"Mother," she cried, "Sweetie's ship's come in; but it never would have come if it had not been for Mr. Rogers; and it's brought you this pretty house and shop for your own, and, please God, we'll all have—"

"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" shouted Willie, ending her sentence just as she had ended the story the day before.

"And all the better," said Fred, who remembered too, "because Christ was born that day."

Mrs. Lawson, overwhelmed with joy, fainted. She soon recovered, however, though Sweetie insisted on her lying on the soft lounge before the fire, while she set the table. How pretty it looked, with its six purple and white plates, and cups and everything to match! How they did eat! How happy they were!

"Now," said Mrs. Lawson, when the dishes were washed, and they all sat round the fire, "my little Sweetie, whose patience, and courage, and cheerfulness have kept up the hearts of the rest of us, and proved the ship that has brought us this cargo of comforts, you must tell us your Christmas story before we go to bed."

So Sweetie told them all Mr. Rogers had said and done for her. They were so excited they sat up very late, and happiness made them sleep so soundly, that they did not wake till the sun was shining brightly into the little shop. People began to come in very early, to make little purchases. One lady bought a whole dollar's worth of toys, which made them feel as if they were full of business already.

Later in the forenoon, Mr. Rogers sent for Harry and Sweetie to come and help dress his Christmas tree; and Christmas night his parlor was filled with poor children, for each of whom some useful gift hung on the tree. Milly was there by Sweetie's invitation, and Mr. Rogers sent her home in his carriage, with the easiest chair that money could buy for her old lame mother. The tears filled his eyes as Milly thanked him again and again for all his kindness; and, as he shut the door after the last one, he said,—

"Hereafter I will make it always a Merry Christmas for God's needy ones."

I am sure he did, for he had Sweetie always near him. He used to call her his "Christmas Sweeting;" and then she would laugh, and say he was her "Golden Sweeting."

What is better than gold he gave the family: he found patrons for Mrs. Lawson, and customers for the shop, and placed Harry in a mercantile house, where he soon rose to be head clerk. The other children he put at school. Sweetie he never would let go very far out of his sight. He had her thoroughly and usefully educated, and no less than her mother, and brothers, and sister, did he bless the day when "Sweetie's ship came in"—

A ship which brought for every day A welcome hope, an added joy, A something sweet to do or say, And hosts of pleasures unalloyed,

Its cargo, made of pleasant cares, Of daily duties to be done, Of smiles and laughter, songs and prayers, The glad, bright life of Happy Ones.

MARGARET FIELD.



NOTHING TO DO.

I have sailed my boat and spun my top, And handled my last new ball; I trundled my hoop till I had to stop, And I swung till got a fall; I tumbled my books all out of the shelves, And hunted the pictures through; I've flung them where they may sort themselves, And now—I have nothing to do.

The tower of Babel I built of blocks Came down with a crash to the floor; My train of cars ran over the rocks— I'll warrant they'll run no more; I have raced with Grip till I'm out of breath; My slate is broken in two, So I can't draw monkeys. I'm tired to death Because I have nothing to do.

I can see where the boys have gone to fish; They bothered me, too, to go, But for fun like that I hadn't a wish, For I think it's mighty "slow" To sit all day at the end of a rod For the sake of a minnow or two, Or to land, at the farthest, an eel on the sod: I'd rather have nothing to do.

Maria has gone to the woods for flowers, And Lucy and Rose are away After berries. I'm sure they've been out for hours; I wonder what makes them stay? Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me, But riding is nothing new; "I was thinking you'd relish a canter," said he, "Because you have nothing to do."

I wish I was poor Jim Foster's son, For he seems so happy and gay, When his wood is chopped and his work all done, With his little half hour of play; He neither has books nor top nor ball, Yet he's singing the whole day through; But then he is never tired at all Because he has nothing to do.



TWO "GENTLEMEN IN FUR CLOAKS."

This is the name given to the bears in Kamschatka by the Laplanders, who think they will be offended if they are called by their real name; and we may give the same name to the bears in the picture. They are Polar bears, who live in the seas round the North Pole, and fine white fur coats they have of their own. They are white on purpose, so that they may not be seen easily among all the snow and ice in which they live. The head of the Polar bear is very long and flat, the mouth and ears are small in comparison with other bears, the neck is long and thick, and the sole of the foot very large. Perhaps you will wonder how the bear manages to walk on the ice, as nobody is very likely to give him skates or snow-boots. To be sure, he has strong, thick claws, but they would not be of much use—they would only make him slip on the hard ice—but the sole of the foot is covered nearly all over with thick, woolly hair, so the bear walks as safely as old ladies do when they wrap list round their boots.

The Polar bear likes to eat fish, though he will eat roots and berries when he can get no better, and he is a very good swimmer; he can dive, too, and make long leaps in the water. If he wants a boat, he has only to get on a loose piece of ice, and then he can float about at his ease.

This is a full-grown bear, of course. Young bears cannot do all these things; they have to stay with their mothers on shore, where they eat seals and seaweed; the seaweed is their vegetable, I suppose. When the young bears travel and get tired, they get on their mother's back, and ride there quite safely, whether in the water or on land.

Bears are very fond of their young, and will do anything to defend them. There is a story told of a poor mother-bear and her two cubs which is almost too sad to tell, but it will make us think kindly of the bear, so I will tell it to you.

Years ago a ship which had gone to the North Pole to make discoveries got fixed tight in the ice; one morning, while the ship was still unable to get loose, a man at the lookout gave warning that three bears were coming across the ice toward the ship. The crew had killed a walrus a few days before, and no doubt the bears had smelled it. The flesh of the walrus was roasting in a fire on the ice, and two of the bears ran eagerly to it, dragged out the bits that were not burnt, and began to eat them; they were the cubs, but were almost as large as their mother.

The sailors threw some more of the flesh they had on board on to the ice. These the old bear fetched; and putting them before her cubs, she divided them, giving them each a large piece, and only keeping a small bit for herself. When she came to fetch the last piece the sailors shot at the cubs, killing them; they also wounded the mother, but not mortally; the poor mother never thought of herself, only of her cubs. They were not quite dead, only dying, and she crawled to where they lay, with the lump of meat she had fetched, and put it down before them, as she had done the first time. When she found they did not eat, she took hold first of one, then of the other, and tried to lift them up, moaning pitifully all the time, as if she thought it would be of no use. Then she went a little way off and looked back. But the cubs were dead now, and could not move, so she went back to them and began to lick their wounds. Once more she crawled away from them, and then again came back, and went round and round them, pawing them and moaning. At last she seems to have found out that they were dead; and turning to the ship, she raised her head and uttered a loud growl of anger and despair. The cruel sailors fired at her in reply, and she fell between her poor dead cubs, and died licking their wounds.



CHARLIE'S ESCAPE.

I have some boy-cousins living in the country of whom I think a great deal. They write me letters quite often. I can hardly tell whose letters give me the most pleasure, the "big boys'," who write me about their school, their colts and calves, their good times on the holidays, or the little printed letters I get from the "small boys," telling me how many chickens they have and that they love me. I am sure I love them all, and hope they will grow to be good, true men.

Charlie is one of the "big boys." Not very big, either—just thirteen years old, and rather small and slight for his years. A few weeks ago a neighbor of his father's was going away, and got Charlie to do "the chores" for him during his absence—feed the young cattle, milk the cow and keep things in order about the barn. Charlie is an obliging boy, so he performed his task faithfully. If I had time, boys, I would just like to stop here and give you a little lecture on faithfulness, with Charlie for a model, for he is a "faithful boy." But I want to tell my story. For two or three days Charlie went each morning to his neighbor's barn, and after milking the cow turned all the creatures to pasture, and every night drove them home again. One morning, as he stood by the bars waiting for them all to pass out, a frisky year-old calf—"a yearling" the farmers call them—instead of going orderly over the bars, as a well-disposed calf should, just gave a side jump and shook her horns at Charlie. "Over with you!" called Charlie, and waved his hand at her. Miss Yearling either fancied this an insult or an invitation to single combat, for she again lowered her head and ran at Charlie, who had no stick, and so thought best to run from the enemy. He started for the stable door, but in his hurry and fright he could not open it, and while fumbling at the latch the creature made another attack. Charlie dodged her again, and one of her horns pierced the door nearly an inch. Again she ran at him, and with her nose "bunted" him off his feet. Charlie was getting afraid now, and called out to the folks in the house, "Oh, come and help me!" and right then he bethought him of something he had read in his father's "Agriculturist" about a boy in similar danger, who saved himself by grasping the cow's horns that had attacked him. So just as the yearling was about to try again if she could push him over, he took fast hold of each horn. But his situation was getting very unpleasant, for he was penned up in a corner, with the barn behind him, a high fence on one side and the now angry heifer in front. He had regained his feet, but was pushed and staggered about, for he was fast losing his strength. No wonder his voice had a quiver in it as he again shouted as loud as he could, "Oh, do come quick!" The lady in the house was busy getting breakfast, and heard no sound. A lady-visitor in one of the chambers heard the first call, but thought it only boys at play. By and by the distressed shout again smote her ears, and this time she heard the words, "Help me!" She ran down stairs to the housekeeper, who opened the outside door and listened. Charlie's voice was weak and faint now, and the fear came to the lady that he had fallen into the barn cellar. She ran quickly to the great door of the barn. "Where are you, Charlie?" "Come to the stable door," answered back a faint, trembling voice. She quickly ran through the barn to that door, but she could not open it at first, for the heifer had pushed herself around till she stood broadside against the door. But the lady pushed hard and got the door open a little way, and seizing the big stable broom hit the naughty animal two or three heavy whacks that made her move around; and as soon as she opened the door wide, Charlie let go her horns, and she (the heifer), not liking the big broom-handle, turned and ran off as fast as her legs could go. The lady helped Charlie up and into the house, for he could hardly stand. He was bruised and lame, and the breath had almost left him. But after resting a while and taking some good warm drink, he tried to walk home; and though the lady helped him, he found it hard work, for he was so sore and bruised. Charlie's mother was frightened enough to see her boy come home leaning on their neighbor's arm and looking so pale. She helped him undress and lie down, and then she did just what your mother, little reader-boy, would do if you had such an escape as Charlie's. She put her arms around her boy and said, "Let us thank the good Lord that you were not killed, my boy." And do you think Charlie will ever forget his escape? I don't. And I hope he will always thank "the good Lord" not only for the escape, but for his every blessing.



I AM COMING!

I am coming! I am coming! sings the robin on the wing; Soon the gates of spring will open; where you loiter I will sing; Turn your thoughts to merriest music, send it ringing down the vale, Where the yellow-bird is waiting on the old brown meadow-rail.

I am coming! I am coming! sings the summer from afar; And her voice is like the shining of some silver-mantled star; In it breathes the breath of flowers, in it hides the dawn of day, In it wake the happy showers of the merry, merry May!



DAISY'S TEMPTATION.

"I don't think grandma would ever know it. I could just slip them into my pocket and put them on after I get there as e-a-sy! I'll do it;" and Daisy Dorsey lifted her grandma's gold beads from a box on her lap. She clasped them about her chubby neck and stood before the mirror, talking softly to herself. "How nice it will be!" she said, drawing up her little figure till only the tip of her nose was visible in the glass. "And Jimmy Martin will let me fly his kite instead of Hetty Lee. Hetty Lee, indeed! I don't believe she ever had any grandmother—not such a grandmother as mine, anyway."

Then the proud little Daisy fell to thinking of the verse her mother had read to her that morning, about the dear Father in heaven who sees us always, and the blessed angels who are so holy and so pure.

"And I promised mamma I would be so good and try so hard to do right always. No, no; I can't do it. Lie there, little pretty gold beads. Daisy loves you, but she wants to be good too. So good-bye, dear little, bright gold beads," laying them softly back in the drawer and turning away with her eyes like violets in the rain.

Now, it so happened that good Grandma Ellis had heard every word Daisy had said, had seen her take the beads from their box in the drawer, knew just how her darling was tempted and how she had conquered pride and evil desire in her little heart, for she was in her bath-room, adjoining her chamber; and the door being ajar, she could hear and see all that Daisy said and did.

How glad she was when she heard her say, "I can't do it. Good-bye, pretty gold beads!" and she felt so sorry, too, for the great tears in the sweet blue eyes.

Daisy wore the coral beads to the picnic, and no child had a merrier day than she, for she had struggled with temptation, had overcome through the loving Father's aid, and so was happy, as we all are when we do right.

That evening, when the harvest-moon lifted its bright face to the bosom of the east, Grandma Ellis sat in her old-fashioned high-backed chair thinking.

Such a pretty picture she made, too, with her light shawl draped gracefully over her shoulders, her kerchief and cap so snowy, and her sweet face so full of God's love and his divinest peace!

In her hands she held the gold beads, and there was something very like tears in her gray eyes, for the necklace had a history that only grandma knew—she and one other, whose face that night was far away where they need no light of the moon, nor of the sun, for God is the light of the place.

"Come here, Daisy," she said, presently. "Come to grandma."

The little creature flew like a bird, for she loved the sound of that dear old voice; and besides, Daisy was a happy child that night, and in her heart the singing-birds of content and joy kept up a merry music of their own.



Grandma Ellis threw the little necklace over Daisy's head as she came toward her, and lifting her to her knee and kissing her glad eyes said, speaking low and softly,

"That is for my Daisy to keep always, for grandma's sake. It is not just the ornament for your little dear neck in these days, but keep it always, because grandma loved it and gave it to her darling that would not deceive her, even for the sake of flying Jimmy Martin's kite at the picnic."

Then Daisy was sure grandma knew all about her sad temptation, and how she had coveted the bright gold beads for just one little day. Now they were to be hers for ever, and half for shame, half for very joy, Daisy hid her curly head in grandma's bosom and sobbed aloud.

"Hush, darling!" grandma said; "we are all tempted to do wrong sometimes, and the dear Father in heaven suffers this to be that we may grow stronger through resistance. Now, if you had yielded to the voice of pride and desire this morning, do you think you could have been happy to-day, even with the necklace and flying Jimmy's kite?"

"No, no! Oh, grandma, forgive me!" sobbed the little voice from grandma's bosom.

"Yes, dear, as I am sure God does, who saw how you were sorely tried and surely conqueror. Kiss me good-night now; and when you have said your 'Now I lay me,' add, 'Dear Father, help grandma's Daisy to be good and happy always.'"

An hour later, with the gold beads still about her neck, Daisy in her little bed was dreaming of the beautiful fields and flowers that are for ever fadeless in the land we name eternal; and the blessed angels, guarding her slumber and seeing the smile upon her happy lips, were glad because of Daisy's temptation, for they knew that the dear child would be stronger and purer and better because she had overcome.



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he, "I love my love, and my love loves me."



WHAT NELLY GAVE AWAY.

Nelly Ray was a bright, brave-hearted little girl, whom no one could help loving.

Singing like a lark in the morning, wearing sweet smiles on her face all day, cheerful even when the shadows fell, it would have been strange indeed if her humble home had not seemed like a bit of paradise, and the ground under her feet had not blossomed like the rose.

It was a pleasant day in the early spring, when the grass was just lifting itself above the moist earth, when the soft south wind was blowing among the tender little leaves of the lilac bushes, when the birds were busy building their nests, when the merry little brook was beginning its song and the great round world looked glad and bright, that Nelly began to make her garden.

Her father had dug the ground and made it ready for her, and so she took her little red basket full of seeds of different kinds, each kind tied up by itself and labelled, and down in the little beds she dropped candy-tuft, and phlox, and lady-slippers.

How happy she was at her work! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her eyes were as sweet as twin violets, and her little mouth was like a fresh rosebud, but better and brighter far than the cheeks and lips was the light of kindness that shone in her eyes.

Her sister Jennie, who sat sewing by the window, watched her with loving interest.

"Mother," she said, at length, looking up from her work, "do you know what a generous little girl our Nelly would be if she was only a rich man's child?"

"Is she not generous now, Jennie?" asked her mother.

"Oh yes, surely she is. But I was thinking how much good she would do, and how much she would give away, if only we were not poor."

She saw that her mother was smiling softly to herself.

"She gives away more now, of course, than some rich children do. Just think how faithfully she works in that little garden, so as to have flowers to give away! I do not believe there is a house anywhere near us into which sickness or poverty comes where her simple flowers will not go."

"Did you ever think, dear Jennie, of the other garden which Nelly weeds and waters every day?"

"No, mother. What garden do you mean?"

"The garden of her heart, my dear child. You know that the rain which the clouds take from the lakes and rivers comes back to refresh and beautify our fields and gardens; and so it is with our little Nelly's good deeds and kind, loving words. She gives away more than a handful of violets, for with them goes a bright smile, which is like sunshine to the sick heart. She gives more than a bunch of roses, for with them always goes a kind word. And doing these little things, she gets a large reward. Her own heart grows richer."



A STRANGE COMBAT.

We are told that the old Romans greatly delighted in witnessing the combats of wild beasts, as well as gladiators, and that they used to ransack their whole broad empire for new and unheard-of animals—anything and everything that had fierceness and fight in it. Those vast amphitheatres, like the Coliseum, were built to gratify these rather sanguinary tastes in that direction.

But I doubt whether even the old Romans, with all their large experience, ever beheld so strange and grotesque a "set-to" (I'm pretty sure none of our American boys ever did) as the writer once stumbled upon, on the shores of one of our Northern Maine lakes—Lake Pennesseewassee, if you can pronounce that; it trips up editors sometimes.

I had been spending the day in the neighboring forest, hunting for a black squirrel I had seen there the evening before, having with me a great, red-shirted lumberman, named Ben—Ben Murch. And not finding our squirrel, we were making our way, towards evening, down through the thick alders which skirted the lake, to the shore, in the hope of getting a shot at an otter, or a mink, when all at once a great sound, a sort of quock, quock, accompanied by a great splashing of the water, came to our ears.

"Hush!" ejaculated Ben, clapping his hand to his ear (as his custom was), to catch the sound. "Hear that? Some sort of a fracas."

And cautiously pushing through the dense copse, a very singular and comical spectacle met our eyes. For out some two or three rods from the muddy, grassy shore stood a tall, a very tall bird,—somewhere from four to five feet, I judged,—with long, thin, black legs, and an awkward body, slovenly clad in dull gray-blue plumage. The neck was as long as the legs, and the head small, and nearly bare, with a long, yellowish bill. Standing knee deep in the muddied water, it was, on the whole, about the most ungainly-looking fowl you can well imagine; while on a half-buried tree trunk, running out towards it into the water, crouched a wiry, black creature, of about average dog size, wriggling a long, restless tail, and apparently in the very act of springing at the long-legged biped in the water. Just now they were eying each other very intently; but from the splashed and bedraggled appearance of both, it was evident there had been recent hostilities, which, judging from the attitude of the combatants, were about to be renewed.

"Show!" exclaimed Ben, peering over my shoulder from behind. "An old hairn—ain't it? Regular old pokey. Thought I'd heered that quock before. And that creatur'? Let's see. Odd-looking chap. Wish he'd turn his head this way. Fisher—ain't it? Looks like one. Should judge that's a fisher-cat. What in the world got them at loggerheads, I wonder?"

By "hairn" Ben meant heron, the great blue heron of American waters—Ardea Herodias of the naturalists. And fisher, or fisher-cat, is the common name among hunters for Pennant's marten, or the Mustela canadensis, a very fierce carnivorous animal, of the weasel family, growing from three to four feet in length, called also "the black cat."

The fisher had doubtless been the assailant, though both had now that intent, tired-down air which marks a long fray. He had probably crept up from behind, while old long-shanks was quietly frogging along the shore.

But he had found his intended victim a game one. The heron had a character to sustain; and although he might easily have flown away, or even waded farther out, yet he seemed to scorn to do either.

Not an inch would it budge, but stood with its long, javelin-like beak poised, ready to strike into the fisher's eye, uttering, from moment to moment, that menacing, guttural quock, which had first attracted our attention.

This sound, mingling with the eager snarling and fretting of the cat, made the most dismal and incongruous duet I had ever listened to. For some moments they stood thus threatening and defying each other; but at length, lashing itself up to the proper pitch of fury, the fisher jumped at his antagonist with distended jaws, to seize hold of the long, slender throat. One bite at the heron's slim neck would settle the whole affair. But this attempt was very adroitly balked by the plucky old wader's taking a long step aside, when the fisher fell into the water with a great splash, and while struggling back to the log, received a series of strokes, or, rather, stabs, from the long, pointed beak, dealt down with wonderful swiftness, and force, too; for we distinctly heard them prod into the cat's tough hide, as he scrambled upon the log, and ran spitting up the bank. This defeat, however, was but temporary, as any one acquainted with the singular persistence and perseverance of the whole weasel family will readily guess. The fisher had soon worked his way down the log again, the heron retiring to his former position in the water.

Another succession of quocks and growlings, and another spring, with even less success, on the side of the cat. For this time the heron's bill wounded one of his eyes; and as he again retreated up the log, we could see the bloody tears trickling down over his shaggy jowl.

Thus far the battle seemed favorable to the heron; but the fisher again rallied, and, now thoroughly maddened, rushed down the log, and leaped blindly upon his foe. Again and again his attacks were parried. The snarling growls now rose to shrieks, and the croaking quocks to loud, dissonant cries.

"Faugh!" muttered Ben. "Smell his breath—fisher's breath—clean here. Always let that out somehow when they're mad."

Even at our distance, that strong, fetid odor, sometimes perceptible when a cat spits, could plainly be discerned.

"Old hairn seems to be having the best of it," continued Ben. "I bet on him. How cool he keeps! Fights like a machine. See that bill come down now! Look at the marks it makes, too!" For the blood, oozing out through the thick fur of the cat in more than a dozen spots, was attesting the prowess of the heron's powerful beak.

But at length, with a sudden bound upward, the fisher fell with his whole weight upon the back of his lathy antagonist. Old long-legs was upset, and down they both went in the water, where a prodigious scuffle ensued. Now one of the heron's big feet would be thrust up nearly a yard; then the cat would come to the top, sneezing and strangling; and anon the heron's long neck would loop up in sight, bending and doubling about in frantic attempts to peck at its foe, its cries now resembling those of a hen when seized in the night, save that they were louder and harsher. Over and over they floundered and rolled. The mud and water flew about. Long legs, shaggy paws, wet, wriggling tail, and squawking beak, fur and feathers—all turning and squirming in inextricable confusion. It was hard telling which was having the best of the melee, when, on a sudden, the struggle stopped, as if by magic.



"One or t'other has given in," muttered Ben.

Looking more closely, we saw that the fisher had succeeded in getting the heron's neck into his mouth. One bite had been sufficient. The fray was over. And after holding on a while, the victor, up to his back in water, began moving towards the shore, dragging along with him, by the neck, the body of the heron, whose great feet came trailing after at an astonishing distance behind. To see him, wet as a drowned rat, tugging up the muddy bank with his ill-omened and unsightly prey, was indeed a singular spectacle. Whatever had brought on this queer contest, the fisher had won—fairly, too, for aught I could see; and I hadn't it in my heart to intercept his retreat. But Ben, to whom a "black cat" was particularly obnoxious, from its nefarious habit of robbing traps, had no such scruples, and, bringing up his rifle with the careless quickness of an old woodsman, fired before I could interpose a word. The fisher dropped, and after writhing and snapping a few moments, stretched out—dead.

Leaving Ben to take off its skin,—for the fur is worth a trifle,—I was strolling along the shore, when upon coming under a drooping cedar, some six or seven rods from the scene of the fight, another large heron sprang out of a clump of brambles, and stalked off with a croak of distrust. It at once occurred to me that there might be a nest here; and opening the brambles, lo, there it was, a broad, clumsy structure of coarse sticks, some two or three feet from the ground, and lined with moss and water grasses. In it, or, rather, on it, were two chicks, heron chicks, uncouth little things, with long, skinny legs and necks, and sparsely clad with tufts of gray down. And happening to glance under the nest, I perceived an egg, lodged down among the bramble-stalks. It had probably rolled out of the nest. It struck me, however, as being a very small egg from so large a bird; and having a rule in my pocket, I found it to be but two and a half inches in length by one and a half in width. It was of a dull, bluish-white color, without spots, though rather rough and uneven. I took it home as a curiosity.

On the edge of the nest I saw several small perch, a frog, and a meadow-mouse, all recently brought, though the place had a suspicious odor of carrion.

All this while the old heron had stood at a little distance away, uttering now and then an ominous croak. I could easily have shot it from where I stood, but thought the family had suffered enough for one day.

The presence of the nest accounted for the obstinacy with which the old male heron had contested the ground with the fisher.

Both old birds are said to sit by turns upon the eggs. But the nests are not always placed so near the ground as this one. Last summer, while fishing from the "Pappoose's Pond," I discovered one in the very top of a lofty Norway pine—a huge bunch of sticks and long grass, upon the edge of which one of the old herons was standing on one foot, perfectly motionless, with its neck drawn down, and seemingly asleep.

The artist who could have properly sketched that nest and bird would have made his fortune then and there.

C. A. STEPHENS.



LITTLE HOME-BODY.

Little Home-body is mother's wee pet, Fairest and sweetest of housekeepers yet; Up when the roses in golden light peep, Helping her mother to sew and to sweep. Tidy and prim in her apron and gown, Brightest of eyes, of the bonniest brown; Tiniest fingers, and needle so fleet, Pattern of womanhood, down at my feet!

Little Home-body is grave and demure, Weeps when you speak of the wretched and poor, Though she can laugh in the merriest way While you are telling a tale that is gay. Lily that blooms in some lone, leafy nook; Sly little hide-away, moss-sided brook; Fairies are fine, where the silver dews fall; Home fairies—these are the best of them all!

GEORGE COOPER.



NEDDY'S HALF HOLIDAY.

"We've had a good time, Tony, old fellow, haven't we?" said Neddy Harris, who was beginning to feel tired with his half day's ramble in the fields. As he said this he sat down on some boards in the barn.

Tony replied to his young master by rubbing his nose against his face, and by a soft "baa," which was as near as he could come to saying, "A first-rate time, Master Neddy."

"A grand good time," added the boy, putting his arms around the lamb's neck and laying his face on its soft wool.

"And now," he continued, "as father says we should always do, I'll just go back and think over what I've done this holiday afternoon; and if I forgot myself in anything and went wrong, it will be best for me to know it, so that I can do better next time.

"I'm sorry about that poor squirrel," said Neddy; "he never did me any harm. What a beautiful little creature he was, with his bright black eyes and shiny skin!"

And the boy's face grew sad, as well it might, for he had pelted this squirrel with stones from tree to tree, and at last knocked him to the ground.

"But it was so cruel in me! Now, if I live a hundred years, I'll never harm another squirrel. God made these frisky little fellows, and they've just as much right to live as I have."

Neddy felt better about the squirrel after this good resolution, which he meant to keep.

"That was curious about the spider," he went on, trying to push all thoughts of the dead squirrel from his mind. Let me tell you about this spider. In the corner of a fence Neddy saw a large circular spider's web, shaped like a funnel, down in the centre of which was a hole. As he stood looking at the delicate thing, finer than any woven silk, a fly struck against it and got his feet tangled, so that he could not escape. Instantly a great black spider ran out of the hole at the bottom of the web, and seizing the poor fly dragged him out of sight and made his dinner off of him.

Neddy dropped a piece of dry bark about the size of his thumb nail into the web, and it slipped down and covered the hole through which the spider had to come for his prey. Instantly the piece of bark was pushed up by the spider, who came out of his den and ran around on the slender cords of his web in a troubled kind of way. Then he tried to get back into his hidden chamber, but the piece of bark covered the entrance like a shut door. And now Mr. Spider was in a terrible flurry. He ran wildly up one side of his web and down another; then he tugged at the piece of bark, trying to drag it out, but its rough edges took hold of the fine silken threads and tore them.

"You'll catch no more flies in that web, old chap," said Neddy as he stood watching the spider.

But Neddy was mistaken. Spider did not belong to the give-up class. If the thing could not be done in one way, it might in another. He did not reason about things like human beings, but then he had instinct, as it is called, and that teaches animals how to get their food, how to build their houses or make their nests, and how to meet the dangers and difficulties that overtake them in life. After sitting still for a little while, spider went to work again, and this time in a surprising way. He cut a circle close around the piece of bark as neatly as you could have done with a pair of sharp scissors, and lo! it dropped to the ground, leaving a hole in the web about the size of a ten-cent piece.

"Rather hard on the web, Mr. Landpirate," said Neddy, laughing. "Flies can go through there as well as chips."

When he called the spider a land-pirate, Neddy was wrong. He was no more a pirate—that is, one who robs and murders—than is the woodpecker or swallow, for they feed on worms and insects. The spider was just as blameless in his work of catching and eating flies as was Neddy's white bantam when she went off into the fields after grasshoppers.

But Neddy's laugh at the spider was soon cut short. The most difficult part of his work was done when he got rid of the piece of bark. As soon as that was out of his way he began moving backward and forward over the hole he had cut in the web, just as if he were a weaver's shuttle, and in about ten minutes it was all covered with gauzy lacework finer than ever was worn by a queen.

"I'll give it up, old fellow," exclaimed Neddy, taking a long breath as he saw the work completed. "This just beats me out." Spider crept down into his den again to wait for another fly, and Neddy, leading Tony, went on his way pleased and wondering.



THE SPARROW.

Thou humblest bird that wings the air, the Master cares for thee; And if he cares for one so small, will he not care for me?

His eye looks on thee from above, he notices thy fall; And if he cares for such as thee, does he not care for all?

He feeds thee in the sweet spring-time, when skies are bright and blue; He feeds thee in the autumn-time, and in the winter too.

He leads thee through the pathless air, he guides thee in thy flight; He sees thee in the brightest day, and in the darkest night.

Oh, if his loving care attends a bird so mean and small, Will he not listen to my voice when unto him I call?



MRS. PIKE'S PRISONERS.

A TRUE STORY.

Early on a cloudy April afternoon, many years ago, several little girls were playing in a village door-yard, not far from the fence which separated it from a neighbor's. They were building a play-house of boards, and were so busily occupied, that none of them had noticed a lady standing at a little four-paned window in the house the other side of the fence, who had been intently regarding them for some time. The window was so constructed as to swing back like a door, and being now open, the lady's face was framed against the dark background of the room, producing the effect of a picture. 'Twas a strange face, sallow and curiously wrinkled, with a nose like the beak of a hawk, and large black eyes, which seemed to be endowed with the power of perpetual motion. These roved from one to another of the busy builders, till suddenly one of them seemed to be aware that some one was looking at her, and turned towards the little window.

"Ah, I know you, Wealthy Robbins! Come here a minute, my little dear," spoke the lady, in a shrill, quavering voice. And she beckoned to her with a hooked finger like a claw. But Wealthy shrank back, murmuring, "I don't want to," almost under her breath, and nudging with her elbow the nearest girl; "Hannah, Mrs. Pike wants something. See!"

"Is that you, Hannah Green? Come over here, and I'll give you a piece of my Passover candy." And the lady waved in the air a long candle-rod entwined with a strip of scarlet flannel, which made it look like a mammoth stick of peppermint candy.

This attracted the attention of all the girls, and going close to the fence, they peered through, while she besought them, with enticing promises and imploring eyes, to come around under the window, for she had something to tell them.

"Don't let's go," whispered Mary Green, the oldest of the group. "Mother told me never to go near her window when she's standing there, for she's a crazy woman. That stick isn't candy no more than I am."

"Come, Sarah; I always knew you were a kind little girl," said Mrs. Pike, in a coaxing tone, to the youngest and smallest of the group; "do come here just a minute."

At last, Sarah Holmes and her sister Jane went around, and stood under the little window. Jane said it could do no harm just to go and see what Mrs. Pike wanted, and if she was shut up in jail, she guessed she'd want a good many things.

"Now, you dear little lambs, you see I'm all alone in the house; and they've gone away, and forgotten to give me my dinner; and I'm very hungry. All I want is a little unleavened bread, for this is Passover Day, you know. Well, you just climb in through the dining-room window, little Sarah,—Jane can help you,—and unlock my door, so I can go to the buttery and get some bread. Then I'll bring you out a nice saucer mince pie, and come back here, and you can lock me in. They'll never know; and I shall starve if you don't take pity on me."

After some whispering together, the little girls did as they were bidden, notwithstanding the warnings of their mates the other side of the fence. When they had disappeared from view, Mary Green turned away, and began to hammer, as though she was driving a nail into Mrs. Pike's head, or Jane Holmes's, or somebody's, ejaculating, "I guess they'll rue this day."

Which prophetic words came very near being verified at the moment they were spoken. For no sooner had Jane unlocked the door of Mrs. Pike's room, than out sprang that lady, and clutched one of the little girls with either hand, almost shrieking, "Ah, I know you! you belong to that wicked and rebellious tribe of Korah. Why didn't you come over to the help of the mighty immediately? Now, you shall see how you like dwelling in the Cave of Machpelah for a day and a night, and a month and a year, until He shall come whose right it is to reign."

And she thrust the trembling, awe-struck children into the room that had been her prison, and turned the key upon them. Then away she strode out of the house and up the street, a noticeable figure, truly, in her short yellow nankeen dress, with pantalets of the same, and neat white Quaker cap, with long white ribbons crossed under her chin, and carrying an immense umbrella over her head. It was strange that none of the nearest neighbors should see her pass. The front door was on the opposite side of the house from where the little girls were playing; so they did not observe her exit; and thus it happened that the crazy lady, who had been confined in the house for weeks, escaped without any check upon her triumphant progress. Busy women, seeing her from their windows, thought Mrs. Pike must be better again, to be out, and did wish her friends wouldn't let her walk the streets looking like a Dutch woman. Boys paused in their games almost respectfully, as she passed by; for notwithstanding her strange appearance and rapid movements, there was an air of mysterious command about the woman which checked any rudeness.

"There goes Madam Pike," exclaimed one ragged-kneed boy, when she had passed out of hearing. "Got on her ascension-robe—hasn't she? Wonder if that umberil will help her any? I say, boys, do you suppose all the saints that walk the streets of the new Jerusalem look like her?"

While Mrs. Pike walked rapidly on, with a keen appreciation of the fresh air and occasional gleams of sunshine, the little prisoners drooped like two April violets plucked and thrown upon the ground. They were so frightened and awe-struck, that the idea of calling for help from the open window did not occur to them; and they crouched upon the floor, melancholy and mute. After a while, some odd-looking garments, hanging in a row on one side of the room, attracted their attention; but they did not dare to go near them at first. Mrs. Pike was what was called a Second Adventist, and had read the Bible and Apocrypha with a fiery zeal, and an earnest determination to find therein proof of what she believed, and had attended Second Advent meetings, and exhorted wherever she could get a hearing, until her poor brain was crazed. But lately her husband and friends had kept her in doors as much as possible; and she spent most of the time knitting ascension-robes for the saints of the twelve tribes of the house of Judah. These were long garments, coming nearly to the feet, each of a single color, royal purple and blue being her favorites. She said that she must improve every moment, lest the great and dreadful day of the Lord should come, and she should not be ready, i. e., would not have a robe prepared for each of the saints to ascend in. When her son, a boy of twelve, died, she had him buried by the front doorstep, so, when the procession of saints should pass out at the door, Erastus could join them immediately, and not have to come from the burying-ground, a mile away.

It was after sunset when Mr. Pike passed along the village street, on his way home, and was informed by a good woman, standing at her gate, that his wife had gone by about one o'clock, and that, not long after, Jane and Sarah Holmes were missed. Some little girls they had been playing with had seen them get into Mr. Pike's house through the dining-room window, and that was the last that had been seen or heard of them. Mrs. Holmes was going on dreadfully; for she thought that, as likely as not, Madam Pike had thrown them down in the well, or hid them where they would never be found, and then run away. The bewildered man hurried home to harness his horse, and go in search of his wife; for, with a trust in her better nature, worthy of a woman, he believed that she would tell him where the children were, if she knew. Fortunately, he found her in a tavern about a mile from home, preaching, as the children would say. As usual, she was exhorting her hearers to prepare for the great and terrible day of the Lord, etc., etc.; but when her husband appeared in the doorway, the thread of her discourse was suddenly broken, and she turned and accosted him with, "Ah, Mr. Pike, have you seen my prisoners in the Cave of Machpelah? They belong to that wicked and rebellious tribe of Korah, you know."

"Well, Mary, let's go home, and see how they are getting along," said he, in a confident tone; for he instantly divined who her prisoners were, and that the Cave of Machpelah could not be far away.

Mrs. Pike was quite willing to go with him, and worried all the way home; for she said prisoners were always in mischief, and there were the robes hanging in the cave, which she had forgotten to put out of their reach. So when they arrived, her first act was to unlock the door of the children's prison. And her next was to pounce upon them with even more vigor than when she emerged from it in the afternoon. For there they lay asleep on the carpet, Jane in a purple robe, and Sarah in a green, their hands and feet invisible by reason of the great length of their garments.

"Don't hurt them, Mary," said Mr. Pike. For she was hustling off the precious robes before the little girls were fairly awake; and they might have fared hardly, had not the kind man been present to see that justice was done; to wit, that they were compensated for their imprisonment by pockets full of cakes and fruit, and sent home to their mother without delay. That happy woman did not send them supperless to bed, nor say a word about punishing them, either then or afterwards. Perhaps she guessed that their punishment had already been sufficiently severe.

"O, mother," said Jane, "at first we didn't dare to stir or speak, for fear the crazy lady was listening; and she seemed angry enough to kill us. I felt as if my hair was turning gray, and Sarah looked as white as the wall. Well, after a great many hours, we began to look about the room, and we saw those queer gowns she knits, hanging in a row; and we got up and looked at them. By and by we got so tired doing nothing, that we took them down and tried them on, and played we were the saints. We tried to fly, but the old things were so heavy and long, that we couldn't even jump. And after a while we were so tired that we lay down and went to sleep, and never woke till Mrs. Pike came home. O, but 'twas the lonesomest, longest, dreariest afternoon we ever, ever knew—wasn't it, Sarah?"

This was the story, with variations, which the Holmes girls had to tell to their mates the next day, and the next, and so on, until it ceased to be a novelty.

But Mrs. Pike's prisoners were heroines, in the estimation of the village girls and boys, for more than one year, and doubtless still remember and tell to their children the story of their afternoon in the Cave of Machpelah.

M. R. W.



WAR AND PEACE.

WAR.

The warrior waves his standard high, His falchion flashes in the fray; He madly shouts his battle-cry, And glories in a well-fought day. But Famine's at the city gate, And Rapine prowls without the walls; The city round lies desolate, While Havoc's blighting footstep falls. By ruined hearths, by homes defiled, In scenes that nature's visage mar, We feel the storm of passions wild, And pluck the bitter fruit of war.

PEACE.

The cobweb hangs on Sword and belt, The charger draws the gliding plow; The cannons in the furnace melt, And change to gentle purpose now; The threshers swing their ponderous flails, The craftsmen toil with cheerful might; The ocean swarms with merchant sails, And busy mills look gay by night; The happy land becomes renowned, As knowledge, arts, and wealth increase, And thus, with plenty smiling round, We cull the blessed fruits of peace.



CHERRY-TIME.

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" We children used to say— "The merriest throughout the year, For all is bright and gay."

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" The air is fresh and sweet, And fair flowers in the garden bloom, And daisies 'neath our feet.

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" For hanging on the tree, All round and glistening in the sun, The pretty fruit we see.

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" Up in the tree so high We children climbed, and, laughing, said, "Almost into the sky."

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" The robins thought so too, And helped themselves to "cherries ripe" While wet with morning dew.

"Oh, cherry-time is a merry time!" The sunshine and the showers Of God's rich mercy fall on us In happy childhood's hours.



THE DAVY BOYS' FISHING-POND.

"Boys," said Mr. Davy, "how would you like to have a fishing-pond?"

The five boys looked at him eagerly, to see if he were in earnest.

"O, splendid, papa!" say they in chorus; "but how can we have a fishing-pond?"

"You know that hollow down in the pasture," continued Mr. Davy, "and what a blemish it is upon the farm. I have wondered if we could not make it useful in some way, and at the same time improve the looks of things. I think we might build an embankment upon the open side, make the slope steeper all round, bring the water into it from the creek, and so have a fishing-pond. We should have to make a race-way from the creek to the pond, and cut a channel through the meadow, in which the water could flow back to the creek again below the fall. I think it could be done," said Mr. Davy, after a pause, "only there would be a great deal of work necessary, and we could hardly afford to hire it done."

"O, father, we can do the digging," shouted five voices in chorus; "we can do it with our spades and wheelbarrows. School doesn't begin for a month yet, and we can get it all done in that time."

"Hurrah for a fish-pond!" cried Percy, and in imagination he fairly felt the bites of the three-pound trout he was to catch before summer was over.

Mr. Davy is a practical farmer. By that I mean that he cultivates the land with his own hands. He, with his men, and those of the boys who are old enough, are in the fields every morning in summer by five o'clock, ploughing, planting, sowing, or milking the cows, and, later in the season, haying, harvesting, or threshing. Tommy, the eldest of his sons, is thirteen years old; Clarence, the youngest, is five.

Mr. Davy had been thinking of the fishing-pond for some time, and had matured the plan in his mind before speaking of it to the boys. The morning after the conversation of which I have told you, I saw the five boys standing in thoughtful silence upon the bank above the hollow in the pasture. I do not believe the engineer who is planning the bridge across the British Channel, to connect England and France, feels anymore responsibility than did the Davy boys that morning.

"May we begin to-day, father?" said they, eagerly, at breakfast-time.

"Yes; and Patrick can help you," was the reply.

The horses were harnessed to the plough, and driven to the hollow. Patrick was instructed how to proceed. He put the reins round his neck, and took firm hold of the handles. "Go on wid ye, now!" he cried to the horses. A furrow was soon turned, and the fish-pond fairly begun.

"Your work," said Mr. Davy to the boys, "will be to wheel away the earth which Patrick ploughs out. The first thing is to lay a plank for your wheelbarrows to run upon."

Tommy and George soon brought the planks from the tool-house. Blocks were laid the proper distance apart to sustain them, and, after two or three hours' work, a line of plank, which looked to the boys as grand as the new Pacific Railway, stretched across the hollow. The little laborers went in to dinner flushed with excitement and hard work, but as happy, I dare say, as if they had been to Barnum's Museum, and seen the wax figures and wild animals.

Patrick had, during the forenoon, ploughed a good many furrows, and now the boys were busy enough carrying away the earth. Each had a wheelbarrow of his own—Clarence's a toy, which, with a tiny spade, his father had brought from the city with a view to the work now in progress. It required a steady hand to keep the wheelbarrows upon the plank. They would run off once in a while, and then all hands halted, and lifted them upon the track again. The earth was to be deposited—"dumped," the boys said—upon the site of the new embankment. As the first loads were overturned, Mr. Davy made his appearance.

"This fish-pond must have an outlet, you know," said he, "at the point where the bottom is lowest. I will measure it off for you, and drive three stakes on either side. Here we will have a gate; for our pond will need emptying and cleaning occasionally. Fish will not live in impure water."

The boys were delighted. All this excavating, laying out of earthworks, and planning of gate-way, seemed like real engineering. They were reenforced, after a while, by Patrick and the horses; and then how suddenly they became tired, his shovelfuls were so large in comparison with theirs—his wagon carried away so much more at a load!

Pretty early that evening little Clarence crept into his mother's lap, and told her a marvellous story of the amount of earth he had wheeled away; but his tired little eyes acted as though some of it had blown between their lids; and soon mamma tucked him away for twelve hours' sleep.

The hollow in the pasture, I forgot to say, was half an acre in extent, and appeared as though Nature had scooped it out on purpose to make a place for the Davy boys' fishing-pond. The creek, too, running nearly alongside, was there to supply it with water.

"What shall we ever do with that hill?" said Percy, pointing to a rise of ground on one side the hollow, as he and his brothers were surveying their work; "we never can cart all that away, nor dig up those trees, either."

"Let's leave it for an island," said Frank—"a real island—land with water all round it" (he had just begun studying geography); "and the trees will make a splendid grove, where we can have picnics."

"The island will afford a harbor for the boat, too," said Mr. Davy, who had just joined the children. "I suppose you will want a boat on your pond—will you not?"

The boys could scarcely believe their ears. A boat of their own, on their own pond! They had never dreamed of anything half so nice.

"Time to be at work!" said Mr. Davy.

All the forenoon, as I watched them from my window, I saw the embankment growing slowly, but steadily, while the sloping sides of the hollow became steeper and steeper. At night a visible step had been taken towards a fishing-pond.

I cannot tell you about every one of the days during which the Davy boys worked so industriously. At last, however, the excavation was completed, the embankment raised to the desired height. The frame for the gate-way stood firm between its crowding sides. Gates were in progress at the carpenter's, made of solid plank, a door sliding up and down over an open space near the bottom. This was easily worked by means of a handle at the top.

"And now," said Mr. Davy, "to get the water into the pond. Patrick and Michael must build a dam a little way up the creek and the race-way from a point just above. We shall need a gate similar to the one at the outlet."

The boys were glad to give way to Patrick and Michael, when it came to building dams and race-ways. In the mean time they assisted the mason who was lining the embankment on either side the gate with stone, to protect it against the action of the water. The stone-boat, a little, flat vehicle which slides over the ground without wheels, was brought out, for piles of stone were to be drawn from a distant part of the farm.

"But I shall want one of you to carry the hod for me," said the mason.

It was arranged that they should take turns at this; so one would stay and fill with mortar the queer little box which hod-carriers use, and bear it on his shoulders to the mason, who was fast laying the curved wall.

"Why do you have the wall laid in this rounding shape, papa?" asked George. "Why not have it straight?"

"Because the curve makes it stronger to resist the force of the water. You notice that the mason chooses stones which are larger at one end than at the other. He lays them so that the larger ends form the outer side of the curve—the smaller form the inner or shorter side, as you see by looking at this wall. The stones, thus wedged against each other, could not be as easily forced out of place as if they were square in shape, and laid in a straight line. Imagine the water pressing upon the inner side of the curve. How readily the wall would give way, and the water come pouring through! Have you never observed, children," continued Mr. Davy, "that in bridges, culverts, or any structure which is to sustain a heavy weight, the foundations are always laid in the form of an arch?"

"Yes, papa," answered George; "but I never knew why it was. I see now that it is to make them strong."

The boys had quite enough of hod-carrying and stone-quarrying before the wall was done. In fact, Patrick was pressed into the service repeatedly. The hod became too uneasy a burden for the boys' shoulders, even though it was padded with sheep-skin.

A channel to convey the water from the pond was now the only thing wanting. This was speedily begun, and the little workmen found themselves down in a trench behind a low rampart of earth.

"Let's play we are soldiers," said George. "We'll have Patrick and Michael for captain and lieutenant (only they must work, if they are officers), and papa for general and engineer."

Each little soldier did his best. The officers worked faithfully. The engineer came round often, and the dark thread across the bright, green meadow spun out rapidly.

"Let's elect Frank quartermaster," said Tommy; "then he'll go to headquarters, and make requisition for rations. I think it's time for dinner."

"Tell mother to send a big basketful, Frank. Soldiers get awful hungry," said Percy.

"Tell mother we want to make coffee in the field, too," said George. "Real soldiers do."

I fear that Patrick and Michael did most of the work after this, for the department of the commissary seemed to require the attention of all the boys.

Mamma was willing to issue rations in the field. "But," said she, "soldiers often have only hard tack and coffee. I suppose you will want nothing more."

This was a view of the case for which the boys were not prepared. They did not wish to seem unsoldierly, but they were very hungry.

"You know, mother," said Percy, "soldiers had bacon sometimes with their hard tack."

"And we are only playing soldiers. We ain't real soldiers," said matter-of-fact Clarence.

His brothers were quite ashamed that he should give this as a reason for wanting a good dinner, yet when they saw the pies and cakes going into the basket, they made no remarks.

While the quartermaster was at the house, Tommy and George had built a fire, to boil the coffee. Two crotched stakes were driven firmly in the ground. A stout rod lay across them, and on this hung the kettle. A lively fire was burning underneath, the water boiling. In a few moments the coffee was made.

After washing carefully in the creek,—for everything must be done as soldiers do,—all sat down in a circle on the ground. The coffee was served in tin cups; but shall I confess that our soldiers were so unsoldierlike as to drink it with cream and sugar?

Patrick and Michael partook; but as they were absent directly afterwards, under pretence of smoking a noon pipe, I fancy they ate still further rations in the farm-house kitchen. The boys, however, said it was the best dinner they ever ate in their lives.

They were now ready for a visit from the general. "We will have these breastworks," said he, "smoothed down in regular shape, and sow grass-seed upon them, so that in a few weeks there will be a green slope in place of these unsightly clods."

I assure you that as I look from my window while writing this story, those slopes appear very pretty, with the merry, sparkling stream flowing between.

But I must hasten; for you will be anxious to know that the pond, gates, outlet, and all were done at last. Then came the day upon which the water was to be let in. A great day it was for the whole neighborhood. All the boys for a mile round were there to see.

When everything was ready, Mr. Davy, who was up at the dam, hoisted the gate; the water came rushing through; in a few moments it had reached the end of its course, and poured over into the pond.

Such a shout as rose from the throats of the forty or fifty boys! It must have surprised those placid meadows and the great solemn rocks around. And you would have thought the sleepy old hills had actually been startled into life, such sounding echoes they sent back in answer.

The water spread itself thinly at first over the bottom of the pond. Slowly it rose; the little hollows were filled up, the slight elevations hidden from sight. Gradually it closed round the tiny green island which stood out above its surface like an emerald set in shining silver. By night the pond was full. The water began running over the top of the gate, making the prettiest little waterfall, and over it a light spray rose softly towards the evening sky.

Bright and early the next morning there was commotion at the Davys'. The boys were going to Maxwell's Creek, ten miles away, fishing. Mrs. Davy was stirring round, preparing their lunch. George and Percy hurried to the stable.

"Come, Brown Billy," said Percy to the favorite pony; "time to get up and have your breakfast. We are all going fishing to-day;" and he laid his hand smartly upon the pony's back.

Brown Billy raised his head, opened his eyes in astonishment to see the boys so early in his stall; but hearing their merry voices, he seemed to understand the situation at once, and to be in full sympathy with them. An extra allowance of oats was put in the manger, and while the boys were eating their breakfast in the house, Brown Billy leisurely munched his in the stable. Then, after a draught from the pump, he was put into the traces. Two casks and a large basket were lifted in, the luncheon deposited, and soon they were on their way. The sun was just peeping above the horizon, spreading a crimson glory over every hill, and tree, and shrub; but this was so familiar a sight to the Davy boys, that it caused no remark, though they were not insensible to its beauty.

The scene of their day's sport was a beautiful glen among the hills, through which the stream, a genuine, untaught child of the woods, jumped and tumbled at its own wild will, now leaping from precipices in the loveliest cataracts, then fretting noisily over its stony bed, and, a little farther on, flowing as smoothly as if it never thought of foaming or fretting in all its course.

Tommy tied Brown Billy to a tree, giving him a long tether, that he might pick at the fresh grass.

Trout are the most delicate of fishes, and require careful treatment. Indeed, they are quite the aristocracy of the finny tribe. Mr. Davy had given Patrick directions not to allow them to be caught with a hook, as it could not be taken from their mouths without causing much pain, and perhaps death.

Patrick chose a place in the stream where the channel was narrow, but deep, and waded in.

"Now, boys," said he, "yes all go above a little way, wade out into the sthrame, and bate the wather with yer fish-poles. This will drive thim down, and I'll see what I can do wid the basket."

The boys pulled off shoes and stockings, and rolled their trousers above the knees. Clarence sat on the bank, paddling with his bare feet in the stream. Stepping out into the creek, they hopped from one mossy stone to another, the water pleasantly laving their feet. Standing in a row across the stream, they began beating rather gently, at the same time walking slowly forward, hoping to drive the fish before them. Presently Patrick brought up the basket, the water streaming from it as it did from Simple Simon's sieve, and in the bottom, wriggling and squirming, lay four fine trout. Tommy seized the basket, and in an instant the fish were within the cask, in their native element again, though in rather close quarters. The boys hung over the barrel, gazing at the pretty creatures with intense delight. The sun shone down into the water, making the bright spots on their sides look like gold.

"Never mind, little trout," said Franky; "you are not going to be hurt—only moved to our fish-pond."

Do you not think they enjoyed that day far more because there was no cruelty in their sport?

Their amusement was varied by a delicious lunch, and an occasional ramble through the woods. Towards evening they drove home, elated with their success. The cask contained nearly as many fish as could swim. The second cask was filled with fresh water, to replace that in the first when it should no longer be fit for the use of the fish. These delicate little trout are so sensitive to any impurity, that they could not have remained in the same water during the drive home without suffering. Indeed, they might have died before reaching the pond.

My young readers may not know that fish breathe an element of the water which is a part of air also. In fact, the same element which sustains us sustains them also, viz., oxygen. Only one ninth part of water, however, is oxygen, while of air it is one fifth. I dare say you have all seen goldfishes, shut up in crystal prisons, swimming their endless round in a quart or two of water. Perhaps you have observed them lifting their heads above the surface, mouths wide open, gasping for breath. The oxygen is exhausted from the water, and unless it be speedily changed their mistress will lose her beautiful pets.

The trout were put into the pond—a small beginning, to be sure; but it was a beginning. How lonely they must have been at first! What a boundless ocean it must have seemed to them!

We will hope they found some cosy harbor in the grassy-lined sides of the island, where they could meet together and talk over their strange experience of moving. Plenty of company came soon, however; for all the boys in the neighborhood were interested in stocking the pond.

A boat was in progress in Mr. Davy's tool-house. The boys watched every inch of its growth, from the shaping of the skeleton frame to the last dash of the paint-brush. When it was done, the seats put across from side to side, the coatings of white paint laid on, and elevated upon four stakes to dry its glistening sides, the boys thought nothing was ever half so beautiful; but when they saw it upon the pond, gently rocking from side to side, the oars hanging in the locks, and lazily swaying to the motion of the water, it seemed to them more beautiful still.

This is not all a fancy sketch, dear boys and girls. Perhaps some of the farmer children who read it may persuade their papas to make a fishing-pond of some unsightly "hollow in the pasture" upon their own farms.

L. M. D.



STORIES ABOUT DOGS.

A Newfoundland dog belonging to a gentleman in Edinburgh was in the habit of receiving a penny each day from his master, which he always took to a baker's shop and bought a loaf of bread for himself. One day a bad penny was given him by a gentleman by way of frolic. Dandie ran off with it to the baker's, as usual, but was refused a loaf. The poor dog waited a moment, as if considering what to do; he then returned to the house of the gentleman who had given him the bad coin; and when the servant opened the door, he laid it at her feet and walked away with an air of contempt.

Some dogs are fond of music, while others seem not to be affected by it in the slightest degree. These two anecdotes are related by the author of a recent volume. He is speaking of a friend: "As soon as the lamp is lighted and placed on the sitting-room table, a large dog of the water-spaniel breed usually jumps up and curls himself around the lamp. He never upsets it, but remains perfectly still. Now, my friend is very musical, but during the time the piano is being played the dog remains perfectly unmoved, until a particular piece is played. He will not take the slightest notice of loud or soft pieces, neither sentimental nor comic, but instantly the old tune entitled 'Drops of Brandy' is played, he invariably raises his head and begins to howl most piteously, relapsing into his usual state of lethargy as soon as this tune is stopped. My friend cannot account for this action of the dog in any way, nor can we learn from any source the reason of its dislike.

"Again, the wife of a hotel-keeper, lately deceased, possessed a pet lap-dog which delighted in listening to its mistress playing on the piano; if the usual hour for her daily practice passed by, the dog would grow impatient, snap and bark, and be perfectly uneasy until the lady consented to gratify its wishes by sitting down to the instrument and playing a few tunes. During this operation the dog would sit motionless on a chair by her side; and when the music was ended, he would jump down, quite satisfied for that day."



A CHILD'S PRAYER.

Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless thy little lamb to-night; Through the darkness be thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light.

Through the day thy hand hath led me, And I thank thee for thy care; Thou hast warmed and fed and clothed me, Listen to my evening prayer.



JOHN STOCKS AND "THE BISON."

One winter afternoon, as Archy Douglas sat studying his lessons, Mrs. Falkoner, the housekeeper, came to invite him to have tea in her room. While they were at the table, they heard the kitchen bell ring, at which Mrs. Falkoner seemed surprised, for she said the weather would incline few people to leave their own firesides.

It turned out, however, to be a visitor for Mrs. Falkoner herself, for in a few minutes one of the servants came to say a person who called himself John Stocks wanted to see her, and John presented himself in the doorway without further delay.

An active man, with the look, at first sight, of the mate of a ship, he stood gently stamping the snow off his boots on the door mat, laughing in a low tone, as if he was very much pleased to see the worthy Mrs. Falkoner, and was enjoying her stare of astonishment to the full.

"Dear bless me, John, is it really you?" said Mrs. Falkoner, almost running to meet him. "Whatever wind has blown you here?"

"No wind at all, Mary; nought but the snow," he said, laughing: but correcting himself, he added, "Ah, well, there was a wind, after all, for we're fairly drifted up a few miles t'other side of the Junction; and so I got leave to run over and see you: not often I get the chance—is it, now?"

All this time he had been taking off his outer coat; and when he was fairly in the room, Archy found he was a young man, certainly not more than thirty. He had crisp black hair, a bold, manly face, very red with exposure to the weather, and at the same time expressive of great determination of character. But one peculiarity about his face was, that though so young, his forehead was not only scarred and lined, but round his eyes and about his mouth it was puckered and wrinkled to a most extraordinary degree. Archy felt a great curiosity about him, but was not long left in doubt, for Mrs. Falkoner took care to make her visitor known to the young gentleman as her youngest half brother and an engine-driver on the main line.

A remarkably quiet man did John Stocks seem in regard to general conversation; he said very little about the weather, and less about things going on in the great world, and anything he did say on these topics had almost to be coaxed out of him. However, he evidently took great delight in giving all the family news, even to the most minute particular.

"Of course you've heard," he said, warming one hand at the fire, "that Bob's come home from America. Then that old Thompson has given up the shop."

"Yes; so I heard," said Mrs. Falkoner, pouring out another cup of tea, not appearing to take very great interest in them. "No accidents on your line lately, I hope."

"Not much," was the answer, and he again went back to the family news. "Jenny's got a baby," he said, suddenly, with great glee, as if this piece of news was far before any other.

This intelligence at least was news to Mrs. Falkoner, and she listened to all he had to say about it with great interest.

But when Mrs. Falkoner was called away for a few minutes, it became necessary for Archy to entertain the visitor till her return.

Of course Archy had many questions to put about the railway and the engines, and dangers and catastrophes. John was excessively civil, and on this subject was full of intelligence; but when he was asked if his own engine had broken down in the snow, he became quite horrified, if not indignant.

"What, master, broke down?" he said. "Not a bit o't. I'd back the old Bison against a drift twice as heavy. But, d'ye see, when you comes and finds an engine and seven wagons o' minerals, and another engine, and wagons besides that all ahead o' ye, and stuck fast, why, I says, ye must give in. There ain't no use expecting yer engine to drive through 'em, so must lie by till all's cleared, which won't be for five hours at least."

"How is it that the line's blocked up now?" asked Archy. "There has been no more snow all day."

"Ay, that's true, master," said the engine-driver. "But d'ye see, a mile from the Junction there's a bit of heavy cutting, with a steep sloping bank on either side. Now, this afternoon there was a slip; most all the snow drifted there, and part of the bank itself fell in, and so there is a block-up. As I said afore, the mineral train, she comes up first, and she sticks fast, and then we has to follow, as a matter in course. But had my old Bison been afront, he'd have done differently, I make no doubt."

"Is your engine a much stronger one?" said Archy, greatly amused to hear how funny it was to call a train she, while he called the engine he, and by an animal's name, too.

"It's not that he's stronger, sir, but he's got more go in him, has the Bison. He's an extraordinary plucky engine. I've seen him do wonderful things when Mat Whitelaw was driver, and me stoker to 'em. I'll just tell you one on 'em, and then ye can judge what sort o' stuff the Bison's made o'. It was one day in summer, some two years ago; we had just taken in water at the junction, and were about to run back to couple on the coaches, when an engine passed us tearing along at a tremendous speed on the other line o' rail, but, mark me, without a driver or stoker, or aught else on it. I thought my mate was mad, when he got up steam, and off in the same direction; but in a moment I saw what he was up to. The Bison was going in the chase. 'See to the brake, John,' was all Mat said, when off we were after the runaway at full speed. It seemed to me nought but a wild-goose chase; for, d'ye see, master, we were on another line o' rails altogether. But Mat knew what he was about, and it was my place to do his bidding. I was always proud o' the old Bison before that morning, but I never knew till then what a good engine was, and what was depending on it.

"You would have thought he fairly snorted to his work, going at the rate o' forty miles an hour we were, and at last we got abreast o' the runaway engine, and could have passed him, but that would have been useless. There wasn't another driver on the whole line would have thought of the thing so quickly as Mat did, nor could have regulated the speed so nicely to a moment. The two different engines were running just opposite each other on the two different lines, the runaway being a good deal worn out now, and going much slower than at first, when Mat he says to me, hoarsely, 'Jump across. It'll be safer if I stick here to hold the regulator; but I'll go, if you'd rather stay.' I had such confidence in Mat Whitelaw, that I could trust my life with him before any mortal man; and the instant he gave the word, I jumped, and did it safe. We each put on our brakes, and took breath, and desperately hot we both were, I can assure you."

"Were you not terribly afraid?" said Archy, who had been almost breathless during the recital.

"I can't say that we were," said John, coolly; "but I'll tell you I was frightened enough the next moment, when Mat looked at his watch, and sees that the down express was due in a few minutes on his line. I believe that Mat thought more o' the passengers that might be smashed, and the risk for the Bison, than o' his own safety. He said it would never do to reverse the engines now; but if we kept on, he thought there might yet be time to run into the siding at the nearest station. So on we went once more at increased speed, straight on ahead, though it was like running into the very face of the danger. The telegraph had been hard at work, and the station people had been laying their heads together, and they were at the points. So, when they heard the whistle, and saw Mat putting on the brake, they at once opened the points,—not a moment too soon, I can tell you,—and in he ran into the siding. Now, what Mat did, sir, was what I call about equal to most generals in war, and as great a benefit to society."

"He must be a brave fellow," said Archy; "and I hope you were both rewarded for it."

"The company behaved very handsome," was the answer. "Mat got on to the Great Western line at once; but the worst of it is, he and I are parted, and the old Bison; he felt his loss as much, if not more than me."

Mrs. Falkoner, who had come in during the latter part of the story, now said,—

"But tell the young gentleman what you did your own self, and what the company thought of your conduct."

"Tuts, Mary," he answered; "I did nought extraordinary; there ain't a man in the service but could have done the same, had they known old Bison as well as I did."

"I should like to hear it, John," said Archy, who was standing ready to leave the brother and sister alone.

"Well, 'cept it be to tell you how I got to be driver of the Bison myself, it's not worth the listening to. When Mat left, Bill Jones got to be my mate—the worst driver on the line; at least he couldn't manage the Bison. He did not understand that engine one bit, and was constantly getting into trouble, till I was driven almost wild. Bill would say, 'Bison, indeed! he ought to be called Donkey; it would suit his kicking ways better.' It was quite true he kicked, but he never did it with Mat on him, and went along the rails as smooth as oil. Well, at one part o' the line, there is a gradual long incline, and one day we were just putting on more steam to run up, when we sees at the top two or three coaches coming tearing down straight upon us. We knew there was a heavy excursion train on ahead, and we had been going rather slow on that account, and this was some of the coaches that had got uncoupled from the rest. Well, Bill, my mate, no sooner saw it coming, than says he, 'Jump for your life!' and out he went. But I knew what a quick engine the Bison was, and, moreover, I saw our guard had noticed the danger, too, and would work with me; so I reversed the engine, and ran back, until the coaches came up to us, but did no further damage save giving us a bit of a shake as they struck on the old Bison; and so we drove them afore us right up to the station. Bill was killed, as might have been expected, for he had no faith in the Bison whatever; and so the company, they came to see I understood that engine, and they made me driver o' him from that time."

Archy now bade the worthy engine-driver good night, saying that he should always take a greater interest in engines than ever before, and that he should have liked very much to have seen such a famous one as the Bison.

John Stocks evidently took this speech as a personal compliment, and, in consequence, bade Archy a friendly good by, saying, as he did so, "that people nowadays talked of nothing but ships and extraordinary guns, and what not, but to his mind a good engine was before them all."

MRS. GEORGE CUPPLES.



THE CHILDREN'S SONG.

Merrily sang the children, as their mother softly played; With eager, outstretched faces a pretty group they made; Their clear and bird-like voices ran loudly through the air, Till "Baby" heard the music, and crept from stair to stair, That she might join the singers, and in their gladness share.

Dear, merry little warblers! I love to hear you, too; Your fresh, unworldly feelings, your hearts so fond and true, Give to your songs a sweetness that no other strains possess; They soothe the harassed spirit when troubles thickly press, And evoke the warm petition, "O GOD, OUR CHILDREN BLESS!"



PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.

How earnest Kate and Constance and Brother Willy look, Counting up varied treasures, ship, bat and doll and book!

The three are very busy, and very happy too, Trying to mend up old things to look almost like new.

The book was rather shabby, but Kate with paste and thread Has made it firm and tidy, and rubbed it clean with bread.

And now, ere she resigns it, she lingers, glancing o'er The pretty picture pages and well-known lines once more.

Constance has dressed the dolly—you see how nice it looks— And all its things are fastened with little strings or hooks.

The ship with clean new rigging—Will's work—they eye with pride, And they have quite a drawerful of other things beside—

Boxes of beads and sweeties, and many a top and ball, Saved for the coming Christmas; and who's to have them all?

Not their own merry playmates, bright girl and happy lad, Who'll meet for winter pastime like them well fed and clad.

No; children in close alleys, or the large workhouse near, Our little friends—obeying Christ's words—will please and cheer.

And their own Christmas pleasures will seem more glad and sweet For knowing such poor neighbors enjoy for once a treat.



QUE.

He was a wee bit of a boy to carry the United States mail on his back, seven miles, every day. He was only eleven years old, and as long, to an inch, as the mail bag, which was just three feet and eleven inches long. When he went along the road, you would sometimes see him, and sometimes the bag; that was as you happened to be on this or the other side of him. Many persons' hard hearts have been made to open a crevice, at sight of the little fellow, to let a little jet of pity spirt out for him. But "The Point" ran out three miles and a half to the south of the county road and the stage coach, and the nearest coach post-office; and because it was only a small point, and sparsely settled, it couldn't afford a horse for the short distance; and because it was a short distance, no man, or boy, who was able to do a full day's work, would break into it to walk the seven miles; and because it was seven miles, no one who was not well could walk so far every day, and the year round. So it happened that the job was up for bids one spring, and the person who would carry the mail from Gingoo to the Point for the smallest amount of money, was to have it for a year.

One woman offered to carry it for eighty dollars; another for seventy; one big boy offered for sixty-five; he'd make the girls at home do the work, he said,—they hadn't anything else to do,—and he would give them each a new ribbon to pay for it: and between you and me, I am very glad that that boy didn't get the job.

Without saying a word to his family about it, Que made up his mind that he would carry the mail himself. When the others sent in their bids he sent in his, for fifty dollars. So it happened that Que was mail-carrier. He was so little and bow-legged, that there were not many things that he could do; for instance, he couldn't run. His head and feet were very large, and his arms and intermediate body very small; therefore he could dream and wonder what he should do when he grew up, and walk (with care) as much as he pleased, but was not a favorite among the boys in playing games.

Of course he was not baptized into the name Que, but was called, by his parents and the christening minister, John Quincy Adams Pond, Jr.; named for his father, you see. They began to call him Que before he was out of his babyhood; for they had one boy named John Lee, but as they always called him Lee, they entirely forgot that fact till after the ceremony of Que's christening. And they really weren't much to blame, for they had nine other boys, and poor memories; and though both are misfortunes, they can't be helped. To avoid mixing their two Johns, they called one Lee and the other Que.

Que looked upon seven miles a day as no walk at all, and upon fifty dollars a year as a fortune, and upon "United States mail-carrier" as a title little below "Hon." or "Esq." He had hoped, all his life, that he should, some fine day, have a right to one or the other of these titles. Probably the fact that his name already ended with a "Jr." excited his ambition in that particular direction. Money and dignity seemed to Que the two things most to be desired in life, unless I might add a small family.

Now, we will leave Que's antecedents behind, and go on to his life while he carried the mail; and a very queer little life it was, as you will say when you get to the end of it, though I don't know when that will be, for Que isn't there himself yet. The mail contract was from July 1, 1860, to July 1, 1861, and if your mathematics are in good running order, you will see that that was just a year.

July 1, 1860, was as fine a day in Gingoo as any day in the year; and Que was in as high spirits as on any day in the course of his life. Unfortunately the mail coach reached Gingoo exactly at forty minutes past eleven, unless the driver got drunk or fell asleep, which happened about two hundred and forty days in the year. But whether sober, drunk, or asleep, the four coach horses always stood before Gingoo office door by twelve o'clock at latest.

It makes no difference to you or to me when the coach stood there; but it made a great deal of difference to Que, for twelve o'clock on the finest day in the year, and that day the first of July, is apt to be rather warm; and in the year 1860 it was very warm. Nevertheless, at quarter past twelve, Que started with the bag. I, happening to be at the right side of him, saw only the bag start with Que.

Perhaps you don't see why Que should have started right in the heat of the day; but if you had been Que, and could have heard all the Pointers clamoring for their mail, you would have started just when Que did. The mail-bag was made of very dark leather, and drew the sun tremendously. Now, as Que had on a pair of light linen pants and a little gray lined coat, of course he ought to have walked between the bag and the sun; but not being a scientific boy, he didn't think of that, and slung the bag over his sunny shoulder, and from that height it trailed to the ground.

Que walked on as fast as he could, trying not to think too much of the heat and the weight; but the peculiar odor that the sun brought from the leather bag was blown up his nose, and down his throat, and into his ears, by a strong south wind that blew, and before Que had time to think whether he had better or better not, he was lying fast asleep by the side of the road, on the grass; rather he was lying on the mail-bag, and that was lying on the grass. Why didn't he fall on the other side? For two reasons; first, he was attracted mail-bag way by the sleepy odor before spoken of; and secondly, the weight was all that way, and as he began to sleep before he began to drop, of course the bag was his natural bed when he did drop.

The Point road was lonesome, and it must have been quite an hour before any one came that way. Then a man and two horses, and a cart loaded high with laths, were seen coming over the hill; that is, they would have been seen, if Que hadn't been asleep just then.

"Hollo! what's all this?" said the driver when he got opposite the bag and Que.

"All this" neither stirred nor spoke.

"Whoa! whoa, there!" called the driver to his horses.

Now, if Que had been taking only a light, after-dinner nap, he would have been wide awake as soon as the cart stopped; for the hill was a long one, and the rumbling had been as long, and merely from lack of that lullaby, a well-conditioned boy should have wakened at once. But Que didn't.

"I declare," said the driver, "if it ain't that bran new mail-boy!" Thereupon he went up and looked at him; but not being of a magnetic temperament, he didn't wake Que that way.

"Bless the chick, if he isn't dead asleep," continued the driver, talking to himself. This driver had a habit of talking to himself, for he said, "then he was always sure of having somebody worth talking to."

"Now, won't those Pointers growl for their mail, when it is a couple of hours late? The first day, too! Que'll catch it." Then he gave Que a little roll, so that he rolled from the bag over into the grass.

"Well, I always was a good-natured fellow. Guess I'll take his bag along for him, and save him the scolding."

So the driver threw the bag on top of the load of laths, and left the bag-boy to sleep it out.

When Que had slept half an hour longer, he started up, staring wide awake.

"I've been asleep," said Que; and so he had.

"My bag's been and gone," continued Que; and so it had.

But he was a bright boy, and all the brighter, perhaps, for having just been asleep; so he looked round, which is a very good thing to do when you get into trouble, and the very thing that half the people in the world never think to do.