Chapter M: K. M (2)

No one ever saw a tear in Mrs. Crook's eye, or heard an expression of regret for the loss of "Crook" himself. He had been dead and out of sight and mind almost these ten years past. He was merely remembered as having done his duty in leaving his widow "comfortable." People were left to speculate as they chose about the amount represented by the expression. It would not have been good for the man or woman who had ventured to ask a direct question on the subject, but everybody agreed that Mrs. Crook must have something handsome. Surely "comfortable" means free from care, both as regards to-day and to-morrow: not only enough, but a little more, or else anxiety might step in and spoil comfort. If Mrs. Crook had more than enough, she took care not to give of her abundance. Neither man, woman nor child was ever the better for the surplus, if such there were. One of her favorite expressions was, "I don't care for much neighboring; I prefer keeping myself to myself."

"And you keep every thing else to yourself," muttered one who had vainly tried to enlist her sympathy for another who was in sickness and trouble.

Mrs. Crook had a pretty garden, well-stocked with flowers, according to the season. She was fond of working in it, and might be seen there daily, with her sun-bonnet on, snipping, tying and tending her plants.

Children do so love flowers, and, thank God, those who live in country places have grand gardens to roam in, free to all, and planted by His own loving hand. But in town it is different, and Mrs. Crook lived just outside one; far enough away from its smoke to allow of successful gardening, not too far to prevent little feet from wandering thither from narrow courts and alleys, to breathe a purer air, and gaze, with longing eyes, at the fair blossoms. It always irritated Mrs. Crook to see these dirty, unkempt little creatures clustering around her gate, or peeping through her hedge.

"What do you want here?" she would ask, sharply. "Get away with you, or I will send for a policeman. You are peeping about to see if you can pick up something; I know you are. Be off, without any more telling!"

The light of pleasure called into the young eyes by the sight of the flowers would fade away, and the hopeful look leave the dirty faces, as Mrs. Crook's harsh words fell on the children's ears. But as they turned away with unwilling, lingering steps, heads would be stretched, and a wistful, longing gaze cast upon the coveted flowers, until they were quite lost to sight.

There was a tradition amongst the youngsters that a very small child had once called, through the bars of the gate: "P'ease, Missis, do give me a f'ower." Also that something in the baby voice had so far moved Mrs. Jemima Crook, that she had stooped to select one or two of the least faded roses among all those just snipped from the bushes, and given them to the daring little blue eyes outside, with this injunction, however:

"Mind you never come here asking for flowers any more."

This report was long current among the inhabitants of a city court, but it needs confirmation.

Mrs. Crook objected to borrowers also, and perhaps she was not so much to be blamed for that. Most of us who possess bookshelves, and once delighted in seeing them well filled, look sorrowfully at gaps made by borrowers who have failed to return our treasures. But domestic emergencies occur even in the best regulated families, and neighborly help may be imperatively required. It may be a matter of Christian duty and privilege too, to lend both our goods and our personal aid. Mrs. Crook did not think so. Lending formed no part of her creed. If other people believed in it, and liked their household goods to travel up and down the neighborhood, that was their look-out, not hers.

"I never borrow, so why should I lend?" asked Mrs. Crook. "Besides, I am particular about my things. My pans are kept as bright and clean as new ones, and if my servant put them on the shelves, as some people's servants replace theirs after using, she would not be here long. No, thank you. When I begin to borrow, I will begin to lend, but not until then."

Mrs. Crook's sentiments were so well known that, even in a case of sickness, when a few spoonfuls of mustard were needed for immediate use in poultices, the messenger on the way to borrow it, passed her door rather than risk a refusal, whereby more time might be lost than by going farther in the first instance.

Many were the invitations Mrs. Crook received to take part in the work of different societies. One lady asked her to join the Dorcas meeting.

"You can sew so beautifully," she said. "You would be a great acquisition to our little gathering."

The compliment touched a tender point. Mrs. Crook was proud of her needlework, but to dedicate such skill in sewing to making under-clothing for the poorest of the poor: The idea was monstrous!

Mrs. Crook answered civilly, that she could not undertake to go backwards and forwards to a room half a mile off. It would be a waste of time. Besides, though it was probably not the case in that particular meeting, she had heard that there was often a great deal of gossip going on at such places. The visitor was determined not to be offended, and she replied, gently, that there was no chance of gossip, for, after a certain time had been given to the actual business of the meeting, such as planning, cutting out, and apportioning work, one of the ladies read, whilst the rest sewed. "But," she added, "if you are willing to help us a little, and object to joining the meeting at the room, perhaps you would let me bring you something to be made at home. There is always work for every willing hand."

Then Mrs. Crook drew herself up and said she did not feel inclined to take in sewing. She had her own to do, and did it without requiring assistance, and she thought it was better to teach the lower classes to depend upon themselves than to go about pampering poor people and encouraging idleness, as many persons were so fond of doing now-a-days. No doubt they thought they were doing good, but, for her part, she believed that in many cases they did harm.

The visitor could have told tales of worn-out toilers, laboring almost night and day to win bread for their children, but unable to find either material for a garment or time to make it. She could have pleaded for the widow and the orphan, if there had seemed any feelings to touch, any heart to stir. But Mrs. Crook's hard words and looks repelled her, and she went her way, after a mere "Good-morning. I am sorry you cannot see your way to help us."

No chance of widows weeping for the loss of Mrs. Crook, or telling of her almsdeeds and good works, or showing the coats and garments made for them by her active fingers!

It was the same when some adventurous collector called upon Mrs. Crook to solicit a subscription. She had always something to say against the object for which money was asked. If it were for the sufferers by an accident in a coal mine or for the unemployed at a time of trade depression:

"Why don't they insure their lives like their betters? Why don't they save something, when they are getting good wages? I am not going to encourage the thriftless, or help those who might help themselves, if they would think beforehand."

At length every one gave up trying to enlist her services, or to obtain contributions from her, for the support of any good cause. And Mrs. Crook bestowed all her thoughts, her affections, her time and her means, on the only person she thought worthy of them all--namely Mrs. Crook herself.

AN EVENING SONG.

BY COUSIN ANNIE.

Twilight dews are gath'ring,
The bright day's done;
Upon thy downy couch
Rest, little one.

Each tiny bird's hieing
Home to its nest;
Each flower-head's nodding
Upon its breast.

Be still now, little heart,
Until the morrow
Brings again its share
Of joy and sorrow.

May angels round thy couch
Be ever nigh,
And over thy slumbers chant
Their lullaby.

"BUT THEN."

It was a queer name for a little girl, and it was not her real name--that was Lizzie--but everybody called her "But Then."

"My real name is prettier, _but then_, I like the other pretty well," she said, nodding her short, brown curls merrily. And that sentence shows just how she came by her name.

If Willie complained that it was a miserable, rainy day, and they couldn't play out of doors, Lizzie assented brightly,--

"Yes; _but then_, it is a real nice day to fix our scrapbooks."

When Kate fretted because they had so far to walk to school, her little sister reminded her,--

"_But then, it's all the way through the woods, you know_, and that's ever so much nicer than walking on pavements in a town."

When even patient Aunt Barbara pined a little because the rooms in the new house were so few and small compared with their old home, a rosy face was quietly lifted to hers with the suggestion,--

"_But then_, little rooms are the best to cuddle all up together in, don't you think, Auntie?"

"Better call her 'Little But Then,' and have done with it," declared Bob, half-vexed, half-laughing. "No matter how bad any thing is, she is always ready with her 'but then,' and some kind of consolation on the end of it."

And so, though no one really intended it, the new name began. There were a good many things that the children missed in their new home. Money could have bought them even there; but if the money had not gone first, their father would scarcely have thought it necessary to leave his old home. They had done what was best under the circumstances; still the boys felt rather inclined to grumble about it one winter morning when they were starting off to the village on an errand.

"Just look at all the snow going to waste, without our having a chance to enjoy it," said Will; "and the ice too--all because we couldn't bring our sleds with us when we moved."

"_But then_, you might make one yourself, you know. It wouldn't be quite so pretty, but it would be just as good," suggested Little But Then.

"Exactly what I mean to do as soon as I get money enough to buy two or three boards; but I haven't even that yet, and the winter is nearly half gone."

"If we only had a sled to-day, Sis could ride, and we could go on the river," said Bob. "It's just as near that way, and we could go faster."

"It is a pity," admitted the little girl. "_But then_, I've thought of something--that old chair in the shed! If we turned it down, its back would be almost like runners, and so--"

"Hurrah! that's the very thing!" interrupted the boys; and the old chair was dragged out in a twinkling, and carried down to the river. Then away went the merry party, laughing and shouting, on the smooth road between the snowy hills, while Gyp followed, frisking and barking, and seeming to enjoy the fun as much as any of them.

"Now we'll draw our sled up here, close under the bank, where nobody will see it, and leave it while we go up to the store," said Bob, when they had reached the village.

Their errand was soon done, and the children ready to return; but as they set forth Will pointed to a dark spot a little way out on the ice.

"What is that? It looks like a great bundle of clothes."

It was a bundle that moved and moaned as they drew near, and proved to be a girl, a little bigger than Lizzie. She looked up when they questioned her, though her face was pale with pain.

"I slipped and fell on the ice," she explained, "and I'm afraid I've broken my leg, for it is all twisted under me, and I can't move it or get up. I live in the village. That's my father's carpenter shop where you see the sign. I could see it all the time, and yet I was afraid I'd freeze here before any one saw me. Oh dear! it doesn't seem as if I could lie here while you go for my father."

"Why, you needn't," began Bob; but the girl shook her head.

"I can't walk a step, and you two are not strong enough to carry me all the way. You'd let me fall, or you'd have to keep stopping to rest; and putting me down and taking me up again would almost kill me."

"Oh, but we'll only lift you into the chair, just as carefully as we can, then we can carry you easy enough," said Will.

And in that way the poor girl was borne safely home; and the children lingered long enough to bring the surgeon and hear his verdict that "Young bones don't mind much being broken, and she will soon be about again, as well as ever."

"But I don't see how you happened to have a chair so handy," said her father to the boys. And when they explained that they were using it for a sled, he said, with a significant nod of his head,--"Your sled, was it? Well, I shall be surprised if my shop does not turn you out a better sled than that, just by way of thanks for your kindness."

"_But then_, wasn't it good that it was only the old chair that we had to-day?" asked Little But Then, as she told the story to Aunt Barbara at home. "Oh Auntie, I had the nicest kind of a time!"

"I believe you had," answered Aunt Barbara, smiling; "for a brave, sunny spirit, that never frets over what it has not, but always makes the best of what it has where it is, is sure to have a good time. It does not need to wait for it to come--it has a factory for making it."

--The following is an Arabic proverb taken from the mouth of an Oriental: "Men are four. 1. He who knows not, and knows not he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. 2. He who knows not, and knows he knows not. He is simple; teach him. 3. He who knows, and knows not he knows. He is asleep; wake him. 4. He who knows, and knows he knows. He is wise; follow him."

WHAT THE SNAIL SAID.

"You little chicks, tho' you peck at my dress,
I will not get angry at that;
I know you would gobble me up if you could,
As quick as a worm or a gnat."

"Say, little snail, you had better go on,
They may try the same trick upon you."
"No, no," said the snail, with his hard coat of mail,
"I don't care a rush if they do.

"Little girl, there's no harm to cause me alarm,
I'll sit here and watch them a spell,
But as soon as they pounce, I'll cheat them at once,
By getting right into my shell."

"But listen, wise snail, the old hen in the coop
Has her eye very closely on you;
And if she gets out, it may put you about,
Now mind, what I tell you is true."

"But dear little girl, she is fast in her house;
No, no, she can't touch me, no, no.
But if that respectable fowl should get out,
Oho!" said the snail. "Oho!"

ONLY NOW AND THEN.

Think it no excuse, boys,
Merging into men,
That you do a wrong act
"Only now and then."
Better to be careful
As you go along,
If you would be manly,
Capable and strong.

Many a wretched sot, boys,
That one daily meets
Drinking from the beer-kegs,
Living in the streets,
Or at best, in quarters
Worse than any pen,
Once was dressed in broadcloth
Drinking now and then.

When you have a habit
That is wrong, you know,
Knock it off at once, lads,
With a sudden blow.
Think it no excuse, boys,
Merging into men,
That you do a wrong act
"Only now and then."

A SERPENT AMONG THE BOOKS.

One day, a gentleman in India went into his library and took down a book from the shelves. As he did so, he felt a slight pain in his finger, like the prick of a pin. He thought that a pin had been stuck, by some careless person, in the cover of the book. But soon his finger began to swell, then his arm, and then his whole body, and in a few days he died. It was not a pin among the books, but a small and deadly serpent.

There are many serpents among the books now-a-days; they nestle in the foliage of some of our most fascinating literature; they coil around the flowers whose perfume intoxicates the senses. People read and are charmed by the plot of the story, and the skill with which the characters are sculptured or grouped, by the gorgeousness of the wood-painting, and hardly feel the pin-prick of the evil that is insinuated. But it stings and poisons.

Let us watch against the serpents and read only that which is healthy, instructive and profitable.

"LITTLE MOTHER."

BY JULIA HUNT MOREHOUSE.

It was Judge Bellow's big, fine house, that stood on the corner by the park. Every body knew that, but every body did _not_ know that the one little girl who lived in that house was restless and unhappy and often cross.

"Why do you roam about so, Nell? Why don't you settle down to something?" her mother asked, one bright, spring day.

"Oh, I am sick of everything. I have read all my books, and I hate my piano. The croquet isn't up, and there is nobody to play with me, if it was."

"Why don't you find some kind of work to do?"

"That is just the trouble. There's nothing that needs to be done; servants for every thing; and what does crocheting amount to, and plastering some little daubs of paint on some plush! Why, I believe that little Dutch girl that sells things out of her big basket, on our corner, every morning, is a good deal happier than I am. I mean to ask her sometime what makes her so."

* * * * *

A few weeks more and the hot summer came on, and Nell missed the little Dutch girl on the corner. It really worried her that the bright, womanly face did not come any more, but she supposed she had moved to a better stand or perhaps left the city.

One morning Nell took a walk with her teacher; a long walk, for they found themselves outside the city, where there were open holds and every house had green grass and trees close around it.

"What a little, _little_ house! That one with the woodbine all over it--and I do believe--yes, it really _is_ my little Dutch girl scrubbing the steps," and away she bounded and was soon beside the little worker.

"Oh! I'm so glad to find you again! Why don't you come to our corner any more?"

"Baby's been sick a long, good time," explained Lena, wiping her hands on her apron. "Won't you ladies please to walk in, if you please, ma'am?"

It was a queer little figure that showed them into the cool, clean room; short and broad and dumpy. Her shoes were coarse, her dress of faded black, with a white kerchief at the neck, so like an old woman. Her face too, was short and broad; her nose was _very_ short and her eyes very narrow. So you see she was not pretty, but her face was all love and sunshine. She sat down on a low stool and took up the baby in such a dear, motherly way, smoothing its hair and dress and kissing it softly.

"You don't mean that you live here all alone?" asked Nell.

"Oh, no; there is Hans and baby and me, and there is old Mrs. Price in the other part."

"But your father and mother?"

"Mother died a year ago. Oh, she was one such good mother, but baby came in her place. Baby looks like mother, and now I have to be her little mother, you see," and she set the little dumpling out upon her knee, with such pride and tenderness.

"And your father?"

The little Dutch girl dropped her head and answered very low, "Father has been gone a long time. They say he is shut up somewhere. He don't come home any more."

"Oh, how very dreadful! I don't see where you get money to buy things with."

"Hans is fifteen and works in a shop. He gets some money, and he will get a good deal, by-and-by. The rest _I_ get from the flowers. You see I raise them myself, mostly."

"But do you get enough for clothes and playthings, and do you always have enough to eat?" persisted Nell.

"_I_ don't have any clothes, I make over mother's. We have Kitty for playthings. Enough to eat? _Baby_ always has enough, don't she, lovie?" cuddling her up close.

A new world was opening up to Nell.

"Excuse me, but don't you have any pleasure trips, or birthday parties, or Christmas?"

"No; I don't just know what those things are, but we have nice beef and apples for dinner on Christmas."

"And are you always happy as you seem--really happy?"

The "little mother" opened her eyes wide in wonder. "Why, _of course_. What else should we be? Mother always told us it was wicked to be cross, and that we must not fret much, even over her going away to heaven."

Nell did some hard thinking on her way home, and being a sensible little girl, she made up her mind that one way to be happy is to be _busy_, and not only busy, but useful, and she set about the new way in earnest.

She learned that it is possible to be unselfish and happy _any where_; she in her wealthy home, and the "little mother" in her one room, with her baby and her flowers.

LITTLE SCATTER.

MRS. JEANE A. WARD.

She was her mother's darling, and a very good little girl in most things. With her yellow hair, big blue eyes and rosy cheeks; in the pretty blue dress and red sash; nice little slippers on her plump feet, she made the whole house lively and bright, and sometimes she made plenty of work for every one in it, too, for she was a terrible Nelly to scatter playthings. The dolly would be on the chair, her torn picture-books over the floor, her ball kicking about everywhere, and her blocks any where.

What could mother do with such a girl? When she would talk to her, Nelly would promise not to do so any more, and would pick up the dolly and the pictures, and the ball and the blocks, and her other toys, and take them to her own corner play-house and fix them all in order, and be real good for a little while.

But the 'real good' would last only a little while and then out all would come again, and Little Scatter would have them around just as before.

That is the way she came to be given that name, and she was old enough to know she well deserved it, and to be ashamed of it; yet she could not break off the bad habit.

She had a kind, good mother, who saw that she would have to, in some way, cure her little daughter of such slovenly habits or else she would grow up to be a very careless, untidy woman, and the mother was wise enough to know that it is more easy to correct such matters when children are young than when they grow older.

She did not want to punish Nelly severely, and so, whenever Little Scatter had gotten all her toys over the floor, tables, sofa and chairs, mamma would call her and say:

"Now, Nelly, every thing you have is lying about, it is time for my Little Scatter to get gathered in close;" and then Miss Nelly would have to go close to the wall and be shut in by a chair and stand there until mamma's watch said half an hour had passed. This was very hard on a little girl that loved to run around so much as Nelly did, and though she knew she deserved all the punishment, yet she used to beg very hard and promise, but she always had to stay the full time; then she would come out, get her mamma's kiss and forgiveness, pick up her toys and be happy.

It did not take many such punishments before Nelly began to think before she acted so carelessly, and in a short time she was almost as neat about such matters as she was sweet and good in every thing else. If ever there were a few of her things lying about, mamma had only to call her 'Little Scatter,' to make her remember, and so hard did she try to correct herself of this bad habit that in a few months she and those about her almost forgot that she had ever been known by such an untidy name.

WHAT CHICKY THINKS.

Seems to me I must be growing big very fast. I don't believe I could get back into that little house if I should try. I don't want to go back, either. I had to work too hard to get out the first time. There was no door, so I had to break the house all in pieces with my little beak. I couldn't stand up, you know, when I was inside. I got very tired sitting on my little legs. I wonder how I knew enough to break open my little house? Nobody ever told me that it was prettier in the garden than in my house. 'Tis rather cold out here. I never was cold before; seems to me some little chick has carried off a part of my house. If I see him, with it, I'll tell him he's a thief. Oh, dear, dear! something is scratching my back. May be it's the little thief! I wish I could look and see who it is.

STOP-A-WHILE.

There is growing in Africa a thorn called "Stop-a-while." If a person once gets caught in it, it is with difficulty he escapes with his clothes on his back, and without being greatly torn, for every attempt to loosen one part of his dress only hooks more firmly another part. The man who gets caught by this thorn is in a pitiable plight ere he gets loose. You would not like--would you, boys? to be caught in this thorn. And yet many, I fear, are being caught in a worse thorn than "Stop-a-while." Where do you spend your evenings? At home, I do hope, studying your lessons, and attending to mother's words; for if you have formed a habit of spending them on the streets with bad boys, you are caught in a thorn far worse.

THE BIRDS' CONCERT.

MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.

There's going to be a concert
Out in the apple trees;
When the air is warm and balmy,
And the floating summer breeze
Waft down the pale pink blossoms
Upon the soft green grass:--
A lovely place to sit and dream,
For each little lad and lass!

The concert will open early
When the sun lights up the skies:--
You'll miss the opening anthem
If you let those sleepy eyes
Stay closed, and do not hasten
Out 'neath the orchard trees,
Where the pink and snowy shower
Is caught in the morning breeze.

The robins will swing in the branches,
And carol, and whistle and sing.
The thrush, who is coming to-morrow,
Will a charming solo bring.
The wrens will warble in chorus,
Rare music, so touching and sweet;
The orioles sent for their tickets,
And will surely give us a treat.

The concert will open at sun-rise,
All the June-time sweet and fair;
There'll be a grand full chorus,
For _all_ the birds will be there.
The concert is free to the children,
And is held in the apple trees,
And the birds will sing in a chorus,
"O come to our concert--please!"

ONLY A BOY.

Only a boy with his noise and fun,
The veriest mystery under the sun;
As brimful of mischief and wit and glee,
As ever a human frame can be,
And as hard to manage as--what! ah me!
'Tis hard to tell,
Yet we love him well.

Only a boy with his fearful tread,
Who cannot be driven, must be led!
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats,
And tears more clothes and spoils more hats,
Loses more kites and tops and bats
Than would stock a store
For a week or more.

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways,
With his idle hours or his busy days,
With his queer remarks and his odd replies,
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise,
Often brilliant for one of his size,
As a meteor hurled
From the planet world.

Only a boy, who may be a man
If nature goes on with her first great plan--
If intemperance or some fatal snare,
Conspires not to rob us of this our heir,
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care,
Our torment, our joy!
"Only a boy!"

BIRD NEEDLEWORK.

MAY R. BALDWIN.

There is a class of workers in India who have always held to needlework, useful and ornamental, through the changes of the long years, and have never had the help of machines.

These workers are "Tailor Birds." Specimens of their handiwork have excited the admiration of many travelers in the country where they are found.

Their needlework is seen in the construction of their nests, which vary in size and appearance.

The beak of the bird answers for a needle; and for thread--and this is the wonderful thing about sewing--they use the silken spiders' webs. These threads are made secure by fastening them with silken buttons, made by twisting the ends. Think of that! spiders' webs for thread! How marvelous would the work of the fair ladies all over the land seem, if the door screens and the window hangings and the dresses and the laces were decorated with designs worked with spider's web thread!

Sometimes, it is true, these birds use the silk from cocoons for their work; and even such common material as bits of thread and wool are used. One traveler states that he has seen a bird watch a native tailor as he sewed under a covered veranda; and, when he had left his work for a while, the watchful bird flew to the place, gathered some of the threads quickly, and then flew away with his unlawful prize to use it in sewing together leaves for his nest.

Imagine one of these bird homes. Could any thing be more fairy-like? The leaves are joined, of course, to the tree by their own natural fastenings. But who taught the first bird home-maker how to bring the leaves together? And who gave the first lessons in sewing? And how did it come to choose its delicate spider web thread and twist it into strength, and fasten it with silken buttons?

The great art leader, John Ruskin, who has written so many books to teach people that all beautiful things have their use, and that things that are not truthful can never be beautiful, would say, I think, that the workmanship upon the tailor bird's nest exactly fitted his idea of the "true and the beautiful," because there is no ornament which has not its use. The silk buttons are not placed there for show; they fasten the silken lacing.

We could not say as much for many a fine lady's dress, where dozens of buttons that fasten nothing are seen.

HE WAS A GENTLEMAN.

Some amusing stories are told of the wit and wisdom of London school children. A class of boys in a Board School was being examined orally in Scripture. The history of Moses had been for some time a special study, and one of the examiners asked,--"What would you say of the general character of Moses?"

"He was meek," said one boy.

"Brave," said another.

"Learned," added a third boy.

"Please, sir," piped forth a pale-faced, neatly dressed lad; "he was a gentleman!"

"A gentleman!" asked the examiner. "How do you make that out?"

The boy promptly replied, in the same thin, nervous voice,--"Please, sir, when the daughters of Jethro went to the well to draw water, the shepherds came and drove them away; and Moses helped the daughters of Jethro, and said to the shepherds,--'Ladies first, please, gentlemen.'"

TIME FOR BED.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!
The bells are ringing for bed, Johnnie--
The bells are ringing for bed.
I see them swing,
I hear them ring,
And I see you nod your head.

The bells are ringing for bed, Johnnie--
They are ringing soft and slow;
And while they ring,
And while they swing,
It's off to bed we'll go.

THE VALUE OF A GOOD NAME.

Samuel Appleton, a distinguished Boston merchant, was once sued for a note, found among the papers of a deceased merchant tailor, and signed with his name. The handwriting was exactly like his own, but he declared it to be a forgery, albeit his own brother said he could not positively say it was not Mr. Appleton's writing, though he believed it could not be genuine. The Judge was against Mr. Appleton, but the jury found a verdict in his favor, because they were confident that nothing could induce him to dispute the payment of a note unless certain that he did not owe it. Some years later Mr. Appleton discovered proof that the actual signer of the note was a ship-master of the same name, who had been dead many years. Thus, the finding of the jury was justified. It was based on his good reputation and it illustrates the truth of the proverb, which says: "A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches." The root of Mr. Appleton's good name was his good conduct. He was honest and honorable in all things.

DINGFORD'S BABY.

That little brother of Hetty Dingford was the funniest baby on the coast; and there were a good many of them, right around the river mouth.

Flora thought so too, or rather she looked upon him in the light of a puppy, as she had just raised a small family herself, and the baby had associated so much with the little dogs, that she thought she owned him too. She seemed to regard him as her especial charge, and used to rush between him and cattle on the roads, and bark away strollers from the door-yard; but she seemed to love it most on the beach.

Whenever she thought of it, she would leave the other children, in whose charge the baby had been placed, and rush up to the little one, and lick its face all over, and bark with a very funny sound. The baby would pick up a handful of gravel and throw it at the dog, but it never hit him, and then they would both laugh together.

One afternoon, Tony Dingford said he was going a crabbing, and then Hetty and Polly and Janey and the baby all wanted to go and see him off. Janey took a lovely little boat, that had been made for her by her uncle, and Polly took her spade and pail to dig for shells. Hetty took the baby, and she had to carry him every step of the way, and she was only eight years old; he was a year and a half old and couldn't walk very steady, but he could creep. Oh, how he could get over the ground! He could go sidewise and backwards, like a crab, Tony said. He thought he could talk, too, and such a lot of curious sounds as he used to make. He looked very odd, winking his eyes and sticking his tongue between his four little teeth, and he was up to all sorts of tricks.

After awhile they came to the beach, right opposite the light-house--a most delightful spot, and Hetty proceeded to deposit the baby on the ground, when he came to the conclusion that he didn't want to be put there, and he caught hold of her curly locks and held on for dear life, and screamed like a sea-gull.

This made Hetty cry out, but nothing could induce that baby to let go, until a pail with some shells changed the current of his thoughts. Hetty jumped away, and ran with the children, a few steps, to see Tony's boat.

He threw in his basket and crabbing net and then, getting in himself, he pulled out into the bay. The children wandered along, watching Tony as he grew a lessening speck out in the sunshine. It was such fun to jump on the stones, over the water; the shells looked more beautiful here, because they were wet.

They staid longer than they thought, and on going back, they found the pail and the shells, but no baby! They called, they looked about, but the baby was gone! Every one of them cried bitter tears; they searched behind rocks and under bushes; his little pink, spotted cap could not be seen, but the marks of his hands and feet showed plainly in the sand, and they led down to the water!

"Oh, baby," said Hetty in her agony, "you may pull out all my hair if you like--where are you?"

"Oo may whack my boat all to pieces, baby--come back to Janey!" said her sister. No sound answered, and the gulls sailed over them, and the blue waters lapped the stones. The tide was rising, as it was past the middle of the afternoon. Nothing was to be done, but to carry the dreadful news to mother.

As the children approached the cottage, they saw their father returning with the dog, Flora, and as the father caught sight of them he saw that something had happened. Hetty approached, and, with heart-broken sobs, told her story. The mother cried and wrung her hands.

"Husband, he's drowned! he's drowned!" she cried. The father brushed his hand roughly across his eyes, for the tears would come; and the dog staring from one to the other, looked painfully alert and interested.

"I'll go to the beach and search all night; maybe he'll be washed up at the bend," he said.

"Father," said the weeping wife, "maybe he has not been drowned; oh, let us hope he has not! Let us take Flora; perhaps she will find the baby."

The father looked at the dog, which seemed to understand every word, and went into the house and picked up a little Indian moccasin that the child had worn, and calling Flora, gave it to her. She looked at it, smelled of it, and throwing her nose into the air, rushed toward the beach.

The short, sharp barks of the dog guided them to the different spots to which the child had crept. But he was not found. The dog bounded away again, this time in the direction of some holes that had been worn in the face of the rocks by the tides. The water was fast coming up to them, and they would be entirely filled before the tide turned. The despairing mother was about returning with her children when the father caught a distant sound, a joyful barking that Flora always made when she had been successful in a hunt. He bounded over the rocks that were bathed in the red light of the setting sun. He found Flora barking and wagging her tail, at the mouth of the first little cavern; he stooped and looked in, and there on the white sand lay the baby, asleep. Its little cap was gone, and it dress torn and soiled with seaweed.

The father reached for his little treasure, and hugged him to his heart. The baby laughed, and made most frantic efforts to talk, and immediately twisted both hands tight in his father's hair. This was the baby's way, you know, when he wanted to be carried. You would have cried for joy, to have seen the baby's mother when she snatched him from his father and covered him with kisses, and the little girls clinging to their mother, trying to get a look at him.

They went home very happy, to find Tony with his basket full of crabs, and when he heard the story, he said,--"Flora shall have a new brass collar, if I have to earn it for her." There was one little girl that learned a serious lesson. Hetty says,--"I never will neglect my duty again."

A BED-TIME STORY.

Mamma dear, tell us a pretty story; tell us of what you and papa saw when you were traveling; and my sturdy Harold, and his wee baby sister, tired with their play, sank at my feet at the close of the long summer day. Kissing the hot up-turned faces, and lifting the little one to my lap, I began an oft repeated simple tale of how papa and I, while in Switzerland, drove, one evening, from the village where we were stopping, way out in the country, over green wooden bridges and sparkling streams, past dazzling white villas, through shady lanes bordered by high, thorny hedges; where it was so lifeless and still, the sound of our shaggy pony's hoofs could hardly be heard.

Coming to a low, brown, thatched cottage, the door stood open, and we drove slowly; inside could be seen the table, spread with its frugal repast of oaten cakes and milk; a high, old-fashioned dresser, with its curious jugs of blue delf; a distaff, with the flax still attached, and on the broad door-step sat the prettiest little blue-eyed maiden, wearing a quaint white cap over her yellow locks, a striped kirtle and black waist over a snowy blouse. Like a picture she sat, eating her oat-cake, while tame gray and white doves circled about her or lit on the stones, hoping to get a crumb. Farther on, we stopped at a more pretentious house, called a Swiss chalet, to buy a drink of goat's milk. Here they were quite well-to-do gardeners; and while the peasant wife was gone for the milk, the little daughter, who was rather sweetly dressed, and was very bright and talkative, showed us, with much pride, the heap of garden produce her father was to take to market, early the next morning. A pretty sight it was too--the great wooden table, loaded with the fresh greens and reds of the vegetables, and at one end, guarded by a tall pewter flagon, polished till it glowed like silver; an old oaken cabinet on the wall, bearing glittering decanters and brass candle sticks; the chattering little maiden, and over all, the golden rays of fading sun-light stealing through the deep tiny-paned windows. We--ah, my darlings are asleep.

THE LESSON AFTER RECESS.

A bright little urchin out west,
Thought going to school was a pest.
He said, "I don't care,
I just won't stay there,
I'll have a good time like the rest."

He said, "I'll run off at recess,
They'll never once miss me, I guess;
A fellow can't stop
When he's got a new top.
There'll just be one good scholar less."

Now the "rest" was a crowd of rough boys,
Who with rudeness and mischief and noise,
Made one afraid
To go where they played,
But their riotous play he enjoys.

So away from his lessons he ran,
This promising western young man.
They pushed him down flat,
Tore the rim off his hat,
Said, "There's nothing so healthy as tan."

And they did what was very much worse;
They stole his new knife and his purse.
They gave him a shake,
And they called him a "cake;"
Said, "Next time, bub, come with your nurse."

Near sundown this urchin was found
Fast asleep on some very hard ground;
He looked tired and grieved;
He'd been so deceived,
And quite ready for home, I'll be bound.

The primary teacher, Miss Small,
When she heard his sad fate, forgave all,
"My teacher's a daisy!
I'm through being lazy."
He said, "School's not bad after all."

THE LION AT THE "ZOO."

In the jungles, where the sun is so fierce at noonday that the black natives, themselves, cannot endure it, but hide in huts and caverns and in the shadows of rocks, dwelt this lion.

He did not mind heat, or storm, or the tireless hunters. He was braver and stronger than any other creature in that tropical wilderness, and his very appearance and the sound of his terrible roar had sent many a band of hunters flying back to their safe retreats.

He prowled about the fountains at night, and woe to any belated native or domestic animal that happened to be near; he would leap upon them, and kill them with one blow of his huge paw.

One day a bushman sighted a fine deer, and incautiously separated himself from his companions; the ardor of the pursuit led him into the pathless wilderness, and farther and farther from help, if he should need any.

Pausing a moment, he looked about him; he could not believe his eyes! He saw, not forty rods from him, this creature, regarding him! intense excitement flashing from his eyes, his tail swaying from side to side, and striking the ground with a heavy thud.

The bushman fled in wild terror, and with a bound the lion began the chase. No match, indeed, could any one man hope to be for such an enemy--no outrunning this fleet patrol of the forest; roaring and foaming he came up with the doomed hunter and struck him down and killed him.

The roaring over his success was something too terrible to hear. The other creatures of the forest fled to their dens and coverts, and the party of hunters, dimly locating the lion's whereabouts, betook themselves to other grounds, not caring to encounter so formidable a foe. Little did they suspect the fate of their comrade, and they never knew of it until, a long time afterward, they found the remains of his hunting gear. The beast had torn him to pieces and devoured him.

The devastations of this scourge of the wilderness became so great in time, that he depopulated whole villages, and the superstitious natives, believing him to be a demon, became so stricken with fear that they would not attempt to hunt him, and thus rid the forest of him.

Some agents of a business firm in Holland, who negotiate for the purchase of these ferocious wild animals for menageries, secured, by promises of great help and large reward, a band of intrepid native hunters, to procure, if it were within the range of possibility, this famed lion, alive.

White men joined in the hunt. Brave Englishmen and fearless Americans attached themselves to the party, and many were the hair-breadth escapes and critical situations that crowded upon their path.

On reaching the lion's neighborhood, they took counsel as to the best way of coming upon him, not knowing just where his lair might be; but soon they were guided to him by a distant roaring. The advance hunters caught their first glimpse of him before he was aware of their presence. He had slain his prey--the pretty creature lay near the jungle lake, the sword grass and the poisonous marsh flowers flaunting their lush growth all about. The animal's smooth coat was brown and glossy, and its black hoofs shone bright in the sunshine. The lion repeated the same expressions of gratified savagery he had indulged in when he had devoured the native. He strode about, lashing his tail and roaring.

The fearful encounter began! Many of the natives were killed. One young English nobleman was thought to have received his death wound, when they came to close quarters. The creature was overcome by numbers and heroic bravery at last. He was maimed, disabled and secured, in the deft and expeditious way they have learned in dealing with these animals. He was finally caged, and the rejoicings of the natives knew no bounds; the exploit was celebrated with feasting, dancing and wild observances, the women and the children joining in the uncouth festivities.

He was removed by his foreign purchasers, and eventually secured by a City Park Commission, and was liberated to walk about a spacious cage, to delight the thousands who visit the menagerie, that affords so much instructive amusement. He usually lies down in one corner, and although he has lost much of his magnificent appearance, he is still worthy to be called the "Forest King."

If you happen to be in his section when he gets hungry and calls for his dinner, you will be greatly astonished, if not frightened, at the sound of his voice. It is like nothing else in nature. It vibrates to the roof of the vast structure, and the windows rattle in their frames. He tramps about and lashes his tail against the bars and stamps his feet, and his keeper hurries to throw him his ration of raw meat. When he is satisfied, he lies down and purrs as good-naturedly as a pussy cat, and looks you in the eyes with an unwinking stare.

You and I most earnestly hope that he may never contrive to escape.

DISOBEYING MOTHER.

"I think, little goslings, you'd better not go.
You're young, and the water is chilly, you know;
But when you get strong,
You can sail right along--
Go back in the sunshine, or walk in a row."

"No, no! we will go," said those bold little things,
Except one little dear, close to mother's warm wings.
Out went all the rest,
On the water with zest;
They said, "We will venture, whatever it brings."

Their mother looked out, so kind and so true,
Adown where the rushes and lily-pads grew;
They looked very gay,
As they paddled away,
With their bright, yellow backs, on the water so blue.

"Come back!" cried their mother, "come back to the land!
I fear for my dear ones some evil is planned."
But they ventured beyond
The shore of the pond,
And laughed at her warnings, and spurned her command.

Farewell, to the goslings! their troubles are o'er;
They were pelted with stones, by boys on the shore.
Afar from the bank,
They struggled and sank,
Down deep in the water, to come up no more.

Oh, see what it cost them, to have their own way;
Their punishment came without stint or delay;
But the sweet one that stayed,
And its mother obeyed,
Lived long, and was happy for many a day.

PLANTS THAT EAT.

These plants are so constructed as to attract insects, capture them in various ways, and feed upon them. Perhaps the best known of the group is _Venus' Fly-Trap_. The leaves vary from one to six inches long, and at the extremities are placed two blades, or claspers. On the inner walls of these claspers are placed six irritable hairs; the slightest touch from an insect on any one of which is sufficient to bring the two blades together with such rapidity as to preclude any possibility of the fly escaping.

This plant readily discriminates between animal and other matter; thus, if a small stone or piece of wood be dropped into the trap, it will instantly close, but as soon as it has found out its mistake--and it only takes a few minutes--it begins to unfold its trap, and the piece of wood or stone falls out. On the other hand, should a piece of beef or a bluebottle fly be placed in it, it will remain firmly closed until all the matter is absorbed through the leaf. It will then unfold itself, and is ready for another meal.

Another species is called the _Vegetable Whiskey Shop_, as it captures its victims by intoxication. The entire shop is shaped after the manner of a house, with the entrance projecting a little over the rim. Half-way round the brim of the cavity there are an immense number of honey glands, which the influence of the sun brings into active operation. This sweet acts as a lure to passing insects, and they are sure to alight on the outside edge and tap the nectar.

They, however, remain there but a brief period, as there is something more substantial inside the cavity in the shape of an intoxicating liquid, which is distilled by the plant. The way down to this beverage is straight, as the entrance is paved with innumerable fine hairs, all pointing to the bottom, and should the fly walk crooked its feet become entangled in them.