Chapter I: HAVE just been looking at Miss Jones's picture. How do you think Miss

Jones looks?

She wears a shawl pinned close up to her throat, a cap tied under her chin, and a pair of spectacles over some very wise-looking eyes.

What a funny-looking picture! I call it a funny picture, because the clothes are an old lady's clothes; but the face is a little girl's face, round and plump and rosy. If I could take off the cap and the shawl and the spectacles, I should see a little girl of four years, with a white dress, a pink sash, and long curls hanging down over her shoulders.

Her name is Edith May. Her mamma calls her Edie. Edie likes to fix herself up, and "play people" as she calls it. She takes many different parts.

Sometimes she is an old lady, and sometimes she is a young lady. Sometimes she plays she is mamma; and then she runs round taking care of her dollies, and says she doesn't know what she _shall_ do now that Tilly has the measles, and Hannah has the chicken-pox, and she _verily_ believes that the baby has the measles too.

The other day, she said she was going to be Miss Jones, and go down to the saloon and have her picture taken.

So she fixed herself up with cap and spectacles and shawl, and went down to the photograph-room, and told the artist that she was Miss Jones, and she had called to have her picture taken.

Then the artist placed a chair for her, and she sat up as straight as she could. When the pictures were finished, he sent them to her mamma, who has sent one to me; and here you have it in "The Nursery."

S. F. W.

SUE'S SEASONS.

IN the spring, when the leaves all start,
The crocus thrills at its glowing heart,
The windflower opens its tinted cup,
While the sap mounts merrily up and up.

In the spring all the birds begin,
Early and late to build and sing:
Sweeter music was never heard
Then the merry note of a building bird.

In the summer the roses smile,
Painting the roadside, mile by mile;
The sweet-brier catches you as you pass,
The violets thicken among the grass;

Little nests run over with song,
Little wings grow restless and strong;
Daisies shine in the fields afar,
Odors float where the lilies are.

In the autumn the sap runs down,
And leaves are tinted with gold and brown:
In the winter when wild winds blow,
The leaves are dead in a shroud of snow.

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

"CLEAR THE COAST!"