
and had a noble face.
The tigers were rushing about, as tigers usually
are; some creeping noiselessly to and fro, some leap-
ing up and down, and some washing their faces with
their velvet paws. All looked and acted so like. cats,
that I wasn’t at all. surprised to hear one of them purr


when the keeper scratched her head. It was a very
loud and large purr, but no fireside pussy could have
done it better, and every one laughed at the sound.
Suddenly, the lions began to roar, the tigers to
snarl, and all to get very much excited about some-
thing.
MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.

I couldn’t imagine what the trouble was, till, far
down the line, I saw a man with a barrow full of lumps
of raw meat. This was their dinner; and, as they were
fed but once a day, they were ravenous.
The lions behaved best, for they only paced up and
down, with an occasional cry; but the tigers were
quite frantic, for they tumbled one over the other,
shook the cages, and tried to reach the bystanders just
out of reach behind the bar that kept us at a safe dis-
tance. ‘
When the lumps of meat were thrown in, it was
curious to see how differently the animals behaved.
The tigers snarled and fought and tore, and got so
savage, I was very grateful that they were safely
shut up. _
The lions ate in dignified silence, all but my
favorite, who carried his share to his sick mate, and,
by every gentle means in his power, tried to make her
eat. She was too ill, however, and turned away with
a plaintive moan which seemed to grieve him sadly.
He wouldn’t touch his dinner, but lay down near her,
with the lump between his paws, as if guarding it for
her; and there I left him, patiently waiting, in spite
of his hunger, till his mate could share it with him.
As a contrast to the wild beasts, I went to see the
monkeys, who lived in a fine large house, all to them-
selves. Here was every variety, from the great ugly
chimpanzee, to the funny little fellows who played






MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.

like boys and cut up all sorts of capers. A mamma
sat tending her baby, and looking so like a- little old
woman, that I laughed till the gray monkey with the
blue nose scolded at me. 'One poor little chap had
lost the curly end of his tail, and kept trying to swing


like the others, forgetting that the strong curly end
was what he held on with. He would run up the
bare boughs, and give a jump, expecting to catch and
swing, but the lame tail wouldn’t hold him, and down
he’d go, bounce on to the straw._ At first. he’d sit and
he




MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.

stare about him, as if much amazed to find himself
there; then he’d scratch his little round head, and
begin to scold violently, which seemed to delight the
other monkeys; and finally, he’d examine his poor
little tail, and appear to understand the misfortune
which had befallen him. The funny expression of his
face was irresistible, and I enjoyed seeing him very


much, and gave him a bun to comfort him when I
went away.
The snake-house came next, and I went in, on my
way to visit the rhinoceros family. I rather like
snakes, since I had a tame green one, who lived under
the doorstep, and would come out and play with me
on sunny days. These snakes I found very interest“
MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND BEASTS.

ing, only they got under their blankets and wouldn’t
come out, and I wasn’t allowed to poke them.
An ugly cobra laid and blinked at me through the
glass, looking quite as dangerous as he was. There
were big and little snakes,-~black, brown, and
speckled, lively and lazy, pretty and plain ones,-—but
I liked the great boa best. ’
When Icame to his cage, I didn’t see anything
but the branch of a tree, such as I had seen in other
cages, for the snakes to wind up and down. As I
stood, wondering if the big worm could be under the
little fiat blanket before me, the branch began to move
all at once, and with a start, I saw a limb swing down
to stare at me with the boa’s glittering eyes. He was
so exactly the color of the bare bough, and lay so still,
I hadnot seen him till he came to take a look at me.
He was kind enough to take a promenade, and show
me his size, which seemed immense, as he stretched
himself, and then knotted his rough, grayish body into
a great loop, with the fiery-eyed head in the middle. '
He was not one of the largest kind, but I was quite
satisfied, and left him to his dinner of rabbits, which
I hadn’t the heart to stay and see him devour alive.
I felt as if I had got into a foreign country, as I
looked about me, and saw elephants and camels walk
ing among the trees; flocks of snow-white cranes
stalking over the grass, on their long scarlet legs;
striped zebras racing in their paddock; queer kan-
o


MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS AND LEASTS.

garoos hopping about, with little ones in their pouches;
pretty antelopes chasing one another; and, in an
immense wire-covered aviary, all sorts of brilliant
birds were flying about, as gayly as if at home.
These are not half of the wonderful creatures I
saw, but I have not room to tell more; only I advise
all who can, to pay a visit to the Zoological Gardens,
when they go to London, for it is one of the most
interesting sights in that fine old city.
L. M. ALCOTT.







Kill“ )


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GRANDMoTHER’s SPEcs.
ELL, I think that is polite! Grandma exh
pects me to sit still while she takes
a nap instead of telling me stories-/
selfish some people are.”
As she spoke, little Patty looked
angrily from the old lady nodding in
her chair, to the book in her lap, and)
.. ' felt very much injured because she
eouldn’t have her own way. The rain pattered on the
window-pane, the wind blew dismally, and the winter
afternoon was fast deepening into twilight. As she
sat thinking about her wrongs, her eye wandered to
the book again.
“Stupid old pictures, I’ve seen ’em a dozen times,
and am tired of ’em. But there is no other book here,
and I mustn’t leave the room. I wonder how they’d
look through grandma’s specs.”
Putting the glasses on her little nose, Patty turned
a leaf and looked. Dear me, how very odd it was to
be sure! A minute ago she saw a cat and kittens on
the page, and now there was a picture she had never
seen. A sweet, pale-faced lady lay in a bed and was
putting a little baby into the arms of an old lady who
seemed promising something with a tender yet sor~
"rewful look.
sen


GRANDMOTHER’S SPECS.

“Why that’s the way my dear mamma did when
she gave me to grandma, the day she died! Papa
told me about it,” cried Patty, very much surprised.
Wondering what had come to her book, she eagerly
turned over another leaf, and there was a new picture.
, This was a still more curious one, for the figures
seemed to move. The same old lady was teaching
the same baby, to walk, so kindly, so patiently.


Next came pictures showing the baby a little girl,
. and the old lady still older, but as kind as ever. Judg~
ing from the pictures, the child was rather a careless,
selfish little girl. One was where the child appeared
tn be nearly run over, and the old lady saved her. but




GRANDMOTHER‘S SPECS“.

_g.‘
was much hurt herself. When Patty saw that, she
looked very sober, and the pettish expression left her
face, as she said, softly,“
“Yes, that’s what grandma did for me; and that’s
how she got so lame. Poor grandma, I wish I’d got
her cane for her when she asked me.”
Patty’s eyes grew so dim with tears that the page
was all a blur, and, putting up her hand to wipe the
drops away, the spectacles fell off and the strange pic-
tures vanished.
Patty sat quite still for several minutes, thinking
of all the unkind words she had said, the duties she
had neglected, the loving acts she had left undone,
and all she owed dear, kind, patient, grandma. She
covered up her face and cried till her little handker~
chief was quite wet, so full of repentant sorrow was
she. Suddenly she thought, “It is’nt too late. I can
be good to her now. What shall I do to show her
how sorry I am?”
Wiping up her tears she looked about the room
and saw plenty to do. _
“ How naughty I am to be so lazy and selfish, and
disobedient. Dear grandma is too kind to punish me,
but I ought to be punished, ham',” said Patty.
Full of good resolutions she fell to work and turned
over a new leaf at once, not waiting a minute or saying
“I’ll be good by and by.” She cleaned up her play-
things, found the cane and leaned it against grandma’s
. . . a .
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GRANDMOTHER’S SPECS.

chair all ready for her. She put back the spectacles,
picked up the stitches and laid the knitting on the old
lady’s lap; she folded the shawl softly round her, and
grandma gave a little sigh as if the comfortable
warmth pleased her. Then Patty built up a grand fire,
swept the hearth, and sat down to wind the yarn.
Darker and darker it grew outside as night came
on; harder blew the wind and faster fell the rain, but
within it was bright and warm. Very thoughtful was
Patty’s rosy face as she sat so still; but that half hour
did her much good, for she thought what she was, and
what she hoped to be, and prayed a very sincere little
prayer that she might keep her resolution, and be a
faithful, loving child to grandma.
When the old lady woke, she rubbed her eyes and
looked about her, feeling as if the good fairies had
been at work while she slept. And so they ' had, for
the best and loveliest of household fairies are Love
and Cheerfulness. Patty had drawn up the round ta-
ble and quietly set out the little tea tray with the tiny
cups and plates, the old-fashioned spoons and funny
plump teapot that grandma liked; had toasted the
bread herself, just brown and nice, and got everything
ready in the most cosey, tempting order one can
1mag1ne.
“Well, deary, what does it all mean?” cried grand-
ma, smiling with surprise and pleasure, as she looked
about her.
NED’S TEAM.

“It means that I’m trying to be good, and do my
duty as I haven’t done it for a long, long while;” and
Patty put her arms round grandma’s neck with a little
quiver in her voice that went straight to the old lady’s
heart. Standing so, she told all that had happened,
and grandma laughed and said it was only a dream.
But Patty was sure it was true, only the spectacles
wouldn’t show any more of the strange pictures when
she tried again.
“Never mind, my darling, they show me the dear-
est, most dutiful of little daughters, andv I’m quite
satisfied,” said grandma.
L. M. ALcOTT.

NED’s TEAM.
r -. this seems the only way. I’m
’ ‘ as sorry as you can be, for I in-
tended you to have a good educa-
tion; and this will put you back.”
“Never mind, father. I’m not
very old yet. I’ll haul the wood
and study, too.”
a Ned Marston looked cheerfully
into his father’s pale face as he said
i If his father had not been suffer-
. h ing from bodily pain, he would have seen
_ something about the frank, boyish face, how~
v‘l ever, which indicated mental pain. But the


NED’S TEAM.



wood, as well as his infirmities, weighed heavily on
Mr. Marston’s mind.
Turning, as well as his aching limbs would permit,
he looked from the window, then said, “Seems like a
pleasant day out. Can’t you hitch up the horses and
. begin now?”
“Yes, father, if you think best.”
“Well, I guess ’tis. ’Twill be a long job any way.”
Ned went directly to the barn; but instead of tak-
ing out the horses at once, he sat down on the sled and
drew a long, hard breath. A great cloud of despair
seemed suddenly to overshadow him. The light was
all gone from his face.
“Father thinks he’s as sorry as I am; but he ccm’z‘
be,” was his thought. And in spite of his efforts to
the contrary, two large tears rolled down his face. “I
meant to keep at the head of the class and graduate
next spring~instead - haulz'rrg wood! I can’t do it
-' can’t give up all my pet plans! ”_
Ned covered his face with his hands. Thoughts
of his father’s kindness in the past—-of his mother’s
love and patience —of his darling baby sister, passed
rapidly through his mind. It was his duty to haul
the wood. He felt as sure of it, as of the reluctant,
selfish spirit which prompted him to refuse. If his
duty to do it at all—then do it cheerfully. Should
he add to his mother’s cares and burdens? Never!
“God will see to my education, if I see. to the wood


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WED’S TEAM.


5.7.1.; . as
rnother’d say; and — well, I know she’s right, though
I can’t talk about such things. I declare, I’d like to
cry it out, as girls do. But if I stop for that, father’ll
begin to wonder what the trouble is; so good-by to
books and tears for the present.
“Now for the wood! But, mind you, Graytop, and
you, old Duke, I sha’n’t have you for companions
always. Step round lively! I mean work now— and
I mean sz‘ua’y 6y and by.”
Ned was not a boyto do things by halves. He
resolved that no one, not even his mother should sus-
pect what a trial it was to him; so, day after day, he
walked manfully by the side of his team, whistling as
he went, or exchanging pleasant greetings with the
other teamsters. The evening always found him with
his beloved books.
Ned could not load the heaviest logs himself; but
some of the men were always ready to help. They
admired his courage and cheerful spirits, and rather
prided themselves on the good looks of Ned and his
team. No horses' were kept in better condition
through the winter than Ned’s.
One day in February, Ned reached the mill just as
two strangers stepped from their sleigh. He attended
to his work as usual, not noticing that one of the men
was watching him closely.
“So you like hauling wood better than studying?”
Ned started as these words sounded abruptly in


NED’S TEAM.

9
his ears. “ No, sir; I’d a thousand times rather study,’
he replied. .
“Why don’t you then? ”
“Because this wood had to be hauled, and father
was sick and couldn’t do it.”
“He isn’t too sick to sell the boards, is he?”
“ No, sir. He’d be glad to.”
The long and short of it was—the man not only
bought the boards, but paid such a price—cash down.
--that Mr. Marston was able to hire a man to take
Ned’s place and finish the job.
Ned had improved his evenings so well, that a
little extra help from his teacher for a few weeks, en~
abled him to graduate with his class in the spring.
And not one left the school-room with such honor and
such robust health as Ned Marston.
LAURIE LQRINQ.




THE GREEDY BIRD THAT WANTED To
EAT A BoY.
IN the best room of a low-roofed cottage that i
know of, away up among the mountain-tops, is a beansx
tiful object that would be the pride of a much larger
and grander house. But there’s a story connected with
it, and no money could buy it from its owner. Many
a tempting sum has been offered him for his treasure;
but although his house lacks many luxuries, and is a
bare place enough, he always refuses, and tells the
wondering traveller this story.
He had a son who was but a small boy when he
began to notice a pair of great eagles that had their
home among the rocks of one of the mountain-tops
near his father’s house. Many a time did he watch
their long and splendid flight, as the father and mother
bird would go out in search of food for their hungry
family of eaglets. ’
It was almost the only life that the boy saw about
him; and he watched them so much, that he felt quite
well acquainted with them. And there grew in him
a great longing to see their home and their little ones.
and he often lay for hours on a hard rock, looking at
them, and iaying plans for climbing to their nest. and
getting nearer to them.


‘.
It?”


GREEDY BIRD THAT WANTED TO EAT A BOY.

But a time came when he was a little nearer than
he cared to be. It was a warm summer day; and his
father and mother had gone down the mountain to the
little town at its foot, where they bought the few
articles of clothing necessary for the small family of
three. The boy lay on the rock as usual, watching the
two grand old birds circling around in search of some-
thing to carry home to fill the hungry mouths waiting
for them; when suddenly the larger of the two began
to make circles around him, and seemed to fix his eyes
on him.
Whether he mistook _him for a new kind of animal
which might be good to eat, or whether he resented
being so closely watched, I don’t know; but while the
boy lay watching him, as his circles grew smaller and
smaller, he suddenly made a dive, and came directly
towards him. Even then the boy never thought of
being afraid of him till he came so near as to show
his dreadful claws, quite strong enough to carry off a
boy, his fierce beak wide open as though to tear him to
pieces, and his wild eyes fixed upon him.
Then a sudden fear seized him, and he threw up
his arms to frighten the bird off. But the great crea~
ture pounced directly upon his breast; and the boy
thought that moment was his last. A deadly sickness
came over him, and his eyes closed. Just at that
moment a shot rang upon the clear air, and the eagle
fell instantly dead

GREEDY BIRD THAT WANTED TO EAT A. BOY=
But the boy knew nothing of it: he was in" a faint.
>. He saw not the man who ran hastily up to see if he
was alive. He knew nothing of being carried in the
stranger’s arms to his father’s house and laid upon the
bed. When he did open his eyes, they rested on ar-
unknown face which was bending anxiously over him
Of course, as he was not hurt, he was soon well;
and he and the stranger who had saved his life went
out to look at the dead bird. It was a magnificent
creature, one of the largest of its kind, and had, no
doubt, carried off many a sheep and goat in its day.
When the boy’s parents came home, they heard the
strange story,--how the strange gentleman, who was
a naturalist, -—that is, one who spends his life studying
the ways of birds and animals,-—happened to notice
the swoop of the eagle, and, wondering what he was
after, had hurried nearer, and, just at the moment he
reached the boy, had raised his ready, gun, and shot
him dead fortunately at the first shot, or he might have ,
done serious injury,
The grateful parents could not do enough for the
man; and he finally spent the whole summer at the
cottage, hunting birds and finding out their ways, and
going off on long excursions among the mountains.
The boy always followed him, anxious to do something
for him, and eager to learn what the good naturalist
loved to teach.
The first thing he learned was to preserve and
.p
Q!
GREEDY BIRD THAT WANTED TO EAT A BOY.

the eagle which had so nearly killed him; and it is the
stuffed bird, mounted on a tree-branch over the rude
mantle of the cottage, that is the treasure I spoke of.
But he taught him many other things also, - how
to watch the shy wild creatures, see how they live, and
what they do; and how to make his knowledge useful.
In the evenings he taught him to read; and when
winter came, and there was no more work to do out
of doors, and the father brought out his carving-tools,
and went to his winter’s work of cutting toys out of
wood, which he sold in the village for meal, the natu‘
ralist persuaded him to let the boy go every day to the
village to school.
That was the beginning of a new life for the boy.
He grew fond of books, and spent all his days study
ing. When he was older, he went to the town to live;
and now, when he is about thirty years old, he is quite
well known in his native country as a naturalist, and a
writer of books.
The old father is very proud of his learned son;
and that is why he will never part with the old stuffed
eagle. He loves to remember the good fortune that
the greedy bird, who wanted a boy to eat, brought to
the boy he selected.




{\\N
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HERE' was no one at home that after»
' noon but Nelly and mamma, and it
was so warm that mamma brought
her sewing out on to the piazza, and
Nelly had her doll Mimi, and was sit-
tingon the step, dressing her in the
, very thinnest dress she had.
The dress was of delicate swiss muslin,
and after it was on, and her pretty blue sash
properly tied, the careful eyes of her little
mistress saw one lack to make her dress
complete, and that was a fresh flower for her long
.flaken hair.
“ Mamma, Dolly wants a flower, may I go and get
her one?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it is too warm to go down in the gar-
den, Nelly,” said mamma; “can’t she wear a bow to-
day?”
“She hasn’t any bow to match her sash,” answered
the exacting little lady, “and I’ll go slow, mamma, and
not run.”
“Well, you may go, but come directly back,” said
mamma.
sea
HOW NELLY SAVED THE MONEY.

Now down at the end of the garden was an arbor,
and near it a bush of old-fashioned button roses. The
bush came from grandmother’s, and Nelly very much
enjoyed the baby roses, and always called it Mimi’s
. rose tree, for the flowers were not too large to deck
that lovely damsel. For this bush, which was then
full of blossoms, Nelly started that warm afternoon in
June
After she had gathered several, for the idea had
occurred to her to let Mimi go to a lawn party, and
loop up her dress with roses, she turned to go back,
when she saw a sight that made her stop a moment.
Lying on the floor 'of the old summer house, pretty
well hidden by the thick foliage, was a man. He
seemed to be asleep, for his eyes were shut, but his
face was very red, and his clothes all dust, and every
way he looked warm and uncomfortable.
H He was not a tramp, Nelly knew him well enough.
‘1 Y He was Bill Brooks, a man who lived not far from
them, and who had been a decent man, working stead-
ily, and taking good care of his wife and baby, but
_ lately had fallen into the dreadful habit of drinking,
'4 7* and was fast getting to be a vagabond, and drunkard,
Nelly looked at him a moment, and then started for
the house. '
“Mamma,” she exclaimed, when she reached the
piazza, breathless, “Bill Brooks is out in the arbor
asleep, and he looks so warm and dusty, may I give


HOW NELLIE SAVED THE MONEY.

him a drink?” “Did he ask you?” said mamma anx-
iously, for Brooks was getting the name of being a
rough man.
“No, he didn’t wake up, but he looked so warm.”
Mamma reflected. It was strange and unusual for
him to be in their grounds; perhaps he knew of the
money in the house, and that they were alone, and
perhaps he only strayed in there to rest. She quickly
decided that it would be best not to seem surprised
anyway, so she told Nelly she might. '
Laying down her roses, Nelly ran to the pantry,
brought out a pretty glass pitcher which grandma had
given her for her very own, filled it with cool spring
water that ran into the barrel under the apple tree, and
went down the garden walk.
' But how came it to happen that Brooks was there
at all? Mamma had guessed it. He had heard in
some way that Nelly’s papa had the last payment to
make on the house, that night, and had drawn the
money from the bank for the purpose. He knew that
Mr. Jones would go for the money that evening, and
it was easy to guess that it was in the house at that
moment.
He had watched, and had seen all the family go
out except mamma and Nelly, and in the desperate
mood to which he had been brought by his growing
bad habit, he had resolved on a robbery.
“There’s no one there but the Missis and a baby”



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HOW NELLY SAVED THE MONEY.



W.
he said to himself, “and if they make trouble ” he went
on “so much the worse for them; have that money I
must—and will. Once I get it I’ll clear out from here,
and begin again somewhere, Mary will be better off
without me.”
Thinking these bad thoughts, the miserable man
lay there, pretending to be asleep when Nelly looked
at him. But as soon as she was gone, he staggered to
his feet, determined to do the baddeed he had thought
of all day.
Meanwhile Nelly had started down the path, but
near the house she met the staggering, wretched look-
ing man stumbling on. She stopped before him and
held up the pitcher.
“Mr. Brooks” said her clear, childish voice, “don’t
you want a drink? It came from our spring, and it’s
real nice and cool.”
The man started as though stung. The sweet
voice and pleasant, innocent face of the child, so anxious
to refresh him, brought his own baby before his eyes,
and in a moment undid the work of hours. He turned
sick at the thought of what he was about to do, bring
unhappiness and trouble on the neighbor’s family who
had done him and his, many kindnesses. He remem‘
bered how Nelly’s mamma had brought food and com=
forts when his baby was ill; he thought suddenly of
how Nelly’s papa had sent them many baskets of
vegetables from his garden. He had forgotten all




HOW NELLY SAVED THE MONEY.

these, and had been about to pay them by robbing
them of the hard-earned money that was to make the
little home their own. While these thoughts flashed
through his mind, Nelly still stood with the water
held up.
But now the man straightened himself up, and
spoke huskily.
“Thank you pleasant face, I would like a drink.”
When he had taken a cool, refreshing draught, he
turned to go, but Nelly spoke, “Do you feel bad Mr.
Brooks? your hand trembles so.”
“I did feel bad—very bad—a few minutes ago,”
said the man earnestly, “but you’ve cured me, I’ll go
home.”
“You can always have some of our spring water,”
said Nelly, “it’s real nice and cool always.”
Nelly’s parents did not know till years afterwards,
the distress that had been turned from them by their
little girl’s kind-heartedness. On his death bed Brooks
told the whole story.
OLIVE THORNE.


Jon’s FOURTH OF JULY.
‘ I OTHER, I want to have a real good
" Fourth this year. Will you grant me
a favor?”
“Don’t you always have a ‘good
_ __ _D p Pourth’? I thought you enjoyed the
last very much.”
v . “O, yes, I remember; but I want some-
thing different this year.”
“Something besides pleasure?”
“Yes, independence.”
. “Well?”
“Let me do just as I please all day, without speak-
ingto you about it at all.”
Mrs. Wilton sewed a few minutes, then said,
“Yes, Joe; I will trust you.”
Joe thanked her with a little loss of animation;
for he felt put on his honor by the form of the per~
tnission. ,
“Can Bess be included in the general amnesty too?"
“If you can remember that she is younger than
yourself, and must _not be led into any harm.”
Joe and Bess were busy all day-—down by the
shore, in the shed, in the kitchen, and up stairs, hardly
willing to stop for dinner which they swallowed with








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haste. Joe’s work went on into the evening; but Mrs.
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the tops of the trees, a pack of fire-crackers and a
small cannon went voff simultaneously under Mrs.
Wilton’s windows. She sprang up, and looked out
in time to see Joe fire two salutes in asimilar manner.
“What are you doing, my son?”
“Celebrating my liberty.”



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JOE’S FOURTH OF JULY.



“But you infringe mine when you make such a
noise; for I can’t sleep.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you, madam,” replied Joe,
touching his hat; “ but I hope the mother country is
not going to come down on the colonies now."
Mrs. Wilton laughed, and said,—
“No more than to eat my breakfast, my young
republican.”
After breakfast, Mrs. Wilton bade the children
good bye, and drove away to Aunt Mary’s.
“Now, Bess, load up, and we’re off,” said Joe,
gathering up the baskets and traps of all kinds, and
hurrying down to his boat.
“Are you going to take any one else?”
“ No; I’ll ship no other crew.”
“Can’t I takeTrip? He wants to go.”
“Well, he might be booked as a passenger. Now
jump in, Bess, and we’ll go to Ray’s Island and take
dinner, and then explore Sucker’s Point. What do
you say?”
“Good,” said Bess, taking of her hat, and trailing
her hands in the water.
“I say, Bess, what’s Trip doing?” Bess seized
Trip by the tail, and drew his head, with a doughnut
in his mouth, out of a basket. “I won’t have such a
passenger; I’ll put him overboard.”
“No, no! ” cried Bess. “Naughty Tripl”
“Then you must take care of him ; you’re steward.”


hurrah for the dearth of dulgl
jOE’S FOURTH OF JULY.

When they reached the island, the planting of the
American flag and firing of salutes, occupied the time
until dinner. Then rowing across the lake, they spent
the afternoon running about the point. Trip enjoyed
this amazingly, and Joe discovered untold caves and
mysteries; but Bess got tired, scratched her arm, and
lost her hat.
After returning to the island, Bess asked,
“Are you not going home?”
“Not until evening. I have some Roman candles
and a wheel that I am going to set off.”
“But mother likes to have us home before dark.”
“She said I might do as I pleased.”
“Then we’ll be on the lake in the night. Wouldn’t
it be splendid to let off the fireworks in the boat?”
“We’ll do that,” said Joe, “and I’ll make a fire on
the shore.” ~
The fire was made, supper eaten, and preparations
for the fireworks begun, when Bess noticed that the
waves began to run high.
“It’s going to storm, Joe.”
“I think not: the sun set clear. Leave all to me:
I’ll take care of things.”
When they went out the boat was pretty well
tossed, and Joe, being in haste, let off some of his can=
dles before it was fairly dark. The wind had risen,
and the sky had an ominous darkness, which did not
suggest a clear night.

jOE’S FOURTH OF jury.
“I think we’ll put in, get our traps, and start for
home,” said Joe, suddenly rowing swiftly. His haste
had come none too soon; for they had hardly reached
the shore, when a storm burst upon them. “Get un-
der that projecting rock,” he cried, while he did his
utmost to land and secure the boat.
But Bess came to his assistance, and in the midst
'of great struggles, with the rain and wind beating on
them, she fell over into the water. Joe stooped to help
her, and a large wave swept his boat away. Drenched
in the rain, they ran to the rock for shelter.
“We are shipwrecked,” said Bess.
“Never’mind,” replied _loe, drawing her close to
him; “it’s quite dry in here.” -
There was space for Bess to sit down, and Trip
whimpered so, that'Joe advised her to take him in her
arms. “He’ll keep you warm, too.”
They were now out of the reach of the rain and
wind, and the storm had settled into a steady rain.
Joe told stories, sang songs—anything to keep up
Bess’s spirits; and so they waited. The hours, which
seemed years, rolled on, and Bess went to sleep; but
Joe’s mind was too busy. He watched the stars twin-
kle out, and in the strangeness and awe of his position,
did not sleep until nearly day.
The first ray of light waked Bess, and as she
stretched her stiff legs, she tried to think where she
was. The events of the night flashed across her mind,
, '96;

_lOE’S FOURTH OF _jULY.
and jumping up, she looked at the lake. The water
was smooth and clear, and the opposite shore did not
look so very far. Trip woke Joe with his antics of
delight, and the children began to consider.
“Everybody else in the world is asleep,” said Bess.
So they tried to while away the time. The sun
rose, and day was fairly begun; but no hope of escape.
_Ioe felt uneasy, and Bess gave gulps, which indicated.
a desire to, and a determination not to, cry. There
was no use disguising it; they were miserable, and sat
on the rocks together, watching the shore.
“There’s a boat,” cried joe, at last, taking 'off his
coat, and waving it distractedly.
As it drew nearer, they saw uncle George.
“Well, Joe, what are you up to now? Your moth'
er is nearly crazy with anxiety.”
“I couldn’t help it; the boat was blown away.”
“It’s lucky you were not blown away in it. We
haven’t had such a storm this year.”
Joe was very silent, and after they had been re-
ceived at home, breakfasted, and made comfortable, he
said,—
“Mother, I think we’ll put ourselves under your
protection a little longer, for we had to get the home
government to help us out of our trouble.”
“You’re welcome back,” said Mrs. Wilton, patting
his shoulder.
SARA CONANT.
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“SHINE, SIR—SHINE!”
USTY little Tim stood on Park Row,
blacking. box and brush in hand, cry:
ing, “Shine, sir—shine l ”
. ’ FrOm Seven in the morning til!


noon Tim had captured eight custo=
mers, and he had just turned a som-
,- erset, rejoicing over his good luck.
“Hi! forty cents! ain’t I rich, though!”
“ How goes it wid you?” said a familiar voice.
Tim started to his feet, and faced his rival, Bill.
“Ye don’t seem glad to see me,” laughed Bill.
“ No more I ain’t,” answered Tim, frankly. “ Hoped
ye’d gone for good.”
Bill had been missing for a week.
“Tried Union Square,” he explained; “’tain’t wot
it’s cracked up to be up there.” ,
As Bill spoke, an old gentleman came along, whose
. ,_ boots were dusty indeed. a
l I “Shine, sir—shine!” Tim and Bill both pounced
upon him, speaking together.
“He’s mine,” cried Bill; “I seed him fust. Git
along, you! Had it to yeself long nuff. Git along!”
“I seed him quick as you,” said Tim.
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“ SHINE, SIR — SHINE l ”

“Don’t quarrel,” said the old gentleman, looking
distressed.
“ It hain’t quarlen we be,” explained Bill. “I have
them what I hollers to fust, and he has them what he
hollers to fust.”
“But if you both speak at once, what then?”
“Then the gent picks atween.”
“Well, I take the small one,” the old man said,
looking behind him for Tim.
But Tim had retreated around the corner, warned
by the threatening fist of big Bill. Bill often played
the tyrant in a small way.
“He hain’t no account, any how,” said Bill; he
hain’t no strent in his arms, like me, to shine.”
“ Go ahead, then.”
Bill blacked the old man’s dusty boots, and was
handed a fifty cent stamp to change. He had not a
penny in his pockets; so he beckoned to Tim, who
had ventured in sight again.
“Got stamps for this, hey?”
Tim produced four ten cent bits and two fives.
“It’s wuth ten, so it is,” said Bill, as the old man
counted the change.
“Is it? I thought five was the regular price.”
“But yer boots were more ’an riglar dirty,” com~
plained Bill.
“I’ll give you each five,” said the old man. “You,
little fellow, drink my health in lemonade; it’s a hot


“SHINE, SIR—SHINE? ' ‘

day.” He wiped his forehead with his yellow silk
handkerchief, and went in his way.
“He’s a jolly old csve,” said little Tim, rubbing
his hands in delight. _
“Jolly for ye!” growled Bill. “Ye have five for
nothin’; that’s luck; and you’ve always got money
saved up too,” he went on, enviously. “I have nary
red.”
“But ye make lots more nor I,” said Tim. “I
made three dollar fifteen last week—a heap for me ye
know. Now, I’ve most four dollar saved up for some“-
thing.”
“What’re ye goin’ to do wid it? ” asked Bill.
“Give it to Granny Maloy for nussin’ me when I
was sick.”
“I wouldn’t give it to any granny,” said Bill; “ I’d
go on a bust.” ~
Tim shook his head.
The next morning Bill was on the ground first;
he had already blacked two pairs of boots, when Tim
appeared. “ I’m head 0’ ye,” said Bill.
“Ye-e-s,” returned Tim, looking down at his bare
toes, and then at Bill, as if there was something else
he wanted to say. .
“VVal, what’re ye starin’ at me wid cat’s eyes fer?”
cried Bill, angrily. _ '
“Did ye know that I changed for ye were a bad
one?” asked Tim, faintly.






\ “ SHINE, SIR —- SHINE! ”







\

“Did I know?” cried Bill, his fists uplifted.
“I didn’t mean ye did know,” gasped Tim. “ Coorse
ye didn’t; but it were.”
“He’d orter be tuck up,” cried Bill, with indig-
nation. ' '
“I guess he couldn’tla-knowed,” said Tim; “ but-m
but—ye’ll take it back?” ‘
“Now, lookee here,” said Bill, squaring his elbows; ’
“it hain’t me’s to blame. Ef ye ever ketch him pass-
in’, lay hold onter him; that’s all wot I says.”
“ Ef you’d let me borry that much of ye, I’d pay it
back, ’cause Granny———” .
“Git outl” roared Bill. “I hain’t nothin’ but ten
pence, as I made this mornin’; an’ ef I had oceans on
oceans, you’d git none for yer granny.”
Tim fell back.
Noon came, and Tim had only made five cents.
Bill had flourished his long, stout arms even more
than usual.
“He means to drive me off altogether,” said Tim
to himself. “I’ll try somewhar else to-morry, though
they’s all about alike. _ They’s always some one to
knock ye down.”
Later in the day, as Tim stood, the picture of care,
in frOnt of the Times Building, he saw an old gentle-
man rushing by. Then he caught a glimpse of a yel~
low silk handkerchief.
“Stop him, Bill—stop him!” he cried, at the too
of his voice. '
“ SHINE, SIR— SHINE!”

Bill saw the old man; but he did not move. Tim
ran himself as fast as his feet would carry him after
the owner of the yellow handkerchief. Cars and carts,
and vehicles of all kinds blocked up the way. Tim
dashed in among them.


“Take care!” cried a driver.
It was too late. A policeman held little Tim in
his arms. A crowd gathered around.
“ Is he kilt?” asked a ragged youth, blacking box
and brush in hand. It was Bill.
“Might as well be,” answered the policeman, gruff-
ly; but a tear fell on Tim’s yellow hair.
elk




[‘4
“ SHINE, SIR — SHINE t ”



The crowd fell back at command, and Tim was
borne away.
“’Twern’t my fault,” Bill said stoutly to himself all
the rest of the afternoon; yet every now and then he
felt a strange choking in his throat.
The next forenoon Bill was very diligent, and up
to one o’clock he had made seventy cents. “I wonder
if they’ll let a fellar like me in,” he said to himself, as
he counted over the money; “ but anyways, I kin send
up the stuff.” ‘
Of a sidewalk dealer he bought some oranges,
lemons, and bananas. Then he started for Bellevue
Hospital.
“ No admittance without a permit.”
“That’s the how, eh?” Bill said, scowling at the
clerk a moment; then he asked, in a voice rough, but
with an undertone of anxiety, “Tim’s alive yet?”
“Who?”
“Little Tim, wot was run over wid the cars yes-
terday.”
“There are so many brought in,” answered the
clerk. “What is his other name? I’ll look on the
books”
“Never heerd wot his other name were. A little
mite of a fellar—barefoot—yaller hair.”
“I remember him now,” answered the clerk; ribs
knocked in; he is dead.” 4
Bill hurried away without a word his face was
“SHINE, SIR-48H1NE!”

.q
working; he brushed away hot tears with his ragged
sleeve. “Dead! Dead!” he kept repeating. He
walked across town to Madison Square. On his way
he gave the oranges, and lemons, and bananas that he
had bought for Tim, to a little beggar girl; she began
to devour them on the spot. He walked away from
her, crying.
“ Ef I only knowed where Granny Maloy lived, l’d
go see her,” he thought. '
“So you’ve deserted the field to the other.”
Bill started; he half clinched his fists, as if he
would strike the old man who spoke to him. “It’s
you kilt him, not me,” he said, fiercely.
“ What do you mean?” asked the old man, draw-
ing out his yellow handkerchief.
“I wish it was me dead instead,” said Bill, turning
his face away. “ It was you did it,” he went on, brok-
enly. “I know them doctors; they’ll hack him all into
pieces.”
In another minute the old man knew all. He
looked cut to the heart. “Dead!” he said; “and all
because of a counterfeit stamp.”
“He didn’t b’lieve you knowed ’twas bad. Ef ye
are good, leastways ye’ll bury him in a coffin—won’t
ye?” .
I’ll bury him in Greenwood in my own lot,” the old
man said, with tears.
Bill retraced his steps hand in hand with the other


“ SHINE, SIR — SHINEI’"

A little later, together they leaned over a little still
form, with pale, yellow hair.
% 3% % it ah # O %
In Greenwood little Tim sleeps, a white cross,
crowned with stars, at his head. On the cross is writ-
ten, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Bill is try-
ing to learn the meaning of these words. He has
taken up little Tim’s work. It would be too long a
stery to tell you how he hunted up Granny Maloy,
and how peaceful he is making her last days; but I
must tell you that as Bill stands in his box on Park
Row, selling papers (for he keeps a news stand now),
"he gives many a saddened glance to the little boys
who pass by, crying,—-
“Shine, sir—shine ! ”
“" If it were only to do over again,” he says.
But we can never live over the past.
MARY HAINEs GILBERT.




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THE FATE OF FIVE LITTLE KITTENS.
OLD TABBY had five dear little babies, and she put
them to bed in Grandma Grey’s mending-basket.
“Dear, dear! ” said grandma, “what a silly old
thing! Now it will never be good for any thing again,
and we must drown the kittens to-morrow.”
But Tabby liked the basket very much, and kind-
hearted little Mabel brought her some hay to make her
bed feel softer. Tabby sang her babies to sleep with a
soft little purring song, and cuddled them all five close _ '
to her furry sides. She was very happy until ’she
remembered the time when she had five little babies
before, and every single one of them had been carried
off. She rather thought they had come to harm; but
they shut her in a dark closet, and she couldn’t follow
to find out.
She twiddled her whiskers, and rubbed her eyes;
and then she said to those five little kittens in grand-
ma’s basket, “My dear little pets, I’m very much
afraid I can’t keep you—meow! Something dreadful
will happen, I know— meow!”
But the kittens snored away, and never minded her.
They were blind, you see, and knew nothing about the
great world outside.
THE FATE OF FIVE LITTLE KITTENS.

All this while, Mabel and Kate were up in the sitting
room, coaxing grandma to save all the kittens alive.
“They won’t do a bit of harm,” said Mabel, “only
maybe eat a little milk.”
“And they’re so sweet and cunning! ” chimed in
little Kate. .
“You can only have two of them, dearies,” said
grandma,—- “ only just two. And it’s very good of me
to let you have those; for, what with scratched fingers
and torn dresses, I could really wish every kitten in the
old millpond.”
“Oh, dear I ” sighed Mabel; and “Oh, dear ! ” sighed
little Kate. ‘
“Now run away and pick out the two you will
have,” said Grandma Grey; “forthe others must be
drowned to-night.”
How hard it was to choose, and to think that the
other three which were not chosen would have to die!
The tears stood in little Mabel’s eyes, and in old
Tabby’s too. ,
“ Dear me ! ” thought Mabel as they trudged off up
stairs to tie ribbons around the necks of their own two
little kittens, “I don’t believe grandma cares what
becomes of the other three, so long as we’don’t keep
'em. I’ll just carry ’em down to the barn-yard, and let
’em run. I guess they’ll run away.”
So she left her own little kitten with Kate. and
carried the three others off in her apron.
THE FATE OF FIVE LITTLE KITTENS.

But who do you think walked behind on her tipsie--
toes? Why, old Tabby herself l Don’t you suppose
she wanted to know what became of her three little
babies? When she saw Mabel put them on the
ground, and clap her hands and cry “Shoo” at them,
Tabby purred for joy.
Then, when Mabel had danced away, Tabby settled
this part of her family snugly in the hay-loft, gave
them their dinner, and went back to the house for her
own.
When grandma looked for the kittens, after the
children were in bed, there were only two of them left.
“Well, well!” she said; “that sly old cat has
hidden the other three!”
And she said nothing to the children, but looked
around in all the market-baskets and feather-beds in
the house. N o kittens appeared.
“Well,-well ! ” said grandma at last; “let them go.”
But about two weeks after, one fine morning, Tabby
walked in with a kitten in her mouth, and laid it down
' at grandma’s feet. ,
“Why, that must be little Kate’sl” said grandma.
“ Has she hurt it, Tabby?”
Grandma picked up the little thing, smoothed it,
and laid it down again.
Five minutes after, in walked the little mother with
another baby. “ Why, there’s a black kitten!” cried
grandma, starting up from her chair.


TIDE-MARKS.

“ Why, grandma,” said Mabel, “I shoo’ed those
kittens away ever so long ago.”
She told grandma all about it; and the dear old
ady couldn’t help laughing.
“ Now I suppose the things will have to live,” she
said.
“Oh, please, please, grandma l ” cried the little girls.
“ But,” said she, trying to be very cross and cruel,
“if I ever find another set of kittens, every one must
go to the millpond, remember.”

TIDE-MARKS.
IT was low tide when we went to Bristol, and the
great gray rocks stood up bare and grim above the
water; but high up on all their sides was a black line
that seemed hardly dry, though it was far above the
water. i
“What makes that black mark on the rock?” I
asked my friend.
“Oh! that is the tide-mark,” she replied. “Every
day, when the tide comes in, the water rises until it
reaches that line; and in a great many years it has
worn the stone until the mark is cut in the rock.”
“Oh ! ” thought I, “that is all, is it? Well, I have
seen a great many people that carry tide-marks on their
TIDE—MARKS.

j
faces.” Right in front of me was a pretty little girl,
with delicate features and pleasant blue eyes. But she
had some queer little marks on her forehead, and I
wondered how they came to be there; until presently
her mother said, ~—
“ Draw down the blind now, Carrie: the sun shines
right in baby’s face.”
“I want to look out,” said Carrie in a very peevish
voice.
But her mother insisted; and Carrie drew the blind,
and turned her face away from the window. Oh, dear
me! what a face it was! The blue eyes were full of
frowns, instead of smiles ; the pleasant lips were drawn
up in an ugly pout; and the queer marks on her fore-
head had deepened into actual wrinkles.
“Poor little girl!” I thought. “How badly you
will feel, when you grow up, to have your face marked
all over with the tide-marks of passion! for these ugly
ill tempers leave their marks just as surely as the
ocean does; and I have seen many a face stamped so
deeply with self-will and covetousness, that it must
carry the marks to the grave.”
Take care, my little folks; and, whenever you give
way to bad temper, remember the tide-marks.


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CAMELS
DON’T you think that is a queerdooking horse,
children, with a great hump on his back, and such a
strange, crooked neck? You don’t think it is a horse,
perhaps; but at least it does a horse’s work, and even
more work than a horse can do. In those very hot
countries where camels live, people don’t use many
horses: they let this queer creature serve instead.
You have no idea how much baggage he can carry at
a time on that great humpy back of his. He doesn’t
like to do it, though. In fact, he is not good-natured at
all, but very cross and quarrelsome. He doesn’t learn
to love his master as our horse does. Even if people
are very kind to him, he doesn’t love them back. Isn’t
that an ugly temper to show? He gets a great many
beatings for it too.
In those hot countries there are great deserts
covered with sand, where for miles and miles there are
no trees or plants, and no water. Sometimes, when
people are travelling on these great deserts, the water
which they carried with them is almost gone: there is
none to spare for the poor old camel. Then what do
you think he does? Why. he, too, carries his own
supply of water. God has put something inside of
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KEEPING ROBBIE STILL.





him to hold water, so that he need not go thirsty.
Then, if there is no food for him, do you think
he starves? Not he, so long as the great lump
of fat lasts which God has put inside of him. You
see, he has food and drink in his own private dinner-
basket.
In those great deserts there are sometimes terrible
storms of wind, which blow the sand about so that
people have to lie down and cover their faces. But
God has given the camel little doors to go before his
eyes, and keep the dust quite out of them. Don’t you
think the camel ought to be better-natured when God
has been so good to him? But, then, God has given
to us a great deal more than he has to the camel; and
we are not always grateful.
If you look in your Bible, you can read about a
man who had three thousand of these animals“ “Jim
was it?
...____._.__4Pafl___ ._ __
KEEPING ROBBIE STILL.
LITTLE ROBBIE was sent into the country to his
aunt once, when his dear mamma was ill. Everybody
was careful to see his clothes, his stout boots, and his
warm stockings, put into the big bag his papa was to I
take for him. But no one thought of Dick his head
less rocking-horse, of his drummer-boy, or his fife and
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trumpet; and they were far more to Robbie than all his
clothes were. I
This aunt’s house was very neat: you could not
find a speck of dirt in it, nor a bit of paper nor a
chicken’s feather on the lawn. No flowers were
allowed there, except those which aunt Phebe put up,
stiff and straight, in her parlor vases. The dear little
boy hunted around for a big stick to ride in place of
Dick, and, having found one, galloped joyfully into the
room.
“ 0 Rob 1 ” she-cried out, “ carry that old stick into
the shed, and do keep still."
“That isn’t an old stick,” said Rob in surprise.
“That’s a hoss, auntie."
“I don’t wonder your mother's sick," said auntie,
“ if you are so noisy all the time at home. You must
keep still here, or you’ll make me crazy.”
So the good child put aWay “Dick,” and got the
big dinner-bell, and went up stairs and down, and out
on the piazza, which he called the deck, calling on the
passengers to pay their fares.
“Now, Rob, you will craze me!” said his aunt.
" Give me the bell, and sit down on the lowest step of
the piazza, and keep still.”
So Rob folded his clear little hands on his lap. He
fixed his eyes on the stepping-stone before the door,
and drew a long sigh. After a little he said, “O
auntie dear, I do pity stones so'"
RSEPING ROBBIE. STILL.

“ Pity stones? What for, Robbie?”
“’Cause they have to keep so still all their lives.
I'm so glad I ain’t a stone!”
“There's no danger of your turning into a stone,
Rob: you don’t keep still long enough."
“Oh, dear! how stones must ache, keepin’ still
always! I ache now just in this little speck of time.
I’m glad I ain’t a fence, nor a tree, nor a rag-baby that
can't move till somebody pulls you. O auntie, my
head aches, and my hands and feet are cold, and my
eyes are crooked, keepin’ still such a long time I "
“ Your mouth is all right, little boy," said the lady.
“ That hasn’t kept still at all."
Then grandma came in, and asked what was the
matter; and Rob said, “I’m all hard, I’ve been sittin'
still such an awful long time.”
“ One minute,” said aunt Phebe.
“O auntie, it’s an hour, and I’m all asleep but my
head! Can’t I get upP—say?"
“Yes,” said grandma. “You may come up in my
room, and make a train of cars with the chairs.”
“Won’t you be crazy, grandma? ”
“No, my dear: noise does not trouble me much.
But it is a good plan for little boys to learn to be still,
so that they will not trouble those who are not well.
To-morrow morning I wish you would fold your hands
and sit still one minute, and again in the afternoon.
We will call that your ‘lesson in silence.’ By and by
WILL-Y '5 RAUGHTY DA ‘1‘.
/

you can sit still two, three, and five minutes, to please
those who do not like a noise.”
“Yes, grandma dear, I will; but I hope mamma
will soon be well, I’m so tired of keeping still,” said
the dear little boy.
WILLY’S NAUGHTY DAY.
“NOW be good children,” said mamma as she
stepped into the carriage. “Auntie and I will be home
to lunch; and this afternoon you shall all have a ride,
if you are good.”
The children shouted their good-bys till the car-
riage turned out of the yard, and then th'Ey went back
into the house.
“Now, what would you like to do ? ” asked matronly
little Molly of her two cousins Claude and Lily, who
stood together inside of the door rather bashfully; for
they had not been in the house long enough to feel
much acquainted.
“Let’s‘ swing!” shouted Molly’s brother Willy.
“It’s splendid this morning out under the trees.” ‘
“Would you like to swing?” Molly asked of the
two guests. “I have to work all the morning on the
scrap-book I’m making, or I shall not get it done fer


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WILLY'S NAUGHTY DAY


_ you to take home to Maudie; but hVilly can show you
the swing."
“ I’d rather go with you,” said cousin Lily modestly:
“ I want to see you make it.”
“So would I,” said Claude, who did not much like
‘Nilly’s rough ways.
. “Well,” said Molly, “I’d like to have you go.—
You can swing, Willy, if you like.”
“ N o, I can’t,” whined \Nilly, “unless you come and
push me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Molly. “I can hardly get
the book done anyway.”
“Let the old book go,” said Willy fretfully.
“Why, Willy!” said Molly. “Think of poor little
Maudie lying all the time on her bed, and how she
will like a nice big picture-book.”
“I don’t care,” said “filly, pouting.
Molly said no more, but led the way to her nice
little room where the half-finished scrap-book lay open
on the table, and cut pictures all around it. She
glanced lovingly at her new book,-~a beautiful one
which auntie had brought her, and which she had
hardly found time to look at yet.
“ I’ll lay this on the table, where I can see it as
i work,” she said: “that will be next best to read
ing it.”
“ It’s a real nice story,” said Lily. “I told mamma
i knew you would like it."




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WILLY‘S NAUGHTY DRY.



“I know I shall,” said Molly. “ It looks splendid.”
And she sat down to her work-
The two cousins looked on a while, selected pictures
to suit the pages, and talked about their home, their
friends, and their school. They were having a very
nice time, when Willy bounced in.
“Say, Moll, you come and swing me,” he began
rudely. _
“Why, Willy! ” remonstrated Molly. “ What would
mother say to see you act so? You know, she said
we must be good.”
“I don’t care,” said Willy crossly. “ I can’t have a
bit of fun, ’cause you’re so hateful.”
Molly blushed for her little brother; and the two
cousins felt so ashamed for him, and so sorry for her,
that they went and looked out of the window, pretend-
ing to be very much interested in something in the
street.
“ Will you come? ” shouted Willy.
“ You know I can’t,” answered Molly.
“Then I’ll smash your old bowl, and scatter the
paste all over!” said he, seizing her new book and a
slate, and holding them up threateningly.
“ O Willy! ” cried Molly imploringly, “ don’t touch
my new book! You’ll hurt it!” -
“Course I 1will,” said he teasingly,——“ get it all
paste, and spoil the scrap-book.”
“ You know mamma’ll punish you, Willy, if you
W‘ILLY’S NAUGHTY DEW

do any mischief,” said poor Molly, anxiously looking
after her treasure.
“ Well, here goes,” said Willy. “ Now I’ll give you
three chances to save it.
“ One to 6egz'n: will you go?”
“ Willy, you know I can’t,” said Molly. “Now do
put that down, and be good.”
“ T 200 to Show: will you go? "
“No,” said Molly. “I’m awfully ashamed of you.
“What will cousin Claude think of you?” glancing over
to where the cousin still gazed out of the window.
“ T hree 2‘0 make ready,” went on Willy. “The last
call: will you go? ”
Molly did not answer. She had no idea that‘ he
would dare to do as he threatened, and he did not really
mean to: he only meant to scare her, and torment her,
till she would give up. _ '
“Four to go,” he went on deliberately, raised the
book and slate high, and brought them down with a
crash on the table, just avoiding the bowl as he in-
tended, but, alas! losing his hold of the slippery book,
which fell heavily to the floor.
“ Oh, oh! my book!” cried Molly, jumping up, and
seizing the beautiful gift. It was nearly a wreck,—-
one corner bent up, and the binding broken loose from
the back.
That was too much for any little girl to endure.
_Hugging the broken treasure in her arms, Molly
WILLY’S NAUGHTY DAY.



rushed out cf the door and to her mother’s room,
where she threw herself on to the bed, and cried
bitterly.
Willy sat silent. He was struck with horror at
what he had done; for he only meant to frighten her,
and he knew his mother would punish him. Indigna»
tion got the better of Claude’s diffidence, and he spoke
out earnestly, “I think you’re the meanest boy I ever
saw; ” while “ Shame on you! ” came even from Lily’s
gentle lips.
VVillycouldn’t stand that: so he went out of the
room, and went down to the swing, and tried to make
believe he didn’t care. ’
When mamma and auntie came back, and the chil-
dren came down to lunch, all were very sober. Molly’s
eyes were red, and her face swollen ;_ but she did not
complain. Willy’s whole face was red, and the cousins
looked as though they wanted to go home.
After looking sharply at them a few moments,
mamma asked Willy what was the matter; and he was
obliged to tell the whole story, though he softened it
as much as he could. Nothing more was said till after
lunch, when, as the carriage drove up to take them all
to ride, mamma pronounced his sentence.
“ ’W'illy, I’m sorry to punish you while your cousins
are here; but I am obliged to do so. For being
naughty, and teasing your sister, you lose your ride
this afternoon; and, for your careless accident to her
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A QUEER FAIRY?

hook, you will take money out of your bank, and buy a new one just like it. The broken one you can keep to
remind you of your naughtiness.”
To lose the ride was dreadful; but to take so much of
his money, carefully saved for months to buy a velocipede
with, was a serious grief to Willy, and he never forgot it as
long as he lived.

A QUEER FAIRY.
“ Now, Nora dear,” said her mother, “I must go to
the village to look after poor Mrs. _Iones’s broken arm.
If you will peel the apples for my pies before I come
home, you may pour out father’s tea the first night
after he comes back.”
Nora’s face \shone at once with little glimmering
smiles. She had been breaking out into smiles for a
whole week past, this dear little girl; and this was the
reason.
For four long years “father” had been sailing out
on the great wide sea. Through storms and through
sunshine his great ship had been going round the
World, and only once in a long time a letter or a
message would reach Nora and her mother.
But one week ago a letter had come to them, say=
ing that father was on the way; that he might any day




i». QUEER FAIRY.

reach home. There was a great jubilee after that.
Day by day they watched for him; and every night
they said, “ Perhaps he will come to-morrow.”
l,


.So Nora was very much pleased at the thought of
pouring out father’s tea on the first night of his
coming. She sat down on mother’s chair by the V :1
dresser, and took the great bowl of apples in her lap; but I am very sure she never once thought of the pies
I' !




A QPEER FAIRY.



they were to make. First she began thinking of father,
and how much she loved him. Then, because the
afternoon sun shone so pretty and bright, she fell to
thinking of green woods, and flowers, and the fairies
in her story-books. ’
“ How I wish one would come now! ” said Nora to
herself : “she would have on a forlorn red petticoat, I
suppose, and lean on a stick, to make me think she was
old and poor.”
Nora broke into a happy little laugh.
“Then she would ask me for a drink of water, or a
crust of bread; and if I said, ‘Go away, and don’t
bother,’ or threw an apple-skin at her, she would make
toads and all sorts of ugly things come after me.”
Click, click, went the gate-latch; and a man came
hurrying up the road.
“And if I said, ‘Oh, yes, dear dame! ’ ” Nora went
on to herself, “and ran to get her a drink, and a slice
of bread and butter, she would turn into a beautiful
lady, and make me ride in a carriage.”
Rap, rap, at the door. Nora cried out, “ Come in,"
almost thinking to see the queer little old woman in a
red-flannel petticoat: only she remembered how mother
had told her there were no fairies, and God was better
than even the best of the beautiful fairy ladies she
loved to read about.
A rough-looking man opened the door, and stood
with his hat in his hand. “Day, miss,” he said.
361 I


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A Queen Fairer.





“There’s a man fallen faint just down by the road
yonder,—sun-stroke, like enough. Wish you’d come
along, and bring some brandy, and let us fetch him up
here a bit. It’s about as nigh as anywheres.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Nora, “I wish”— Shir
was going to say, “I wish you would take him a
little farther on,—-to Mrs. Peterson’s.” “How ever
will my apples get done?” she thought to herself; ‘
“and father may come to-night, and I can’t pour the
tea.”
just then a little verse that she had learned once in
sabbath school came into her mind: “Be ye, therefore,
merciful.” She rose then, put down her apples, and
went to the cupboard for the brandy. “Mother isn’t
home,” she said: “but I guess you can bring him up;
and I will go with you, if you like.”
So they went out together in the sweet afternoon
sunshine,—~Nora and the rough, strange mam—and
Nora carried the brandy.
There was a little crowd down at the gate, and
some people were carrying a man,-—the man who had '
been sun—struck, Nora supposed.
Some one took the brandy from her, and held it to
his lips; and, a moment after, he opened his eyes.
Nora thought she had seen those eyes before; and
all at once she gave a great cry, and threw her little
arms close, close around him.
When mother came home, she iound this poor man
l HAD A SWEET LITTLE DOLL.

tying on her own bed, with the shutters closed and
darkened; and Nora sat beside him, with her hand
elasped in his, as happy as a little queen, -— happier,
perhaps.
“0 mother, mother! he has come!” she said, cry‘
ring and laughing together. Mother cried too; and of
eourse there was a great deal to tell and to hear. But
by supper-time father was so much better, that he lay
an the sofa while Nora poured tea for him, although
the apples were still unpeeled. Nora felt as though a
good fairy in red petticoats had really come, and turned
out a beautiful lady; or rather as though God had sent
some kind angel to teach her a lesson.
i HAD A SWEET LITTLE DOLL.
i ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears,-—‘
The prettiest doll in the world:
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dearst
And her hair was so charmingly curledl
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.


I HAD A SWEET LITTLE DOLL.



I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day.
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears;
For her paint is all washed away,


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And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled :
Yet for old sakes’s sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.



















































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How THE SWEEP FOUND HE WAS
BLACK.
ONCE upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep,
and his name was Tom. That is a short name, and
you have heard it before: so you will not have much
trouble in remembering it. He lived in a great towr.
in the North country, where there were plenty of chim:
neys to sweep, and plenty of money for Tom to earn
and his master to spend. He could not read nor write,
and did not care to do either; and he never washed
himself, for there was no water up the court where hr
lived. He had never been taught to say his prayers
He never had heard of God or of Christ, except in
wort ls which you never have heard, and which it would
have been well if he had never heard. He cried half
his time, and laughed the other half. He cried when
he had to climb the dark flues, rubbing his poor knees
and elbows raw; and when the soot got into his eyes,
which it did every day in the week; and when his
master beat him, which he did every day in the week;
and when he had not enough to eat, which happened
every day in the week likewise. And he laughed the
- other half of the day, when he was tossing halfpennies
With the other boys, or playing leap-frog over the
HOW THE SWEEP FOUND HE WAS BLACK.

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posts, or bowling stones at the horses’ legs a: they
trotted by; which last was excellent fun when there
was a wall at hand behind which to hide. As for
chimney-sweeping, and being hungry, and being beaten,
he took all that for the way of the world, like the rain
and snow and thunder, and stood manfully with his
back to it till it was over,—-as his old donkey did to a
hail-storm,-—and then shook his ears, and was as jolly
as ever.
One day a smart little groom rode into the court
where Tom lived. Tom was just hiding behind a wall
to throw half a brick at his horse’s legs, as is the cus-
tom of that country when they welcome strangers ; but
the groom saw him, and hallooed to him to know where
Mr. Grimes the chimney-sweep lived. Now, Mr.
Grimes was Tom’s own master; and Tom was a good
man of business, and always civil to customers: so he
put the half-brick down quietly behind the wall, and
proceeded to take orders.
Mr. Grimes was to come up the next morning to
Sir John Harthover’s at the place; for his old chimney-
sweep was gone to prison, and the chimneys wanted
sweeping.
Now, I dare say you never got up at three o’clock
on a midsummer morning. Some people get up then
because they want to catch salmon; and some because
they want to climb Alps; and a great many more
because thevemust, like Tom.
HOW THE SWEEP FOUND HE WAS BLACK“

So he and his master set out. Grimes rode the
donkey in front; and Tom and the brushes walked
behind, out of the court and up the street, past the
closed window-shutters, and the winking weary police-
men, and the roofs all shining gray in the gray dawn.
On they went; and Tom looked and looked,—-for
he had never been so far into the country before,— and
longed to get over a gate and pick buttercups, and
look for birds’ nests in the hedge; but Mr. Grimes was
a man of business, and would never hear to that.
And now they had gone three miles and more, and
came to Sir John’s lodge-gates. But Tom and his
master did not go in through the great iron gates as if
they had been dukes or bishops, but round the back
Way, -— and a very long way round it was,“ and into a
little back-door, where the ash-boy let them in, yawning
horribly. And then the housekeeper turned them into
a grand room all covered up in sheets of brown paper,
and bade them begin, in a lofty and tremendous voice.
And so after a whimper or two, and a kick from his
master, into the grate Tom went, and up the chimney,
while a housemaid staid in the room to watch the
furniture.
How many chimneys Tom swept, I cannot say; but
he swept so many that he got quite tired, and puzzled
too, for they were not like the town fines to which he
was accustomed. 50 Tom fairly lost his way in them:
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HO“? THE SVt’EEP FOUND HE W'AS‘J BLACK;

pitchy darkness, for he was as much at home in a
:hirnney as a mole is under ground; but at last,
coming down, as he thought, the right chimney, he
came down the wrong one, and found himself standing
on the hearth-rug in a room the like of which he had
never seen before.
The room was all dressed in white. The carpet
was, all over, gay little flowers; and the walls were
hung with pictures in gilt frames, which amused Tom
very much.
Under the snow-white coverlet, upon the snow
white pillow, lay the most beautiful little girl that
Tom had ever seen. Her cheeks were almost as white
as the pillow, and her hair was like threads of gold
spread all about over the bed.
“She never could have been dirty,” thought Tom to
himself. And then he thought, “And are all people
like that when they are washed? ” and he looked at his
own wrist, and tried to rub the soot off, and wondered
whether it ever would come off. “CertainlyI should
look much prettier then, if I grew at all like her.”
And, looking round, he suddenly saw, standing close
\to him, a little ugly, black, ragged figure, with bleared
eyes and grinning white teeth. He turned on it
angrily. What did such a little black ape want in that
sweet young lady’s room? And, behold! it was him
self, reflected in a great mirror, the like of which Tam
had never seen before.



























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FATHER’S FOR TRAIT.

a
And Tom, for the first time in his life, found out
that he was dirty, and burst into tears with shame and
anger

FATHER’S PORTRAIT.
-‘ FATHER, let me paint your portrait; ah, do! " said
George. “How is one ever to become a great artist, if
one does not try?"
“George wants to use nis (Zhristmas-present,” cried
Dick : “ he’s been glued to that old easel ever since
Monday morning. And would you believe it, father,
he’s even painted the baby, and the old yellow hen; and
now he wants to practise on you.” Dick fell to laugh“
ing so hard, that he rolled over and over on the floor.
“Nothing can be done without trying, my boy,”
said mother;
“ Patience and perseverance have made many a
fortune,” said grandma gently.
But father still turned over the newspaper, with no
word of encouragement.
“ Please come and sit, father," said George goods
humoredly. '
“ I’m sitting very comfortably, thank you,” said
tather.
“ But come to the studio,” said George, “ and sit for
your picture.”
FATHER’S PORTRAIT.

The “studio ” was a store-closet in the attic, with a
north window, where mother had allowed George to
settle for a time. '_
“The sludz'ol — ha, ha, ha I ” laughed Dick. “I
guess I’ll go down to my summer-pariah and hoe corn.”
But father was carried off, newspaper and all, and
seated on a very hard chair which had only three legs,
and which had to be propped up by a kindly old trunk.
But father didn’t mind, so long as he kept his paper.
“Now turn your head a little to the left,” said
George.
“ All right, my son." __
“ And, father, if you would only cock your hair up
a little more on the forehead.”
Father rubbed his hair over the bald spot into
quite a fine little top-knot.
“ Father,” said George in five minutes more, “I
think if you smiled alittle, just a very little, you know,
and opened your eyes, we might get along better.”
So father smiled a great deal, and opened his eyes
as wide as he could.
“It’s going to be a great success,” said George.
“Glad of it,” said father; “ for I really must go in
five minutes.”
Of course no artist could really finish a portrait in
such a very short time; but George allowed father to
show the picture at the dinner-table, after he had
touched it up a little.
‘5
FATHER'S PORTRAIT.



“Is that far/167?” cried sister Kate as the picture
passed around. “He looks as if his brain had been
set to rise. If mother’s dough worked in that way,
we’d look for sour bread.”
“ He does look a little as if he had a bad fever,”;
said mother. “Perhaps the air of the studio didn’t‘
agree with him.”
“Why, father!” cried Dick, “you look as slippery
and sweet as if you had been living on honey and
lard l ”
Mother saw the tears gathering in George’s eyes;
and she said very kindly, —
“I think George improves. It really seems to me
this is better than the old yellow hen.”
“George shall have lessons,” said father. “He’ll
make an artist yet; for he knows how to persevere.”
George had lessons in painting, and he loved to
paint more and more. He always had liked it, even
before he. knew how. His patience and perseverance
were so great, that in five years he painted a portrait of
father which even sister Kate was proud to hang in
the front parlor.




HELPING SISTER.
p, DDIE,” said Mrs. Hastings, one morning,
“Ellen has a bad headache, and you may
clear away the table. See how nicely you
5,; , k can wash and wipe the dishes. And
‘i r ‘* when you place them in the closet, be
careful not to break any.” _
,, “Me help Addie! me help!” cried
two-year-old Bennie.
“ I’m afraid you’ll only help to hinder
sister. But you may stay a little while. If he is in
the way, Addie, bring him to me. I shall be in the
sitting-room, for I have some stitching to do this
morning.” > i
“O I like to have Bennie stay with me, mamma.
You’ll be good, won’t you, Bennie?”
“Me’s dood’s pie. Me help Addie. Bennie take
tups.”
Suiting actions to words, the little fellow took a
cup in each hand and trotted off to the kitchen.
Fearing for the safety of her china coffee cups, Mrs.
Hastings followed softly behind. Bennie deposited
them safely in the sink, then trotted back for more.
“Bennie can carry his silver mug next,” said Addie,
obeying a motion of mamma’s hand.
36J






HELPING SISTER.

“ Bennie tarry one tup—two tups.”
“ No; Bennie carry his mug and a knife.”
“ Es, me tarry papa’s knife—wash papa’s knife—-
papa’s knife tean.”
Bennie was as busy as a bee until all the things
were removed from the table. While Addie was
washing the dishes, he stood in a chair close by her
side; but when they were ready to be placed in the
closet he wished to help again.
“Bennie tarry papa’s knife — Bennie tarry mamma’s
knife-Bennie tarry Addie’s knife,” were his words as
he trotted back and forth.
After the knives came the spoons, which Addie
allowed him to place on the lowest shelf. One was
too near the edge, and it fell with a sharp jingle among
the jars on the floor.
In trying to pick it up, Bennie pushed off the cover
of one jar. A most delicious odor came up into his
little, aspiring nose. It almost turned down, instead
of up, as he bent'over the jar.
Now Bennie was of a very inquiring mind. It was
not enough to smell, he must taste. He couldn’t get
his mouth close enough to the fragrant preserves, so
in went a plump, little hand.
Up came a finger thickly coated with delicious
jelly. This was quickly in his mouth, then the finger
was thrust with equal quickness into the jar again.
After one hand had become pretty well covered with


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jelly, he found so much difficulty in opening it that he
concluded to keep the fingers spread Wide apart and
use the other.





Just at this turn of affairs, Addie became aware
that the room was unusually still, so she looked
round for Bennie.
“Why, Benjamin Hastings, what are you doing i'”
she quickly cried.


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SHE SAT DOWN ON A BANK BY THE ROADSIDE UNDER AN OLD TREE,


DOLLY AND CHIP.

‘
“Oo want some? Bennie did it. Bennie help
Addie!”
For answer, she took her little helper in her arms
and carried him into the sitting-room to show to
mamma. '
LAURIE LORING.

DOLLY AND CHIP.


OROTHEA was her real name, but
that was too long for such a lit-
tle girl, and so it was shortened
,‘ > into Dolly. That seemed tojust
" . fit her somehow, so Dolly it was
‘ ‘ till she grew up.
Well, Dolly lived on an island
,1» not very far from the mainland,
but so far that she did not often
go there. And she was the only child on the island;
in fact there were but three or four people in the whole,
for it was very small, and her father’s farm took up
the whole of it, excepting one end where there were
ruins of an old house which burned down before
Dolly was born.

















































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DOLLY AND CHIP.

Dolly’s father and mother, and old Betsy who
worked for them, were all the inhabitants of the island;
and only on Sundays, when they all went over in a
boat, to church and Sunday school, and to take din—
ner with grandma, did the little girl ever see others of
her own age at all.
It was a queer life for a child, and the consequence
was that she did not know much about playing with
other children. She never took tea out, nor invited
her best friend to eat off her china set, in fact she had
no best friend, except mamma.
For the sake of her little daughter, mamma tried to
be young herself, and sometimes played “visit” with
her, when Dolly would be Mrs. Brown, and mamma
Mrs. Smith, and they would talk about their babies
and servants, till Dolly would go into a fit of laughter
at mamma’s funny questions.
Do not waste any pity on Dolly, she was not lone-
ly, she did not know what loneliness was, and she
would have been amazed if any one had told her, that
any one in the world had a nicer time than she did.
She had one thing that I guess not one of you
have, and that was a tame bird. She found it one day
nearly dead, in the clutches of the cat, and got it away
alive, though injured, and cared for it all winter in the
house.
In the spring she let it go, but Chip—as she named
him—never forgot the good time he had with Dolly.
DOLLY AND CHIP.

nor the bits of sugar she held between her lips for him
to take out.
She never kept him in a cage at all; he lived among
mamma’s house plants all winter, in a box Dolly fixed
for him in a hanging basket. When spring came, and
the windows were open, and everything was lovely out-
side, Chip flew away.
Not far though; he found a mate, and they made
a nest in an apple tree in the garden, in his own old
box, which Dolly’s papa nailed up among the branches
for her. There he lived all summer, and often Dolly
would go out and sit under the tree with book or work.
And Chip would flutter about her, and come down on
the grass beside her, and take the crumbs she always
had for him; and he would alight on her book, or her
hand, or perch on the lowest branch, and sing her a
song in his best style.
By and by he had a family of young birds, and
very busy he was, hunting food for them all; though
Dolly helped him by bringing plenty of crumbs; and
every worm she saw, and all the dead flies.
He did not get much time to sing however, till
they were brought up, and taught to fly. Then he just
quietly turned them out of the house, to take care of
themselves, as all birds do, you know. And he and
his wife, as the cold days came on, made their home
in the apple tree warmer and more comfortable. with
bits of wool and cotton, and feathers, which they
picked up, and Dolly also brought out to them.
DOLLY AND CHIP. ‘

w_\ I
There they lived the whole winter, and every day
when Dolly went out to walk, she took crumbs and
sugar in her pocket. No sooner would Mr. Chip see
her coming, than he would begin to fly around her,
and chirp, and show his joy.
Dolly would put a bit of sugar in her lips, and
hold out her hand. In a moment Chip would perch
in his old place, on her finger, and take the sugar out.
Sometimes he would eat it, and sometimes he
would fly off and give it to his wife, for Mrs. Chip—-
though pretty well acquainted with Dolly, never was
quite so familiar as her husband, who had lived in
the house all winter.
Then, very often he would perch on her hat, and
go home with her. Sometimes he liked to nestle in
the warm fur of her muff, and he was never in the
least afraid of her.
Dolly enjoyed her pet much more than one can
enjoy a captive bird in a cage. When she was ten
years old, it was decided that, as she was so old, she
must go to school, and so, in the fall, after the sum-
mer’s work was over, the whole family packed up and
went across to the village, and settled in a house
there. Though she liked school, and enjoyed having
playmates, she never ceased to regret Chip. Every
Saturday, she and her father went over in the little
boat to the island, Papa to see how the stock got on,
and if Betsey wanted, anything, and Dolly to see Chip.
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IN MISCHIEF AGAIN.

She always left crumbs with Betsey, and often
brought her some little thing from town, to pay her
for feeding him every day, yet Chip always had a
welcome for his dear little mistress, and always flew
down into her hand to get the bits of sugar she was
sure to have in her lips.
OLIVE THoRNE.

IN MISCHIEF AGAIN.


\\\ w , , .
If; _ i in mischief;
H a] What shall I do with
_ x you, Artie?” '
. . I" “I don’t know, papa,
I’m sure — unless — ”
. -‘


T Here Artie stopped.
I“ i Down went his eyes to the
big log upon which he was sit-
" I ting. After carefully studying
its shape and texture, and clasp-
ing and unclasping his hands
many times, up went his eyes again—
slowly it is true. As slowly came his


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itir; “Unless -- you — punish —- me—
harder.”




IN MISCIIIEF AGAIN.

Papa’s lips twitched a little, but his face was sober,
as he said, “What made you think of climbing up
there.” ,
“Why, you see, I was after a squirrel. He was
such a beauty I wanted to catch him, so I kept going
higher’n higher.”
“Supposing you had fallen and broken your arm
or leg?”
“O papa, there's no danger! I can climb like a
cat, you know l ”
Smiles began to creep into papa’s eyes now.
“Cats have claws to hold on by,” he said.
“Fingers are better’n claws. I held on to the
grape-vine just as tight 1 ”
“Yes; but my choicest vine is almost spoiled,
Artie.”
“ I’m so sorry, papal” Down went the tearful
brown eyes again. “I shouldn’t have grabbed it only
my foot slipped, and I thought I was going to fall.”
Papa drew little Artie into his lap before replying.
“ I’d far rather lose all my vines, than have my dear
boy break a limb, or conceal a fault; but it was unsafe
to climb so high. Don’t let a squirrel tempt you
again.” .
“I forget so easy, papa. What’ll you do to make
me remember?”
“Let me see I ”
Papa held the dear little brown head close while
he thought. “You are very fond of grapes, Artie? "


IN MISCHIEF AGAIN.

“Yes, indeed, papa ! ”
“Well, I saw a fine cluster of your favorite kind,
which I thought would be ready to pick in a few days.
' Instead of eating them yourself, I wish you to carry
them to Ross Elliott. They are the earliest grapes
we have, and will be a treat to him being shut up in
the sick-room so long.”
“Can’t I taste one, papa?”
“Not one of that first cluster.”
“I’ll try hard not to want them, papa. But I can
have some of the very next cluster; can’t I?”
“Certainly, Artie. I only want my boy to learn to
practice self-denial, when necessary.”
“Papa, I’d like to do something for you now.
Can’t I help fix the vine back?” ..
“You may go and tell Stephen I want him to
bring a ladder here; and you may bring the hammer
and some nails—Yes, and a few strings.”
Away ran Artie, glad enough to be useful. He
found the gardener busy over a flower-bed. After tellr
ing what was wanted, Stephen said,
“Why, Master Artie, how came that vine torn
' down? I fixed it up good since the last storm.”
“I did it, Stephen.”
" You! How on earth did you get up there?”
“I went up after a squirrel.”
“Well, you’ll have every bone in your body broken
if you don’t stop climbing.”
IN MISCHIEF AGAIN.

“O Stephen, he was just as handsome as he could
be. He—oh—look, Stephen! There on that oak!
I do believe it’s the very same one!”
- “Master Artie’s squir-
rel, is it? Well he is a ,
beauty! You must try
and tame him. I don’t
believe in shutting up
a such animals in boxes
’ “h and cages, but if you can
' tame them by kindness,
< ‘ and still give them the
freedom of the woods—why, it’s all right.”
“Wish I had something for him now. I’ll go and
ask mamma for some nuts. Wouldn’t he like nuts as
well as anything, Stephen?”
“Yes; but you’d better carry the hammer and
nails to your father first. You said he wanted them
right away.”
“So he did. And I meant to do it; but the squirrel
made me forget.”
“You are a master-hand at forgetting when squir~
rels are ’round.”
Artie took up the box of nails without another
word, and marched straight away from the bright-eyed
little beauty still perched on a branch of the oak.
“Seems to me you are not so spry as usual, Artie,"
said his father.


















" SOMETHIN’"
_ b‘?‘


AY, Mike, how much ye took? ”
H ’1' “Big pile! Seven shiners,--five
I reds! Tell ye what, Pat, I’ve had
‘ luck this day.”
. “Ought to treat a feller, then.
Seventy-five’s a heap! I hain’t
made nothin’.”
_, “Can’t do it for nobody. ’Ginst my
~ principles. Savin’ ye see, Pat.”
“What be it for?”
’H
i “ Sornethin .
“You al’a’s are a sayin’ that! Can’t ye
tell? What he ye so tight for?”
“ Somethin’.”
“Go long wid ye, ye tight-fisted spleean. Don’t
want nothin’ of nobody that can’t tell nothin’.”
“Jest what I was agoin’ to do, me sweet-tempered
lad.”
The two newsboys separate. Mike turns into an
alley and goes whistling along as though the “some-
’thin’” was an exceedingly pleasant thing to think
ibout.
we will follow Mike.
To do this we must be quick, for he dodges this
way and that, increasing his speed at every step. As
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SOMETHIN’.

he nears an old, dingy, brick tenement-house in a filthy
alley he breaks into a run—clears the tottering steps
at a bound—-springs up the rickety stairs—stopping
only when he reaches a tiny room up under the roof.
Here he takes a rusty key from his pocket and
unlocks the door. The moment he enters, two arms
are about his neck, and a sweet voice says:
“Mikey, dear, the sun looked in to-day. I saw him
alittle bit.”
“O Molly, darlet, is’t true? Your eyes be growin'
better certain. Can ye see me, Molly?” '
The poor, almost sightless eyes are raised to see
the rough,,ragged boy, so dear to the little sister’s
heart. As Mike looks eagerly into the upturned face,
he sees a large tear slowly gather, then roll silently
down the face dearer to him than anything else on
earth. .
He knows too well What it means without the
grieved look about the pretty mouth. He puts his
arms about her, and kisses the trembling lips almost
with a mother’s tenderness. .
When he can command his own voice, he says,
“Never mind, Molly, darlet, I’m makin’ heaps 0’
money. I’ll be ready to take ye to the big doctor’s
soon. Never ye fret, Molly--ye’ll see me some day."
Mike leads Molly carefully to a small chair—the
only one in the room—then he prepares supper. A
box turned bottom up serves as a table. In a smaller
one covered with an old newspaper, are their dishes.

































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SOMETHIN’.



For Molly’s sake this. big, rough boy is learning
neatness and gentleness, you see. For her sake he
will keep stains from soul as well as body.
Mike spreads a clean paper over the box for a
tablecloth. Upon this he places two cracked plates, a
white mug, a tin dipper, and a battered knife. The
white mug, of course, is little Molly’s.
He cuts two generous slices from a loaf of bread,
pours a little milk into the white mug, then leads
Molly to the table. His own seat is an old box.
After tasting her milk, Molly says, “Taste, Mikey,
it’s so good!”
“No, drink it all, Molly. Ye need it. Boys don’t
need nothin’ but water. They grows on water.” He
smacks his lips as he drains the dipper. Beginning to
clear the table, he says, “Ye may be a lady and I’ll
wait on ye.”
After Mike has washed the dishes—for he washes
them as well as he can in cold water—he draws
Molly’s little chair up to his box, and sits so that he
can hold her hand; then he tells her for the hundredth
time just how much money he has saved, and how
much more he must earn before the “somethin’” he
mentioned to Pat takes place. .
“Them big doctors won’t look at ye without tin
dollars, they say. And I’ll have it soon, Molly, darlet,
never ye fear. I’ve eight now; and good luck for a
couple 0’ weeks longer’ll do it, sure.”


SOMETHIN‘.

“S’pose I’ll ever see good, Mikey?”
“Them doctors’ll give ye new eyes if ye’ll pay
’em ’nough. Don’t ye fret, Molly.”
“No, for mother said I’d see her sure when I got
to heaven. That’ll be good, won’t it, Mikey?”
“Ye’re a going to see here, I say!” cries Mike
almost fiercely.
Molly makes no reply save to ’lay her curly head
on her brother’s knee. Soon she is asleep, and Mike
lays her tenderly on a little bed in one corner. After
which he stretches himself upon the bare floor in
another corner, and silence reigns in Mike’s humble
home.
Several weeks after this Mike emerges from the
dingy alley with an unusual light in his eyes. He is
leading Molly with one hand; the other tightly clasps
a roll of bills.
He picks his way very carefully till he reaches a
fashionable street. Now he eagerly examines every
door-plate. Almost all have Dr. before the name.
Suddenly he stops, reads a name over two or three
times, then leads Molly up the granite steps, saying
in a half whisper,
“Here ’tisl here’s the big doctorl”
Such is his excitement that his cheek pales and
his hand trembles as he rings the bell. He waits a
long, long time as it seems to him before the door
slowly opens. ’


SOMETHIN’.

“Be Dr. Tracy in?” he inquired in a rather
unsteady voice.
“Not for such as you!” is the cross reply.

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SOMETHIN’.



“ Molly’s blindl” cries Mike, desperately, springing
forward to prevent the shutting of the door. '
The servant here catches sight of Molly. Some-
thing in the sweet, pleading face leads her to say,
“Come in, then. Perhaps the doctor’ll see you.
There’s the door!” With this she leaves them.
Mike knocks at the richly panelled door. This
time he has not long to wait. It is opened so sud-
denly that he starts back when a rather cross-looking
man in dressing-gown and slippers appears.
“What’s wanted?” he gruffly asks.
For a moment the poor boy cannot speak. At last
.he holds out the money, saying, “Here’s tin dollars!
Will ye fiX Molly’s eyes?” '
The doctor appears ready to refuse, but Molly’s
face touches his heart, also. He swings open the door
and motions Mike to enter. The boy does so and
stands bewildered in the middle of the elegant room.
- A white hand is laid very gently on Molly’s yellow
hair. As the keen eyes search her face the frown dis-
' appears, and it is an exceedingly pleasant voice which
says,—
“ Come to the window, sis.”
Seating her in a chair facing the window, he exam-
ines her eyes long and carefully. Mike begins to
think he’s never going to speak again. ‘
At last he hears, “Can you see my hand?” -
“ Where is it?”
SOMETHIN’.

“Right before your eyes.”
“I can’t see nothin’ but a bit 0’ light.”
Turning abruptly to Mike the doctor now says,
“She must go to the hospital, I’ll get her in.”
“Will she see bime-by?”
“Yes. Very simple case.”
“Here’s the money.”
“Keep it yourself, boy. I don’t want it. Has she
no mother.”
“ No sir, I be all.”
“Well, come to-morrow morning and I’ll attend to
your sister.”
“Can I go with Molly?”
“No,” is on the doctor’s lips, but the way Molly
clings to her brother’s hand, changes it to, “I’ll see.”
“What be I goin’ to do with this?” Mike again
holds out the money.
The doctor smiles now. “Why, buy something for
Molly—oranges, grapes, and such things. Yes, and
picture-books, too. Expect she’ll need them soon.”
Mike tries to thank him but is cut short by, “Here,
boy, run away. I’m busy.”
A month passes. Onegpleasant day, Mike with a
radiant face, leads little Molly out of the hospital.
Her face is no longer sad. Her blue eyes are bright
as Mike’s own.
“Somethin’” has been done.
“O Mikey! see them flowers in the winder! Every
thing be so pretty!”
FRANK AND 10.



“ Nothin’ so pretty as them two blue eyes Isees,”
replies Mike, fondly. . 7
Two happier children cannot be found in the whole
city, than those which climb to the bare, cheerless
room up under the roof of the old tenement-house.
Only one thing adorns it—a few flowers in Molly’s
white mug. Mike has spent his last cent upon these.
“Oh! You did it ’cause I was comin’ home!”
Little Molly’s tone is ample reward for Mike.
“Some day I’ll take ye out into the country, so ye
can see plenty o’ grass and flowers, Molly, darlet.”
Now kisses are his reward.
LAURIE LORING.

FRANK AND Jo.
ILL you please give me that?”
‘ Mrs. Stone stopped scrap-
ing the plate into the pig’s pail,
and looked down at the speaker.
He was a very little boy, with
few clothes on, and a queer old
, ragged cap over his curly head.
,_,_ 4‘ He stood by the dusty road look
through the gate, which was near the








ing witful
doon



FRANK AND 10.

“What do you want of it?” she asked.
“To eat, Ma’am! I haven’t had anything to-day,”
answered the boy. '
“Dear me!” and Mrs. Stone pushed the spectacles
up to her forehead to have a better look at him “such
a mite of a fellow with nothing to eat all day! Come
in, and I’ll give you a bowl of bread and milk.”
“ Ohl—if you will be so good!” murmured the boy,
hastily opening the gate, and coming up the walk.
“What dog is that?” asked Mrs. Stone, seeing a large dog following him. -
“Oh that’s Jo!” said the boy.
“Whose is he?”
“Why, he’s mine! He’s the only one I’ve got.”
“Well, if his feet are clean, he can come in too,”
said motherly Mrs. Stone, with a very tender feeling
tor the boy who had no friend but a dog.
“Thank you,” said the boy, “he’s always clean, 10
never gets in the dirt—not he ! ” and he laid his arm
fcndly over the dog, who wagged his tail to show his
love for his little master, but kept hungry eyes on the
plate Mrs. Stone still held in her hand.
“ Bless my soul!” said that kind woman, “if that
dog don’t most speak ! he couldn’t ask plainer if he was
human! Here ]o-—” she went on. “You shall have
this,” and she set the plate down before him.
jo looked at his master who nodded at him, and
then rushed at the food with a will.

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FRANK AND JO.



The boy followed Mrs. Stone into the house, and
50m: had as much bread and milk as he could eat.
During the meal, Mrs. Stone asked many questions,
and found out that his name was Frank, that his fa-
ther and mother were both dead, and he had been
wandering about some time—“ years and years,” he
said. The dog had been his father’s, and with the
clothes he had on, was all that Frank had in the world.
While they were talking, the farmer came in from
his evening work, with two big pails of milk in his
hands.
“Why mother!” he said heartily, “ who have you 4
here ? ”
“A little fellow with no home, John,” said his wife,
“ I’ve given him some supper.” a
“Is that your dog?” asked the farmer of Frank.
“ Yes sir,” was the reply.
“Don’t you want to sell him to me?" asked the
man, “ he looks like a good one, and I’ve been sorely
troubled with chicken thieves lately.”
“ Sell Jo ! ” exclaimed Frank excitedly, “why I
couldn’t do that! He’s all I have got. Oh poor Jo!”
and he hurried to the door, and put his arm over the dog,
as though to keep him safe. “ I couldn’t part with Jo.”
“ Well, I don’t urge it,” said the kind-hearted far-
mer, “ but I like his looks, and I want a dog.”
“ Well, good bye, and thank you very much,” said
Frank, hastily starting off as though he didn’t feel
quite safe about Jo.




FRANK AND 10.
W“

“ Here!” called Mrs Stone, “don’t be in a hurryl
where do you sleep to-night ? ”
“ Oh most anywhere,” said the boy, “ by a hay,
stack’s a nice place, and Jo’s real warm.”
“Well wait,” went on Mrs. Stone, “you may sleep
here if you want to, and I’ll give you some breakfast
besides. I can make up a bed in the shed,” she said
to her husband.
“ To be sure, mother,” said he, and Frank gladly
trudged back.
A comfortable and blanket were soon made ready
for him, and Frank and Jo retired to the shed for a
’ long night’s sleep.
“Now Jo,” said Frank, seating himself on an old
chest, and taking from his pocket a piece of his supper
which he had saved for the dog. “ \Vhat do you say
for your supper? ” .
Jo sat up and looked longingly at the bread, and
answered by a sort of growling bark. Frank fed him
thus, mouthful by mouthful, till all was eaten, and then
the two friends laid down together, and were soon fast
asleep.
In the night Frank was aroused by a growl from
Jo, and sitting up, he found that he was snuffing about
the door, and asking to get out. Remembering what
the farmer had said about thieves, and knowing that
Jo wouldn’t run away from him, Frank hastily undid
the fastening and let him out. He bounded off into




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FRANK AND JO.

the darkness, and Frank lay down again, leaving the
door open.
When he woke in the morning, Jo was standing
near, and on the ground beside him, dead, was a:
strange animal.
“Did you kill him, Jo?” asked Frank. Jo wagged
his tail. Frank took it up and went to the house,
which was already open.
“Why, where did you get that weasel?” exclaimed
the farmer, as soon as he saw him.
“Jo got him in the night,” said the boy, proudly,
“Jo’s a good one for rats and such.”
“Well I declare ! ” said the farmer, “that’s my chick;
en thief, and I can’t spare that dog. _ I say boy, I’ll
make you an offer. Mother’n I’ve been talking it over,
and we thought we’d ask you if you’d like to live with
us. We’re getting on in years, and haven’t chick nor
child, and I’m wanting a pair of young hands to help
a little. You can be useful to both of us, and we’ll do
what’s right by you. Will you stay?”
Would he stay? The joy that came into his face
as the thought of a home grew in him, was answer
enough, but he spoke, though tears ran down his face
as he did so.
“Oh I’ll work for you every minute, and so will Jo.
I’ll do everything I can, and I can do lots of things,
and learn more too. Oh—”
But words failed him. Something was the matter
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FOR MOTHER.



with the old people too, Mr. Stone cleared his throat
and blew his nose furiously, and Mrs. Stone bent over
the pancakes she was cooking.
That’s all about Frank, the homeless wanderer.
The life of Frankie Stone, the dear adopted son, began
that very day, and today he is the comfort and stay
of two old people, and Jo grows old with honor. v
OLIVE THORNE.

FoR MOTHER.
_, ALLO, Jack! Where now?”
’ “ Fishing !
“Let the old fish go!”
“ Come, let’s go and see
VValter’s new boat.”
“I’d like to, tip-top, but
can’t do it no way, Ed.”
“Why not, I’d like to
know?”
“Mother’s sick and can’t
work, so I have to earn more now.”
“She won’t starve, I guess, if you do play a little
once in a while.”
“I don’t intend she shall starve, or Bess and Rex
either, if I can help it,” answered Jack, bravely


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FUR MOTHER.

“Well, if I was going to do anything, I’d do some
thing cleaner. Fish are awful dirty things. Look at
your clothes! ”
“O I know I can’t dress as you do. But what
of that! I do it for moi/zen And I’d do ten times
as hard things for her. Hasn’t she worked just
as hard as she could, ever since father died, to keep
me to school? I’d be a pretty fellow to run off and
leave her now she’s sick! No, I’m going to stick to
mother, and Bess, and lame Rex, for all anything.”
“I’d run off and leave them to shift for themselves,
if I stood in your shoes, Jack.”
“ If you stood in my shoes—perhaps so. But you
don’t—and morefn that, I hope you never will,” cried
Jack, hotly. Then in softer tones, ‘,‘Do you s’pose,
Ed, I can ever forget what father told me just before
he died? He said, ‘Do everything you can for
your mother.’ And I’m going to. Come, Ready!”
Jack whistled to his dog, and both jumped into the
boat. They were soon far away from the little wharf
upon which Ed was standing.
jack had unusually good luck that day. Coming
up the harbor, he said to his dog, “Can’t anybody beat
us in the fish line, can they, Ready? \Ve’ll astonish-
the boys this time.”
He had a chance to astonish them in an altogether
different way from what he intended, and that very
soon.
FOR MOTHER.

He had noticed a sailboat in the distance, and as
it came nearer he recognized his schoolmates Ed and
\Valter. Jack was not a bit ashamed of his boat-load,
so he took off his old hat and cheered Walter’s new
boat lustily.
They did not appear anxious to return the compli-
ment, so Jack good-naturedly turned his face towards
home again. His mind was too busy calculating what
his fish would turn him, and what he could get for
mother and the children, to be at all envious.
But his calculations were brought to a sudden
close, by the cry of, “Help! help! Hurry, Jack! We
shall drown!”
He recognized Ed’s voice instantly. jack was a
natural-born sailor, and his boat was quickly turned
and going to the rescue with all the speed his young,
strong arms could impart.
“Seize him, Ready!” he cried to his dog when he
saw Walter’s head disappearing. The dog sprang to
aid one, and Jack as quickly aided the other. Both
were at last safe in the old fishing-boat; but it was a
narrow escape for Walter.
“How happened it?” asked jack, as soon as Ed
could speak.
“The old thing tipped over. Fact is, Walter ain’t
much of a sailor.”
“Nor you either," was Jack’s thought. He merely
said. “Lucky for you I went fishing after all.’


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FOR MOTHER.

“That’s so! Catch me to say anything against
fishing again! Why, I never was so glad to see any
body in all my life, as I was to see you when you
turned your boat round so quickly. That’s about the
neatest thing you ever did, Jack.”
“Didn’t care if I did smell fishy, did you?
“Not a bit. Shouldn’t have cared if you’d been
covered with fish-scales from head to foot.”
Jack laughed. “You will be if you lay there on
those fish much longer. ’Twon’t improve your clothes,
Ed.”
“Never mind my clothes. And—jack—I’ll take
back what I said this morning. If you’d cared for fun
more’n for your mother, where’d we be now?”
“That’s so!”
“And—look here, Jack! I’ll bet father’ll take
’bout every one of these fish if I ask him; and pay a
good price, too.”
“Good for you, Ed! Then I’ll have enough to pay
the rent next week.”
“What he don’t want I’ll take,” spoke up Walter
in a faint voice, “and I’ll give as much as he does.”
“Hurrah! Mother shall have a new dress, and
Bess, too. And Rex a new jacket” exclaimed Jack
joyfully. _
“If you don’t have enough to get those dresses af=
ter you’ve paid the rent, just let us know,” said Ed as
he stepped from the boat.
A
NAN AND HER MONEY.
But _Iack was not obliged to call upon his friends;
for that boat-load of fish brought an unusual amount
of money into his pocket.

HE wide, wide prairie was the home
of Nan Doble. I do not mean that
she lived out of doors all the time;
but she did almost.
Now don’t laugh at Nan when I
tell you that she was almost as black
,, a. as a little Indian. She gained the
“u tan in a good cause. She was one
of those restless little mortals who always want to do
something. And as sister Sara helped mamma in the
house, Nan thought she ought to help papa in the
field.
“ I’ll be your boy,” she said to him one morning.
“Very well. Come out and drop corn, and I’ll give
you five cents a row.”
“Will you?” cried Nan, dancing for joy. "' I’ll buy
some flower seeds, then. And I’ll plant them all round
the house, so mamma can see flowers from every win;
dow.”


NAN AND HER MONEY.

Papa thought Nan would soon tire of her bargain.
But she was resolute and persevering as well as rest~
less. And the cents began to count up. When she
had one hundred her father took them and gave her a
dollar bill. This she laid carefully between the leaves
of her Bible, where she could see that it was safe when
she read her morning verse.
The rows were rather short, but there happened to
be a great many of them. Nan thought the shape of
the field just perfect; for it soon enabled her to change
her cents for another bill. This also was placed in her
Bible.
Now she began to make out a list of seeds. Quite
an undertaking for little Nan; but she wanted to do
it herself, so declined all offers of help from Sara.
She worked over it for weeks. Every day she would
think of something new; and the list being already of
sufficient length, she was obliged to rewrite it quite
often. _
All the while the cents were collecting; for after
several fields of corn were planted, Nan was ready to
drop other things. She loved dearly to work with pa-
pa, never caring a bit if her face did grow browner and
browner.
Stores were not very plenty on the prairie, so Nan
had to wait for her flower seeds until papa could get
time to go to the next village.
He was going next week; but alas for poor Nan l


NAN AND HER MONEY.

He was taken sick and was unable to leave his bed
when the time came. Nan could do without flower
seeds, but she thought she couldn’t do without papa.
All her spare time was spent in planning what she
could do for him with her money.
If she could only go to the store, she was sure she
could find something to make him well. At last a
neighbor gave her the desired opportunity; and she
went to her little Bible for her precious five dollars.
She was ready to spend all if necessary.
As she opened it, her eye fell upon this verse, “Ask,
and it shall be given unto you.” All the way she was
very quiet, thinking of these words. She wondered if
God would give her just the right thing for papa, if
she asked him.
More than one earnest little prayer arose from
Nan’s heart ere she reached the straggling village. '
Entering the store, she held out her money, saying,
“Can I buy anything to make papa well for this, Mr.
Lincoln?”
“What do you want, Nan?”
“Have you any medicine or anything for sick
folks?”
“.We don’t deal in such things exactly. But—let
me see? Won’t lemons do? I have a few, and lemons
ade is a nice, cool drink.”
“ 0 yes, I remember now! I heard papa say
something about lemons; only he didn’t know where
he could get any.”
('14
NAN AND HER MONEY. i l



“Well, I hadn’t any yesterday, and very likely I
sha’n’t to-morrow. Want a dozen?”
“I’ll take two dozen, if I have money enough:”
and Nan held out the bills again.
Mr. Lincoln laughed. “Five dollars will more
than pay for all the lemons in the store. I’ll take one
dollar for the two dozen. Anything more?”







“Not unless I can buy something more for papa,”
; _ . answered Nan, looking anxiously at the money in her
! hand.
“Nothing for yourself—no candy?”

SAD LITTLE SAY.

r.
“Not to-day,” replied the sober little girl, who by
the way was a great lover of candy. “ Perhaps papa’l
want something else.”
Nan was well paid when she heard her father say,
“just what I wanted! I didn’t expect any, for Mr.
Lincoln seldom keeps them.”
“I think God sent them there just the right time
for you, papa.”
“Yes, and I think He sent my Nan there to-day
with her loving heart, also.”
LAURIE LORING

SAD LITTLE SAY.
By the lonely sea,
Sad little Say
Spends the weary hours
Day after day.
Vain the hope to see
From waters blue,
Rising to greet Say
Her papa, true.
SAD LITTLE SAY
51" C M— ___,“



She remembers well
The morning bright:
é‘apa sailed away
At early light.


Never more to land
Came papa, dear.
Mamma soon joined Only Say here.
Thus sad little Say
W atches the sea,
Longing, yet knowing
It cannot be...


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