Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

When Jacko had become advanced in years he was fortunate enough to have a permanent home with his master, who had also retired from the travelling show business. In his quiet home he had a chance to meditate on what he had learned, and he became so wise that everybody called him Judge Jacko.

When the cats presented their case, he put on his wig and spectacles as emblems of his judgeship, and procured the pantry scales in which to weigh the cheese. They sat quietly down before him and anxiously awaited his decision.

He broke the cheese in two parts and placed a lump in each end of the scale.

"This lump outweighs the other," said he, "justice must be done. I will bite off enough to make them equal," and so he took the lump out and nibbled at it a long time, and when he put it in the scale the opposite end was the heavier; and he took out that lump and bit off a large piece to make it equal to the other. Thus he continued to eat, first one and then the other, till the cats saw but little would be left for them, and they cried: "Hold, hold! Give us our shares and we will be satisfied."

"If you are satisfied, justice is not," replied Judge Jacko. "I must make this division equal," and he kept on nibbling at the cheese.

"Give us what is left!" cried one of the cats, jumping up quickly, and earnestly looking the judge in the face.

"What is left belongs to me," replied the judge. "I must be paid for my services in this difficult case."

He then devoured the last piece, and said:--

"Justice is satisfied, and the court is dismissed."

The hungry cats went back to the barn wiser than when they came.

They had learned that ill-gotten gains are unprofitable, and that they should never employ the dishonest to adjust their difficulties. They also learned another lesson:--

"The scales of the law are seldom poised till little or nothing remains in either."

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PICTURES IN THE FIRE.

Have you noticed, little children,
When the fire is burning low,
As the embers flash and darken,
How the pictures come and go?
Strange the shapes, and strange the fancies,
As beyond the bars you gaze,
Bringing back some olden mem'ries,
Thoughts of half-forgotten days!

There's the Church across the meadows,
Shadow'd by the spreading yew;
There's the quaintly-carven pulpit,
And the olden oaken pew.
Changed the scene, and on the ocean
Sails a ship amid the spray;
'Tis the one you watch'd departing,
When some lov'd-one went away!

Yes! and there are faces plenty,
Faces dear, both old and young
And they cause you to remember
Words their lips oft said or sung.
Fancy even brings the voices,
Tho' they may be far away;
Only pictures, only fancies,
Yes! but very sweet are they!

Little Children, let me tell you
Tis yourselves who shape the scene!
In your minds a memory lingers,
And it peeps the bars between!
If you doubt me, choose a subject,
Any one you may desire,
And you will, by dint of looking,
Find its picture in the fire!

E. Oxenford.

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HASTY CHARLIE.

Charlie never could wait. It was no use telling him "more haste less speed," "slow and sure," or anything of that kind. You might as well talk to the winds. He scrambled up in the morning, scurried over the parts of his toilet that he was trusted to do for himself, hurried over his breakfast, rushed through his lessons, with many mistakes of course, and by his hasty, impatient behavior worried his quiet, gentle little sister Ethel nearly out of her wits, and almost drove patient Miss Smith, the governess, to despair. He burnt his mouth with hot food, because he couldn't wait for it to cool; fell down-stairs, racing down, times out of number; his toys were always getting broken because he couldn't stop to put them away; his canary flew away because he, fuming with impatience about something, neglected to fasten the cage door one day; and indeed space would fail to tell of all the troubles he brought upon himself by his perpetual, heedless haste.

There were some exceptions to this general state of things. He didn't hurry to begin his lessons,--nor to go to bed. Here he would wait as long as you liked to let him. One thing he was obliged to wait for, sorely against his will, and that was to grow up. It did take such a long time, and oh, the things he meant to do when once he was a man! Father hoped he would alter a great deal before that time came, for, as he told him, a hasty, impatient man makes other people unhappy and cannot be happy himself.

Charlie meant to have a balloon when he grew up, and a sweet-stuff shop, an elephant, a garden full of apples and plums, a tall black horse, and a donkey.

"You needn't wait so long for the donkey," Father said one day. "I have seen a boy with two nice donkeys in Pine-tree Walk; when you and Ethel have been good children at your lessons, Miss Smith shall let you ride them, and when you can ride nicely I will buy you each a donkey of your own."

Lessons certainly went better after this, and the rides were much enjoyed on every fine day, though timid little Ethel was always just a wee bit afraid at first starting. Miss Smith always safely mounted Ethel first.

"Wait a minute, Charlie!" she said one day, when he was pulling and tugging impatiently at Neddie's bridle, "we'll have you up directly."

But Charlie couldn't wait: he dragged the donkey into the road and scrambled upon its back.

"Charlie! Charlie! you mustn't start without us. Wait a minute!"

"I can ride by my own self now," he said; and jerking the bridle, off he went clattering down the road, the donkey-boy after him.

To mount a donkey is one thing, to manage him another, especially if you don't know how. On galloped Neddie, and after having knocked down a little girl and upset a barrow of fruit, he pitched Charlie over his head, and having thus got rid of his rider began to enjoy himself on the grass. Poor Charlie! He had such a bruised face that he was obliged to stay at home for days.

Miss Smith couldn't take him out like that. It hurt him very much, but it hurt him more when Father said that such a silly, impatient boy was not fit to be trusted to ride, and that he must wait a whole year before he could be allowed to mount a donkey again. "For your own sake, Charlie, and for other people's."

The little girl he had knocked down was more frightened than hurt; but Charlie was very sorry, for he was not at all an ill-natured boy; and when he was at home by himself, while Ethel went for her donkey-rides, he had plenty of time to think things over, and made a good use of it. At first he found it very hard to be patient, but after a little while he found it becoming much easier to wait, and every time he tried it became easier still.

Next summer, when Father gave him and Ethel the promised donkeys, he said, "I am proud to trust you now, Charlie, and hope that you will have some happy times with your Neddie."

And very happy times they had.

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JOHNNIE'S DICTATION.

"There now, dear, run away, and make haste, or you'll be late to school, and that will never do."

Little Johnnie Strong obediently gathered his books together, and with an effort to keep back the tears that were filling his eyes, held up his face for a last kiss.

"Good-by, then, mother dear, and I'll try to be brave and remember what you've been saying. I'll just do the very best I can, and perhaps I shall be able to manage it after all."

"That's my brave little man, now; good-by, dearie." And Johnnie was gone.

Very often Mrs. Strong and Johnnie had little talks at breakfast-time about his troubles, and he used to say it helped him through the day to remember his mother's loving words. The conversation with which this story began was the end of one of these talks. It was getting near examination time, and Johnnie had been trying very hard to catch up with the other boys in his spelling and writing. Sums he could manage now pretty well, and he read very fairly; but it seemed to him he should _never_ be able to spell properly. "Thousands of words," he would say, despairingly, "and no two spelt alike." However, he went off to school very bravely, and his determination to do the best he could was a wonderful help.

He got on very well that morning until the time came for "dictation," and then poor Johnnie's troubles began. He knew there were boys in his class very little better at spelling than he, who copied from their neighbors whenever a word was given out that they could not spell; but Johnnie was above doing that. It was cheating and deceiving, and he would rather every word of his exercise were wrong than be a cheat. But that morning he was sorely tempted. He thought there had never been such a hard piece of dictation; and when Jimmy Lane, who sat next to him, tried to help him by whispering the letters of one very hard word, it required some courage to ask him to stop.

At the end of the lesson the boys had to pass their books up to the teacher for inspection, and Johnnie's worst fears were realized when his book came back with ever so many words marked in blue pencil.

While the teacher was finishing marking the exercises, the master's bell sounded, and the boys were dismissed for a few minutes' run in the playground; but Johnnie was obliged to stay behind to learn to spell correctly the words he had blundered over. Poor Johnnie! It was very hard for him to have to stay there, trying to fix in his mind the fact that "Receive" is spelt with the E before the I, and "Believe" with the I before the E, while every other boy of the school was outside, enjoying the games in which he delighted as much as any of them.

Not quite every other boy though. There was one other prisoner besides himself--Will Maynard, and he had to stay behind because he couldn't always remember to _pay back_ when he _borrowed_! Not that he was by any means dishonest--it was only when he had a subtraction sum to do that he got into this difficulty!

Johnnie and he were not chums, but, somehow, when they had the whole school to themselves they couldn't sit on forms ten yards apart--it seemed so very unsociable and unfriendly. So Will brought his slate over to Johnnie, and they were soon busily discussing the difficulties of sums and spelling.

Although Will was a good deal the older, he was not nearly so clever at sums as Johnnie, and, moreover, he was not too proud to accept the help that Johnnie rather timidly offered. They soon settled the difference between the various rows of obstinate figures, and Will laid down his slate with a sigh of relief and a grateful "Thank you, Johnnie. Now," he continued, "let's have a go at your spelling."

By this time they began to feel quite warm friends--for it is wonderful how quickly a little mutual help creates feelings of friendship. Together they went over the mis-spelt words, and, with Will to help and encourage, Johnnie soon felt quite sure that the spelling of the particular words of that morning's exercise would never trouble him again.

They had scarcely finished their work when the big school-bell sounded, and the boys all came trooping in. Will had to go back to his place, but he left a very light-hearted little boy behind him, for Johnnie and he had vowed life-long friendship, and sums and spelling seemed to have lost all their terrors for both of them.

When Johnnie arrived home from school he could talk of nothing but Will Maynard, and Will, for his part, voted Johnnie "a jolly little chap." Many a time after that day did they help each other, and when it was reported after the examination that they had both passed, each declared he must have failed without the other's help.

They are firm friends still, and are likely to remain so; and whenever a difficulty occurs, in school or out, they always tackle it together; for, as Johnnie says, "A difficulty shared is only half a difficulty."

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T'IS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE FINE BIRDS.

She was a lady with pins in her hair On a funny old Japanese fan. He was a proud bit of Chinese ware In the shape of a Mandarin man.

She sighed, when she saw him appear on the shelf, For she thought of her shabby old frock. She said "Oh! I know he will scorn an old fan, As he comes of a very proud stock."

The Mandarin sneered as he took a front place, But his pride had a fall when he found, That the fan was dispatched to a very grand show, For her beauty and age were renowned!

So we'll leave him alone on his shelf while he thinks, With a large diminution of pride, "It is not the feathers that make the fine bird, But the worth of the bird that's inside!"

Horatia Browne.

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ELSIE'S FAULT.

Elsie Hayden would have been a charming little maiden but for her besetting fault--talebearing. She was always running in to tell her mother or governess the faults of the others. All day long it was, "Mamma, Rex took some currants," "Mamma, Minnie blotted her copy this morning," "Mamma, the boys have been quarrelling," or some other complaint concerning her companions. Before long Elsie was to go to school, and her mother knew what troubles lay before her if she persisted in looking out for motes in the eyes of others, and forgetting all about the beams in her own. She got Elsie to work a text in silks, "Speak not evil one of _another_," and she told the child that if we feel it is our duty to complain of somebody else, we should be very careful to speak only the _truth_, and in _love_.

One day Elsie came to her mother in great distress.

"Mamma," she sobbed, "they won't play with me; the others have all sent me to Coventry. They whisper 'tell-tale-tit' when I go near them; please make them play with me, mamma. It is so horrid to be left all alone."

"But Elsie," said Mrs. Hayden, "you have brought this trouble on yourself. When you play with the others you seem always on the lookout to find fault with them; how can you suppose they will enjoy a game with a little tale-bearer? Miss Clifford and nurse and I have kept an account of the tales you have carried to us, complaining of the others, and our lists added together make 352 complaints in one week!"

"Oh, mamma--I _haven't_ been a tale-bearer 352 times in a week!"

"It is so indeed, my poor little Elsie. I am sadly afraid you will grow up a scandal-monger, one of those people who go from house to house spreading tales and making mischief. You must try hard, my darling, to cure this fault; remember your _own_ failings, and let the faults of your playmates alone. Poor little Minnie came crying this morning to confess to me she had called you by an unkind name which I had forbidden; but she found you already complaining about her, and trying to get her punished. It was not kind or sisterly, Elsie! Let _love_ rule that little tongue, and be silent when those impatient complaints come into your mind."

"I will try, mamma--I will indeed. Will you keep another list for _next_ week, and see if I am any better?"

Mrs. Hayden promised to do so, and the result showed that Elsie had been a tale-bearer ten times only during the week. The child tried very hard to cure herself of fault-finding, and she was soon "out of Coventry," and as time went on nobody on seeing her sang the rhyme about "tell-tale-tit."

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WINTER.

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

"Shakespeare"

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THE STOLEN CHERRIES.

Long ago I read a story of some boys who stole some cherries, and, try what they might, the cherry stones were always turning up and reminding them of their wickedness. It was a good thing for their consciences that they could not forget what they had done; it is a dreadful thing to do evil and then care nothing about it.

Do you know what is the best thing that can happen to you if you do wrong? To get found out. To conceal a sin is worse than you may suppose; confess to God and man, and pray for forgiveness. We get vexed with the little birds sometimes when they spoil our fruit; what do you think of Dick Raynor and Willie Abbot who robbed a poor widow's orchard, and took away the cherries that she would have sold to pay her rent? Day by day the little thieves had a feast in that orchard, and nobody guessed who stole the cherries; but there was One Who saw and knew all about the matter. The rent was not paid, and the widow was turned out of her cottage; Dick and Willie grew to be rich men by and by, and they could have paid her rent over and over again, but it was too late then--the aged woman had passed away.

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MY SWEETHEART'S ILL TO-DAY.

My sweetheart's ill to-day,
Her mates around her linger;
She cannot go and play,
A pin has pricked her finger!

A little ache, my dear,
But not a scrap of sorrow;
At worst, perhaps, a tear,
And all forgot to-morrow.

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MAUD'S NEW SKIPPING-ROPE.

"Books, books, books! I think you will turn into a book yourself some day, Phil."

"Wait till I have finished this chapter, Maud, and then I will go out with you."

"That is always what you say," said Maud: "just a chapter, just a page, and the time goes."

Philip turned over another page.

"Only two more, Maud. Do go. I shall read faster if you do not talk to me. And then I will come,

And you shall see with your eyes of blue
What a nice surprise I have got for you."

Maud went away slowly, and when she had reached the door she turned to say,--

"Be quick, Philip."

And then she went and put on her garden hat and went into the garden, down the walk between the currant bushes to a piece of waste ground grown over with short grass, that she called her playground, for here she could run about, and jump, and skip, and hop, and try to walk upon stilts, and do all sorts of things; and the gardener did not find fault, as he did if she skipped in the garden walks, and knocked off a flower here and there.

"I wonder what the surprise is," said Maud, as she sat down on a bench to wait for Philip.

Before long she saw him coming along, holding his arms behind him. It was plain he had got something he did not want her to see.

As he came nearer to her, he called out--

"Three guesses, Maud. What have I got in my hand?"

"Oh, I don't know. Is it a parcel?"

"Yes, it is a brown paper parcel; but what is in it? That is one guess. Now guess again."

"Is it a wax doll with curly hair?"

"No, not quite so large as that."

"Not so large? then is it a small thing? I have lost my thimble, and I've broken my china cup, so perhaps you have brought me one. Stop, stop; I have not had my third guess yet. Let me see: I gave my skipping-rope to Sally Brown. Oh, Phil, is it a skipping-rope?"

Philip laughed.

"Yes," said he, "it is a skipping-rope with fine painted handles. It is the prettiest I could find in the shop."

And Philip opened the parcel.

"Oh, what a beauty!" said Maud; "it is far prettier than mine was. And what nice rope! Oh, Phil, how good of you!"

"Well, now let me see if you can skip with it," said Philip, giving it into her hands.

And Maud began to skip.

"It is splendid," said she; "it almost skips of itself. I never skipped with such a skipping-rope before. It is the thing I wanted most, Philip. How came you to think of it?"

"Why," said Philip, "that was not very hard. You gave your rope to little Sally because she was a poor little girl, and her mother could not buy one for her. So I thought it was the best present I could give you, and the best surprise, and I took a walk into Linton to the toy-shop there, and though I saw all sorts of toys, I only asked for skipping-ropes, and I bought the prettiest that the shop-keeper had to sell. I am glad you like it."

"Yes, I like it very much. I could skip all day with it."

"Well, don't do that, for I want to have a hopping-race with you, and then we will try the new jump. Where is it?"

"It is just at the end of the playground, over hurdles. They are not very high, and I think I can jump over them. I know you can, and now that you are here I will try."

And Maud put her skipping-rope into the brown paper, and laid it on the bench.

"We will hop down to the hurdles, and then we will have a grand jumping-match," said Philip.

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AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.

Patty was fifteen when she left home for the first time to pay a visit to her Aunt Martha in London. Patty's home was in the country (for her father was a farmer), so she was very eager to see all the wonders of London. Her father drove her into the market-town very early on the morning of her departure, and as it was a very busy day with him, he was obliged to leave her in the coach office all by herself, as the London coach was not expected to start for half an hour. Patty kissed her father with tears in her eyes, and he blessed her; and telling her to be a good girl and "not learn silly town ways," he strode off, whip in hand, towards the market-place, leaving Patty alone with her possessions.

They were not many--a leathern trunk that held all her wardrobe, a basket of flowers that hid a dozen of the largest and freshest eggs from her mother's poultry-yard, and last--to Patty's extreme annoyance--a doll that her mother had insisted on making and sending to little Betsy, Aunt Martha's youngest child. Patty herself had not long passed the age for loving dolls, and was, therefore, all the more sensitive on the subject; so when the coach came thundering into the yard, and she was called to take her place by a man who addressed her as "Little Missy," she was ready to shed tears of vexation. Patty had to remember her mother's words, to "take great care of the doll, as it had been a lot of trouble to make," otherwise she might have been tempted to leave it behind, or let it drop out of the coach window.

Windsor was passed after a time, then Staines, and as the twilight came on the coach was going at a good pace, with the last rays of sunset to the left behind it, and the dark stretch of Hounslow Heath, with its dismal gallows, in front. Suddenly the coach stopped, and was surrounded by three men on horseback, armed with pistols, their faces hidden behind black crape masks. The ladies screamed, the men turned pale and trembled, the guard made a faint show of resistance, but was at once overpowered; the driver looked on with apparent indifference while the coach was ransacked.

Patty had nothing worth taking--neither watch, jewels, nor money; but when asked by one of the men what she had, she held out the doll, almost hoping that he might take it, but he only laughed loudly. In a short time the coach was allowed to proceed on its way, Patty being the only traveller who had not been robbed.

Very glad was Patty to see her uncle's kind face when the coach stopped in London at the end of its journey, and great was the excitement when it became known that they had been attacked by the way. When Patty told the story of the highwaymen to her aunt, and how she had offered them her doll, Aunt Martha gave a cry of horror.

"La, child; you were nearer the truth than you knew!" she said; and taking a pair of scissors, she cut the stitches that held together the rag body of the doll, and there fell out some golden guineas on the table, that the farmer had sent to his sister to pay for his Patty while she was in London.

Patty enjoyed her visit to London, and came home again quite safely, as did the doll, which Patty asked if she might keep in remembrance of that eventful journey.

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BIRTHDAYS.

Laura had a birthday last week, and asked some children to have tea with her, and we went, but I don't think any of us enjoyed it one bit. Etty and I went, and our governess, Miss Ashton, went too; and we were very glad of that, for we like Miss Ashton, and she takes care of us, because Etta isn't very strong. Laura has no brothers or sisters, poor thing! so she doesn't know how to behave; and Miss Ashton tells us we ought to be sorry for her, and so we are, only she needn't be _quite_ so disagreeable.

Laura was very grandly dressed. She had a new cream muslin hat on, and a frock with puffs and things on the sleeves, and all worked about in that pretty pattern Etty likes so much. Then she had on a pale-green sash, and thin bronze shoes, and white silk socks. You never saw anything so silly! We went with Miss Ashton and Miss Morris--that's Laura's governess--into a field and played games; but Laura was so disagreeable, she kept on saying, "But it's _my_ birthday!" if any one else suggested a game, and she wouldn't think of anything nice herself.

At last Miss Morris suggested _Oranges and Lemons_, and Laura thought she'd like that; so we began to play, Miss Ashton and Miss Morris holding hands for the arch. But Laura didn't like me to hold her by her frock, and when I held her sash it came undone, and she was angry, and said I hit her with a little twig I had in my hand, but that wasn't true. So, as she was cross, we all sat down till it was tea-time, and after that we went away. Etty and I _were_ glad to be home again.

I was telling mother all about it when we came home; for _my_ birthday was yesterday, and _I_ was to have a party too, and I didn't want Laura at my birthday party. Mother looked grave, and told me she wished Laura to be invited; and then I said--you see, I didn't think what I was saying--"But it's _my_ birthday, mother!" Then I saw Etty looking at me, and felt so ashamed, because it was just like Laura, of whom I had been complaining. Mother wasn't angry: she only said she hoped I would set Laura a better example, and let her see that people should not be selfish, even on their birthdays.

Well, my party was yesterday. Etty and I _did_ work hard, and we had lots of games, and took it in turns to choose them; but I forgot all about setting Laura a good example until everybody said good-by, and told us how much they had enjoyed it. Laura threw her arms round my neck when she said good-by. She didn't say anything else until she got outside the door, then she put in her head to tell us, "Next time you come to tea, Georgy, you and Etty shall choose _all_ the games!"

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A MOTHER'S PROPHECY.

"Well, children, have you been good at school?" inquired their mother, as Lina and Marie ran gleefully up the path.

"Oh, so good!" promptly answered Marie, clapping her fat little hands as if to applaud her own virtue. "We danced in a ring till Dolly was so giddy I had to sit down."

"Poor Dolly!" said Mrs. Wolf.

"Oh! she'll be better soon," said Marie cheerfully. "She's lying back because she's faint--at least, she says so; but I do believe the real reason is she likes it better than being at the bottom of the bag."

"Very likely she does," said Mrs. Wolf, smiling at Marie's speech, for the little four-year-old girl quite believed her doll felt things as she did. Then turning to Lina, "And what have you done, my darling?"

Lina was seven years old, and could read and write nicely, and was in a higher form in the school than Marie, whose school-work was, very properly, mostly play.

"We did a new sort of lesson to-day, mother," said Lina. "See!" and she handed a book to her mother, who stooped down to be on a level with the little scholar.

"Open it at page forty-six, please, mother."

"Yes; here it is, but it is only a picture of a rabbit," said Mrs. Wolf.

"That is right," said Lina: "we all looked at that picture, and then we had to shut the book and write what we could about The Rabbit. And the little girl next me put, 'The rabbit moves his nose when he eats;' and that was all she wrote. We did so laugh when she had to read it out."

"A very short essay, certainly," said Mrs. Wolf, laughing also; "still, it is strictly true, and that is something. But what did my little Lina write?"

"I'll show you, mother," said Lina; and, with a deep blush on her face, she drew her slate carefully out of her bag. "The mistress was pleased with it, and told me I might show it to you."

Lina's slate had on it a really spirited little sketch of two rabbits, and Mrs. Wolf was both surprised and delighted.

"Did you do this, Lina?" she asked, as she drew the little artist to her.

"I couldn't think of anything to write," said Lina shyly; "I never can; so I drew the rabbits instead."

"My darling," said her mother earnestly, "if you work hard you might one day be a great artist--I feel sure of it."

Mrs. Wolf's words came true in after years. Lina is now a well-known painter, and honors not a few have fallen to her share.

But that day in the garden, when mother first prophesied that she would be an artist, is still the day that Lina loves most to recall. "It was mother's praise that made an artist of me," she always declares.

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THE CAPTAIN

by F. Wyville Home.

I.

I should like to be the captain of a great big ship, And to take her out a sailing for a long sea trip. I would visit all the islands of the hot south seas, And the white and shining regions where the ice-bergs freeze.

II.

I would have a little cabin fitted up quite smart, With a swinging berth, a spyglass, and a deep sea chart, And beads to please the savages in isles far hence, And a parrot who can whistle tunes and talk good sense.

III.

When a storm of wind arises, and the great waves swell, We will scud along the billows like a blown foam-bell, When 'tis glassy calm beneath a sky without one fleck, I'll play a game of skittles on the calm smooth deck.

IV.

And if the crew should mutiny on some dark night, With my left I'd seize a cutlass and a pistol in my right, And I'd show them that their Captain has a right bold heart, And I'd make each man an officer that took my part.

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THE DOLL THAT TAUGHT A LESSON.

"Good-by, Annie dear; mind and take good care of Dorrie."

"Yes, mamma."

Ah! Annie, how easy it is to make a promise! A hearty kiss sealed it; then Mrs. Roby drove away in her carriage, and so our story begins.

Mamma gone out to spend the day, Annie left at home to take care of Dorrie, while nurse was cleaning the nurseries. Annie was six, Ralph, her brother, seven, Dorrie four, and the "funniest little puppet in all England," so Ralph said.

"Annie, I _do fink_ Mab could walk almost by herself with these boots on," said Dorrie, she and Annie back in the dining-room, Dorrie busy with a family of three dolls, Annie deep in a new story-book.

The wee mamma had just contrived to put a pair of new boots, of Annie's manufacturing, on the by no means elegant feet of shock-headed Mab. Next came the suggestion from silver-tongued Dorrie, as Annie was silent--

"I _fink_ Mab and Alice ought to go for a walk. Baby is just gone to sleep;" and the mite was laid carefully among the sofa cushions.

"Very well." Down went the book; with that promise just spoken, Annie could not well do other than go this walk with her little sister, yet in a listless, half-hearted way.

"You take the one hand, I the other;" so prattled Dorrie. "Oh! see her feet!" and certainly Miss Mab did trip it out right nimbly down to the gate. How Dorrie laughed, watching her.

Just outside the gate they met Ralph.

"What are you laughing at, old lady?" he asked.

"Because Mab can almost walk by herself," she told him.

"Then she'll be running away one of these days," said the boy.

"Oh! she wouldn't--she wouldn't run away from me, because I love her so;" and Dorrie stooped and gave her a sounding kiss.

"You just wait and see," was Ralph's answer; then he went on, and the sisters pursued their walk.

Back again, then dinner for the children, a long sleep for the dollies, and next, the golden afternoon to be lived through and enjoyed.

"Annie!" cried Dorrie, coming down from the nursery, and peering in at the dining-room, where Annie was now reading with a will, deep in the wildest tragedy of the story, where a dog, a gypsy, and a certain Sophia were playing their parts in real story-book fashion. "Annie!" so silvery-tongued Dorrie spoke her name again.

"Well, what?" was the unladylike answer from Annie.

"I _fink_ the dollies want to go out in their mail-cart."

"Well, take them."

"But I want you to come."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't; run away."

"Must I go alone?" asked Dorrie sadly.

"Yes, of course you must." And she went.

Shock-headed Mab, Alice, and Daisy in the jaunting mail-cart, Dorrie drawing it, playing pony and careful mamma all in one; out at the gate, along the road to the copse; a river came running and babbling along by the road, as one neared the copse. Inside the copse the doves were cooing, squirrels leaping, the cuckoo crying, as the mite went along. What would send her back? Not her baby conscience, for Annie had told her to go all by herself--big, big Annie, ever so big.

At home, the afternoon wore away, tea-time came; nurse ran down from the nursery to the dining-room to fetch her two little charges. Only Annie was there, who started up from her book, like a girl awaking from sleep.

"Why, Miss Annie, I thought Dorrie was here!" cried nurse, in surprise.

"No, she--she"--Annie's conscience gave her such a prick.

"She what?" inquired nurse sharply.

"She took the dolls out in the mail-cart, and"--how Annie bowed her head as conscience whispered of that promise to her mamma broken; and her poor troubled heart also whispered, "What if something sad was going to happen?"

Well, they sought the child here, there, and everywhere, little dreaming what had happened, what was happening still. At last Ralph started off, by the way of the copse, to look for her. Annie hurried in another direction, and nurse in yet another. Rover went with Ralph--good Rover, who could fetch, carry, and find so much. Oh, dear! what a seeking and searching love makes, when even one wee maiden is lost! Ay, lost--not a trace of her could Ralph and Rover find, till they came to the babbling river, and there, on the bank, lay a posy of lilies-of-the-valley, and a knot of ribbon from Dorrie's shoulder; the river babbled out the rest of the story. Poor Ralph! how he cried now!

"Dorrie! Dorrie!" he cried, peering down into the shining river, as if fearful of seeing a sun-bonnet and a gleaming of golden hair in its depths. But no; he saw nothing, only the minnows, the water-spiders, and the pebbles.

"Lost! Rover, find!" said he to the dog, showing him Dorrie's shoulder-knot and the flowers.

Rover seemed to understand, for he sniffed at the ground, and then bounded into the river, diving down, and no doubt frightening the fishes as much as he did Ralph. Presently he came out, bringing--ah! what? Mab, dripping, water-bedabbled--a pitiful object indeed. The boy took her in his hand, too alarmed to laugh, though fright and fun almost choked him; then the dog bounded and led the way into the copse, where the doves still cooed, the squirrels leaped, and the cuckoo cried, as if no small maiden was lost, perhaps never to be found again alive. The thought made Ralph shiver.

The river flowed through one corner of the copse; he could see it shining where the sunbeams fell through the tree branches. But Rover did not go that way: he dived away among the trees and undergrowth.

"Dorrie! Dorrie!" cried the little brother.

"Wow-wow-wow!" barked Rover, but at first no response.

Presently, "Wow-wow-wow!" barked Rover again; it was a joyful bark, and Ralph ran to him. There lay poor tired Dorrie fast asleep, the two remaining dolls in the mail-cart smiling and staring at her. But Rover woke her with a pat, Ralph hugged her with such a fond hug; then they started homeward, Ralph taking the mail-cart, with poor wet Mab mounted in disgrace behind, Dorrie clinging to his other hand. They reached home in time to go in with mamma, returned from her visit.

"I left my dollies to go into the copse to pick some flowers, and when I came back Mab had run away; then I went into the copse to find her, and couldn't; then I cried and went to sleep, and Rover found me." This was Dorrie's story of herself.

"I will never, never, never break a promise again, mamma!" said penitent Annie.

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ROSIE'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

It _was_ a disappointment! Mother looked gravely at the clouds, Nurse shook her head, and Father said it would never do for Rosie, who was not strong, to go to a picnic if the weather was doubtful.

And it was more than doubtful; for a sharp shower made the grass and the trees and the flowers look all the more beautiful to the poor child, who was longing for a day in the woods.

"Mother, I believe it will clear up later," she said, looking at the sky.

"I couldn't let you go, Rosie, for the grass would be wet."

"But I could sit on a rug."

"You couldn't walk on a rug, and the grass and underwood will be damp. I am very sorry, Rosie, and it is a great disappointment; but, indeed, it can't be helped." And Mrs. Seymour stooped to kiss her little girl.

At that moment a servant came to say that Miss Peters was in the drawing-room.

Miss Peters was a very rich lady, who lived all alone in a beautiful house about two miles away, and she had come to lend Mrs. Seymour some books, and ask her if she would go for a drive with her on the following day. Mrs. Seymour said she would be quite ready at the appointed time; and when they spoke of the weather she told her friend what a disappointment the rain had been to poor Rosie.

"Won't you let me take her home, Mrs. Seymour?" said Miss Peters. "I have the carriage here, and we could wrap her up in rugs; and I will bring her home this afternoon myself. Let me have her; I shall enjoy it; and there will be an end to your difficulties."

Mrs. Seymour was very glad, but wondered if Rosie would like it, as she was rather shy; but the little girl saw that it was the only arrangement by which her brothers could have all their fun, so she went with Miss Peters. She was a very grave little visitor, but Miss Peters was so kind that Rosie could not be shy for long; and then there was so much, so _very_ much, to see! The house was like a museum, the conservatory a fairyland, and the garden a paradise of loveliness.

The showers all passed away, and Rosie could run about on the terraces, where there were so many flowers that Miss Peters told her she might pick what she liked, and Rosie made a very pretty bunch to take home, which pleased her; and pleasanter still was Miss Peters's kiss as she said, looking at the modest little nosegay, "I am glad to see that you are not greedy, Rosie."

"Oh, that would be horrid when you are so kind!" said Rosie.

But what Rosie enjoyed most of all was that Miss Peters came out with her, and, calling Jacob, the old gardener, she went down to the lake and told him to get the boat ready, and then they went for a delightful row on the clear water. Rosie _was_ happy then; she did not want Miss Peters to talk to her, and was very glad that the lady had brought a book, though she did not read much of it, for she was steering.

The only time Rosie did speak was when the great swan went gliding by, and, lifting his wings, began to hiss at the boat in a rather alarming manner. Then Rosie did touch Miss Peters's arm, asking, "Will he hurt us?"

"No, dear; but we will not go very near that bank, as he has a nest there, and might be angry if he thought we were going to disturb the hen, who is sitting." And Miss Peters steered away from that end of the lake.

Altogether Rosie passed a very happy day, and Miss Peters was so pleased with her that when, after they had had tea together in the delightful room that opened into the conservatory, she brought the child home, she kissed her, saying, "Remember, Rosie, you must come and see me again. I hope you have not been _very_ unhappy at not being at the picnic!"

Rosie laughed and shook her head.

"I don't think I have been sorry at all," she said; "I have been very happy all the time, and I forgot about being disappointed."

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A PICNIC OF SEVEN.

We are the Smiths, and there are four of us, and next door to us live the Browns, and there are three of them, so we are seven, and we are great friends. We liked being seven better than being eight, because it's like the poem; and I think that was why we never would let Jim Batson join our party. He and his dog Pincher were always wanting to make friends with us; but we told him there were enough of us without him, and then he would go away, but only to come back another day and try again.

When the spring weather came this year we made a delightful plan with the Browns that on Saturday we would go into the park, which was a mile off, and have games under the trees. When Saturday came it was a lovely day; so soon after breakfast we started out, all seven of us, with our dinners in our pockets. Willie Brown had the drum, and I had the trumpet, and a fine noise we made, almost frightening our little Sissy, who had to come because Mother was busy, and Bessie was minding Sissy, and we couldn't have any fun without Bessie. Charlie put on an old ragged coat, because Mother says he destroys everything; but Arthur and Patty Brown looked very nice, and we made Patty the queen, and we were her band playing to her.

Then all at once Jim Batson came out from among the trees with his dog (who was held by a string because of the game), and when we saw them we all shouted at Jim to go away. Bessie _did_ ask me if it didn't seem unkind; but we wouldn't listen to her and sent him away, telling him not to sneak about near us. So he went off without a word.

We weren't very happy after that, for Arthur turned cross, and wouldn't speak to any one; but the worst of all was when Willie dropped one of the drumsticks into the river as we were crossing the plank. The river is very deep in parts, and none of us could swim, so we could only follow the stick as it floated along, and hope that it might catch in some weeds in a shallow part. But as we ran by the river we came on Jim and Pincher. Jim was sitting by the bank with his face hidden in his hands, and Pincher was just kissing him as hard as he could. Jim jumped up and began to move away when he saw us, but stopped to ask what was the matter when he saw Willie's face. As soon as he knew what it was, he took the string off Pincher's neck, and throwing a stone at the stick called, "Hie, Pincher! fetch it out!"

We _did_ feel uncomfortable as we saw Pincher bring the drumstick to shore quite safely, but Bessie helped us out splendidly. She held out her hand to Jim, and said, "Thank you so much; we're all very sorry for being so unkind. Please don't make us _more_ sorry by going away now."

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ELSIE'S PARTY.

Yes, it was a very nice party! There were cakes, and games, and sweets, and crackers--crackers with caps in them! And little Elsie enjoyed it all, and felt very grand in her embroidered muslin frock, with a yellow paper cap out of one of the said crackers perched on the top of her curly brown head. If only Alfy had been there to enjoy it all with her!

Alfy was her twin brother, and they always did everything together. But to-day poor Alfy must stop at home: he is ill, very ill, with "inflammation of the _tongue_," Elsie says, but the doctor calls it "lungs." Anyway, there is nothing the matter with Elsie's tongue; it wags fast enough, and she tells everybody about Alfy, and how ill he is. "But he is better to-day, and I shall bring him my 'tracker.'"

Elsie goes home quite laden with "trackers" and toys for Alfy, and is far more pleased with these than with anything for herself.

But when she gets home a disappointment awaits her. Alfy is asleep, fast asleep, and must on no account be disturbed, for sleep is his best medicine.

"But I want so to give him these things," and Elsie clasps tightly her armful of treasures.

"You shall give them him to-morrow," Mother promises, and Elsie has to be content.

When to-morrow dawns, Elsie can hardly wait to be dressed, so anxious is she to go to Alfy and present the soldier doll and the rest of the things.

Nurse is so slow this morning, Elsie really cannot wait; and whilst Nurse turns to the drawer to pull out her clean frock, Elsie toddles quickly out of the nursery, and runs to Alfy's room. She can hardly reach the door, but manages somehow to stand on tip-toe and turn the handle.

"There, Alfy! See!" she cries gayly, as she runs up to his cot. "All these are for you!"

Alfy is better, and quite able to enjoy his presents, which are spread out on his white quilt, and Elsie stands by, quite satisfied with his pleasure.

"What have _you_ got?" he asks at last, as, somewhat tired, he leans back on his pillows.

"Nothing," says Elsie promptly, "'cause I have the fun of giving, you know."

A simple answer, but one in which a great truth is hidden.

Are there not, in these hard times, some children who might learn the "fun," or rather the blessing, of giving?

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EASTERN TRAVEL.

On we file in a winding Caravan,
Caravan made of children and chairs.
Bold Arabs are we,
Adventurers free,
The chairs are our Camels: dried figs are our wares.

Over the hot desert sands we are travelling,
Travelling on to Cairo gates.
Rugs gathered in lumps
Give our Camels their humps,
And our supper is made of a few dried dates.

Sparingly must we drink of the waterskin,
Waterskin made of a nursery jug.
For the water must last
Till the desert is past
We must measure it out in the doll's little mug.

Here's the Simoom, with the blast of a hurricane,
Hurricane whirling the sand in drifts.
We must lie down beside
Our Camels, and hide
Till the storm blows past, and the darkness lifts.

Look! Yonder afar are Cairo's Minarets,
Minarets glittering gold in the sun.
A few leagues more
And our travels are o'er,
And the journey of Camel and rider is done.

F. W. Home.

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TEDDIE, THE HELPER.

"I'll give you two sovereigns for the five. It's a good price, but I mean it."

"I've told you I can't part with them," was Teddie Braham's reply to this offer of his schoolfellow, Gerald Keith, to buy his pet rabbits. "What, sell little Stripe, and Pickles, and old Brownie, and Spot, and Longears! I should be very badly off before I should do such a thing."

"Perhaps you think I haven't got the money. See for yourself," and Gerald displayed three glittering sovereigns.

"Are they all yours?" Teddie asked in amazement.

"Yes. It was my birthday yesterday; mother and father each gave me one, and Uncle Dick the other. You've only to say the word and two of them are yours. You have such a lot of pets, you won't miss your rabbits."

But Teddie was not to be tempted. He shook his head, smiling a little scornfully. Almost instantly, however, the smile changed into a look of alarm. One of the coins slipped from its owner's hand, rolled along the pathway, and before either of the boys could stop it, fell down the grating of a drain. For a moment Gerald, too, looked pale; then he broke into a laugh.

"It can't be helped," he said, "and there's plenty more where that came from. The worst of it is, mother told me not to carry the money about with me; but she'll give me another sovereign quick enough if I ask her. My father, you know, is one of the richest men about here."

He said it boastingly, and Teddy, having left his schoolfellow where the road branched off to their respective homes, went on his way, on that sunshiny June afternoon, thinking, rather seriously, how pleasant it must be to be as rich as Gerald. True, he had a great deal to make him happy; but, though comfortably off, his parents were not rich, and Teddie's mind dwelt longingly on the pony, the beautiful little tricycle, and handsome gold watch, of which Gerald was the proud possessor.

On reaching home, Teddie went straight to the drawing-room to find his mother. But a visitor was with her, and he had to wait before he could ask her to put on her hat and go out in the garden with him. He took up a book and sat down quietly. In a few minutes, however, his attention was caught by the conversation between the two ladies.