From one high-handed act of usurpation to another, assisted by unprincipled, ambitious men, he proceeded, evidently aiming to secure the crown for his own head.

Under pretense of placing the Prince in greater safety, and removing him from persons who might influence him, to the detriment of the peace and welfare of the kingdom, he was conducted, in great state, to the Tower; his uncle assuming the office of Lord Protector of the King.

Upon gaining the entire custody of the royal lad, he sent a large number of dignitaries to the royal mother, to persuade her to allow the other little boy to be taken to the Tower to keep his brother company. The Prince was allowed to proceed thither, and Richard, now having them both at his mercy, determined upon their death.

The Governor of the Tower was, it seems, a man of at least human feelings, and when he was ordered by Richard, "In some wise to put the children to death," utterly refused to perform so dangerous and horrible an act.

Richard then sent for the keys of the Tower, to keep in his possession twenty-four hours, and gave them, and the command of the Tower for that time, to Sir James Tyrrel, his master of horse.

This man procured two assassins, who proceeded, at dead of night, to the chamber of the sleeping Princes. They lay in each other's arms, as though they had fallen asleep comforting one another; and the assassins, falling upon them with their ruffian strength, smothered them with the bed-clothes, "Keeping the feather pillows hard upon their mouths."

When the deed was done, Tyrrel stepped into the chamber, to take a hasty view of the dead bodies, which were then, by his orders, buried at the stair-foot, under a heap of stones.

Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had no further obstacle in assuming the purple, and was crowned King of England with all pomp and ceremony, and known to unenviable fame as Richard III.

This account has come down to us with all the authority of historical verity, and subsequent evidences of its accuracy have been discovered. The age was characterized by inhumanity of the most barbarous kind, and this crime was in keeping with it.

The English people in this nineteenth century rejoice in a sovereign who is noble in the highest sense; beloved by her subjects, achieving for herself the universal plaudit of a "most humane and gracious lady."



THE TOWER OF LONDON.

This ancient edifice is situated on the north bank of the Thames, at the extremity of the city of London.

The antiquity of the building has been a subject of much inquiry, but the present fortress is believed to have been built by William the Conqueror, and garrisoned with Normans to secure the allegiance of his subjects; although it appears that the Romans had a fort on this spot, if a dim tradition can be credited. The building is governed by the "Constable of the Tower," who, at coronations and other State ceremonies, has the custody of the regalia.

The principal entrance is on the west, and consists of two gates, at which are stationed guards. The keys are kept, during the day, at the warder's hall, but deposited every night at the Governor's house. Cannon are placed at intervals around the great wall, and command every avenue leading to Tower Hill.

On the south side is an arch, called "Traitors' Gate," through which State prisoners were formerly brought from the river. Near the Traitors' Gate is the "Bloody Tower," in which it is supposed the two young Princes, Edward V and his brother, were smothered by order of Richard III.

In the south-west angle of the inclosure were the royal apartments, for the Tower was a palace for nearly five hundred years, and only ceased to be so on the accession of Elizabeth.

The principal buildings within the walls are the church, the white tower, the ordnance office, the jewel office, the horse armory. The church is called "St. Peter in Vincules," and is remarkable as the depository of the headless bodies of numerous illustrious personages who suffered either in the Tower or on the hill. Among these were Anna Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Catharine Howard, the Duke of Somerset and the Duke of Monmouth.

The jewel office is a strong, stone room, in which are kept the crown jewels, regalia, such as the golden orb, the golden sceptre with the dove, St. Edward's staff, State salt-cellar, sword of mercy, golden spurs, the golden eagle and golden spoons, also the silver font used at the baptism of the royal family, the State crown worn by her Majesty in Parliament. A large collection of ancient plate is also kept here.

The horse armory is a brick building east of the white tower, adorned with suits of armor of almost every description; but the most striking are the effigies of the English kings on horseback, armed cap-a-pie. The line of mounted celebrities commences with William the Conqueror and ends with George II. Several of the cuirasses and helmets taken at Waterloo are kept here. In the armory are also shown a representation of Queen Elizabeth in armor; the axe which severed the head of Anna Boleyn, as well as that of the Earl of Essex; the invincible banner taken from the Spanish Armada, and the wooden cannon used by Henry VIII at the siege of Boulogne.

The Beauchamp Tower is noted for the illustrious personages formerly confined within its walls.



MARY AND HER LAMB.

This is the title of one of the most familiar poems in the English language, but few people know its history.

Most of our young readers will be surprised to hear that the well-known nursery song of "Mary had a Little Lamb" is a true story, and that "Mary" is still living, says an exchange.

About seventy years ago she was a little girl, the daughter of a farmer in Worcester county, Mass. She was very fond of going with her father to the fields to see the sheep, and one day they found a baby lamb, which was thought to be dead.

Kind-hearted little Mary, however, lifted it up in her arms, and as it seemed to breathe she carried it home, made it a warm bed near the stove, and nursed it tenderly. Great was her delight when, after weeks of careful feeding and watching, her little patient began to grow well and strong, and soon after it was able to run about. It knew its young mistress perfectly, always came at her call, and was happy only when at her side.

One day it followed her to the village school, and not knowing what else to do with it, she put it under her desk and covered it with her shawl.

There it stayed until Mary was called up to the teacher's desk to say her lesson, and then the lamb walked quietly after her, and the other children burst out laughing. So the teacher had to shut the little girl's pet in the woodshed until school was out. Soon after this, a young student, named John Rollstone, wrote a little poem about Mary and her lamb and presented it to her. The lamb grew to be a sheep and lived for many years, and when at last it died Mary grieved so much for it that her mother took some of its wool, which was as "white as snow," and knitted a pair of stockings for her, to wear in remembrance of her darling.

Some years after the lamb's death, Mrs. Sarah Hall, a celebrated woman who wrote books, composed some verses about Mary's lamb and added them to those written by John Rollstone, making the complete poem as we know it. Mary took such good care of the stockings made of her lamb's fleece that when she was a grown-up woman she gave one of them to a church fair in Boston.

As soon as it became known that the stocking was made from the fleece of "Mary's little lamb," every one wanted a piece of it; so the stocking was raveled out, and the yarn cut into small pieces. Each piece was tied to a card on which "Mary" wrote her full name, and these cards sold so well that they brought the large sum of $140 in the Old South Church.—Our Sunday Afternoon.



JAMIE'S GARDEN.

"I shall have the nicest kind of a garden," said Jamie, one morning. "I'm going to make it in that pretty little spot just over the bank. I mean to have some flowers in pots and some in beds just like the gardener; and then you can have fresh ones every day, mamma. I'm going right over there now."

Jamie started off bravely with his spade on his shoulder; but when, after an hour, mamma went to see how he was getting on, she found him lying on the grass, with the ground untouched.

"Why, Jamie, where is your garden?"

"I was just lying here, and thinking how nice it will look when it is all done," said Jamie.

Mamma shook her head. "But that will not dig ground, nor make the flowers grow, little boy. No good deed was ever done by only lying still and thinking about it."



CAMP TRIO.

A. DE G. H.

Hurrah! Hurrah! only two days more to vacation, and then!——

If the crowning whistle, and energetic bang with which the strapped books came down, were any indication of what was coming after the "then!" it must be something unusual. And so it was—for Ned, Tom and Con, who were the greatest of chums, as well as the noisiest, merriest boys in Curryville Academy—were to go into camp for the next two weeks, by way of spending part of their vacation. They could hardly wait for school to close, and over the pages of Greenleaf danced, those last two days, unknown quantities of fishing tackle, tents, and the regular regalia of a camping out-fit. They talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night.

At last the great day dawned—dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language—"We are in for a rattlin' good time, and don't want to be togged out." They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Shore, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.

Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day—cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.

Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed—which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs—untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day's fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, passed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.

They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that "Camp Trio" was most appropriate.

One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.

"It's Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us," said Con, in a ghostly whisper. "Hush!" and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.

"It was the Leviathan, I guess," said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour! No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.

"Oh, boys, it's too rich! Why, it was Potter's old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual—look here!" and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next, stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn't relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.

"What on airth ye doin' here; trespassin' on other folks' grounds? Mebby ye don't know it's agin the law!"

The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.

"Hevin' fun, be ye! Wall, I'll vow, settin' in the wet, eatin' cold rations, haint my idee of fun." And away he stalked.

The boys looked at each other.

"I say, fellers," said Con, "a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh bread wouldn't go bad—eh?"

The two answered with a hungry look.

"But let's tough it out over Sunday, or they'll all laugh at us." And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.

"I'd rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles," Tom affirmed, "than put in another such a Sunday."

They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.



THE SENTIMENTAL FOX.

"Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see, You flying aloft in that gone sort of way, Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears, But my deepest emotions I never betray.

"I've always admired you, wonderful bird, By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon; I tell you 'tis more than a fox can endure, To know that you take your departure so soon.

"I snatched a few feathers, in memory of you; I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan; Oh, what a memento to hang in my den! And in very hot weather to use as a fan.

"Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth! There's nothing I would not perform for your sake; If once in awhile I could see you down here, I'd never get tired of the shores of this lake!"

"Cheer up, Mr. Fox," said the duck, flying higher, "The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon; When they get far away, and have time to reflect, They see that it came not a moment too soon.

"You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with; You see if I granted that favor to you, 'Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough, As I find it convenient, just now, to have two."

Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky. "That's a very shrewd bird," said the fox in dismay! "I shall have to look round for my dinner, again, And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day."



EARTHEN VESSELS.

Spring time had come, with its blossoms and birds; and Mrs. Rossiter threw up the sash of the east window, and pushed open the blinds, and drew a long deep breath of morning air, and morning sunshine.

"I think, Bridget," she said, "that we might venture to bring the house-plants out-doors to-day. There can hardly be another frost, this year."

"Oh! may I help?" asked little Charley, "I'll be very careful."

"On that condition, that you be very careful, you may bring the little ones," answered his mother.

The work progressed safely and rapidly for awhile. Geraniums, roses, fuchsias, heliotropes, and so following, came forth in profusion, many in bloom, and were placed in rows along the garden borders, ready to be transferred to the beds, for the summer. At last the little ones were all brought by Charley, and only larger ones remained.

"I'll carry just this one big one," he said to himself: "I'm stronger than mother thinks I am." But the pot full of earth, was heavier than Charley had thought it, and before he reached the place to set it down it had grown very heavy indeed; and, glad to get it out of his aching arms as quickly as possible, he placed it on the curb so suddenly, that with a loud crash it parted in the middle and lay in pieces at his feet. Glancing quickly at his mother and seeing in her face impending reproach, he forestalled it by exclaiming:

"Well, that pot broke itself very easily. What's it made of, any how?"

The mother couldn't help but smile at this attempted shifting of the blame to the pot, but she answered, in a moment, gravely:

"The pot, Charley, was made of clay; the same weak material from which little boys are made; who, when they forget to obey their mothers, are as likely to meet disaster as the earthen pot."

Charley didn't care just then to discuss disobedient boys, so he turned at once to the subject of the pot.

"Made of clay," he exclaimed, "well, I'd like to see a man make a thing like that of clay."

"And so would I," said sister Mary, who, from an upper window, had listened to the conversation.

"And so you shall, if I have no further reminders of this sort, that my children are made of the same unreliable material."

That afternoon, the three, started for the pottery works. Mr. Sands, the proprietor, kindly received them, and fully explained all his processes. First he pointed out what seemed to Charley a heap of dry hard common dirt; taking a little piece of this he dipped it into a basin of water and then squeezing and pressing it in his hand it soon became soft, and plastic, so that it could be wrought to any shape. He then led the party to another room where a young man was engaged in thus softening large masses. He would first crumble the hard earth into fine pieces; then wet and pack it together into a "loaf," so Charley called it, and then raising it over his head throw it again with all his might upon the table before him until it became soft and smooth through all its bulk. This, Mr. Sands said, was called "wedging the clay," and that it was now ready for "throwing" into shape.

"Will it come into shape if you just throw it?" said Charley.

Mr. Sands laughed heartily at this, and answered, "come and see;" and taking up one of the softened "loaves," to use Charley's word for them, he led the way to the next room. The young man who had been "wedging" now followed and placed himself at a large wheel which was connected by a strap or belt with a table at which Mr. Sands seated himself.



Upon the table was another little table, round and low, and upon this Mr. Sands placed his "loaf." Then the young man began to turn the wheel and the loaf began to spin round very rapidly. Mr. Sands next pressed his finger right through the middle of the clay, so farming the hole which we always see at the bottom of flower-pots. Then, as it spun round, he worked the clay gradually upwards and sloped it outwards, using both hands, and holding the edges with his fingers and thumbs.

Before Charley could express his surprise, the little roll of clay was changed into a flower-pot. With a square iron tool called a rib it was smoothed outside, and then the pot was lifted on a board. One after another followed till a long row was ready and they were carried off to be dried.

"How do you know when to leave off stretching it?" asked Mary of the potter.

He laughed, and pointed to a small iron gauge on the table. As soon as the pot reached this he knew he must leave off stretching it out. This iron is of course put higher or lower according to the size required.

"Now I'll make you a pitcher, missie," said the good-natured man, and with the same kind of clay, just rounding it a bit and giving a cunning little pinch to form the spout, he made quite a pretty jug.

"Where's the handle?" asked Charley.

"Oh, that can't go on yet, sir! We must wait till the jug is dry, for we could not press it tight enough to make it stick."

Bread-pans and washing-pans are made in exactly the same way as flower-pots, being moulded by the hand into different forms. When the pots and pans leave the potter's wheel they are taken, as we saw, to dry, and great care is required to keep them at a certain heat, for if the frost gets to them now they crack and are useless.

"Here's a comical little pot!" exclaimed Charley, holding up a wee one.

"We call them long Toms," said Mr. Sands. "They are mostly used by nursery-gardeners, because they take so little room."

"How long do they take to dry?" asked Mary, looking longingly at her little jug.

"About a day; so we will leave your jug with the others, and go to the kiln to see how they will be burnt to-morrow."

The kiln was round, with a big doorway, called a wicket.

The pots and pans are put inside, great care being taken that they should not touch each other, or they would stick like loaves of bread. Pans are first glazed with a mixture of blue or red lead. The fire is burning below, and there are holes to allow the flames to pass upwards amongst the pottery. When the kiln is full the wicket is bricked up and daubed over with road-mud.

"Fancy using such dirty stuff!" said Mary.

"The manure in it makes it stick, just as hair does in mortar. Clay would crack with the heat. So you see, dear, there's nothing so dirty or so common that it may not be of some use in the world."

"How do you know when they are cooked enough?" asked Charley.

"I'll show you," said Mr. Sands, and he immediately led us to a small door, which opened some way up the kiln.

"This is called the crown," said Mr. Sands.

It was a flat surface, with four holes which showed the red heat below, and looked like little volcanoes in a good temper.

"Do you see those iron rods hanging like walking-sticks in the furnace?" asked our guide. "Well, those are called trials, and at the end of each is a lump of clay and glaze. If the glaze is burnt enough we suppose that the whole batch is done, but we sometimes make a mistake and spoil a lot."

"What is done next?" asked Charley.

"If they are properly burnt, they are allowed to cool gradually, and are then ready for sale."

By this time all were pretty well tired, and so they said good morning to Mr. Sands and went home.

"Mother," said Charley, as they sat down to dinner, "I shall ask how it's done oftener than ever, now, for I like going over factories. What's to be the next one, I wonder."

"Bread," exclaimed Mary, as she cut a big slice for herself. "Shall it be bread, mother?"

"Yes, if you like, but I propose we go to see the flour made first. So the next place we explore will be a flour-mill."

E. M. W.



BIRDIE'S BREAKFAST.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Take your breakfast, little birdie,— Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow, Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow; Come quite near me; Do not fear me. I can hear your happy twitter, Although winter winds are bitter; Take your breakfast, little birdie.

Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie! All night long the snow was falling; Long ago, I heard you calling; Tell me, dearie, Are you weary? Can you sleep, when winds are blowing? Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing? Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!

Take your food, and trust me, birdie; Daily food the Father giveth; Bread to every thing that liveth. Come quite near me; Do not fear me. Come each day, and bring your fellow, For your bread, so sweet and mellow; Take your food, and trust me, birdie.



A BATTLE.

Do you like accounts of battles? Here is one for you. I shall have to tell of a well-disciplined army, and some hard fighting, as well as of a victory.

The scene is a quiet country district, with fields and hedge-rows, not looking a bit like war and bloodshed, and the time is a summer afternoon, hot, for it is July, and a haze is over the mountains, which rise a little way behind, as silent witnesses of the fray. The sun begins to decline, and as the air grows cooler the army has orders to start. There is a short delay of preparations, and then the warriors pour forth; not in confusion, but in a compact, unbroken column, each keeping to the ranks in perfect order, and never diverging from them. At first the army follows the high road, but ere long it passes through an opening in the hedge, and crosses the field on the other side. Still the soldiers march on, never hindered, never straggling out of place. It must have been a clever commander-in-chief to have trained them into such admirable obedience.

Presently a fortress rises before them—that is the object of their expedition; rather, it is something within the citadel that they are sent to get, and have it they will. Not without a struggle, though, for the enemy is on guard, and when he sees the hostile army approaching, he sallies out to battle. He has no idea of surrendering without a fight for it.

The invaders gather up their forces and charge bravely up the hill, and in an instant, hand to hand, or something very like it, the foes are locked together in desperate conflict. Neither have they any guns, but they carry sharp weapons with them, and soon the field is strewn with the dead and dying.

The fight thickens—the issue is doubtful, but not long—the defenders are routed, and the assailants press forward to the citadel. Most skillful are they, for with neither cannon nor battering-rams they speedily make a breach in the walls, and in they rush, pouring through the street and lanes of the devoted city. Yet they do not destroy it—they do not kill the inhabitants—they do not even stay within the walls so hardly won. In a very short space of time they return as they came, save that each bears a portion of the spoil for which they came. They form in order once again, they march in line, they regain their own quarters, but each one carrying—would you believe it?—a young slave.



Yes, the army did not care to conquer the strange city; the expedition was organized solely and entirely that they might steal the young and bring them up in their own colony as slaves. For, through the long influence of evil habits, the race to which these warriors belong have lost their natural powers, and so have now to be waited on, fed, and altogether taken care of by its slaves. With food before them they would starve unless the slaves put it into their mouths.

If they want to change their abode, the slaves must make the new habitation ready, and then carry their masters on their backs to reach it. If the children have to be taken care of, the slaves must be the nurses. In fact, fighting is the one single thing they can do, and that, as we have seen, they do well. As the supply of slaves is necessary to their existence, every now and then they have to go and help themselves in the way we have just seen them do; and though the idea of slavery is abhorrent to every mind, we must allow that they are brave soldiers, and under excellent discipline.

Now, can you tell me who the soldiers are? Go back to your history stories and think. Some old Roman race, perhaps, or the early inhabitants of Britain, when people knew no better? Or some tribe of savages in America, or the South Sea islands at the present time? Nay, you must guess again, or shall I tell you? Yes, you give it up. Well, then, it is a people "not strong;" small and insignificant, yet wise, for this is what the Bible says, "Go to the ANT, consider her ways and be wise."—Prov. vi:10.

This race of warriors is none other than the slave-keeping ant, (Polyergus rufescens). I do not think you would meet with it in our woods, but in Switzerland and other countries it is common. Huber, who wrote so much about bees and ants, first witnessed an attack near Geneva. I should tell you that the young which they carry off are the larva or young grubs, which, transferred to the nests of the conquerors, soon become ants, and live the rest of their lives in serving them, and waiting on them, as slaves or servants would their masters.

How extraordinary! Do they pine for their own kind? Are they happy in their bondage? We do not know, but as far as we can judge they render a willing and cheerful service, forgetting themselves in what they do for others. Then, of course, they are happy; we need not repeat the question; we are only lost in wonder at this strange and interesting page in Nature's book.

M. K. M.



GRACE DARLING, THE HEROINE.

I presume most of you have heard of Grace Darling, the brave girl who lived with her father and mother at Longstone light-house. On the 6th of September, 1838, there was a terrible storm, and W. Darling, knowing well that there would be many wrecks, and much sorrow on the sea that dark, tempestuous night, waited for daybreak; and when at last it came, he went to look out. About a mile away he saw a ship in great distress, but the storm was so awful he had hardly courage to venture through it for their relief. His daughter Grace, who was watching the wreck through a glass, could no longer bear to see the poor fellows clinging to the piece of wreck which remained on the rocks where it had been broken, and make no effort to help them. She knew they must be lost. So she implored her father to launch the life-boat and let her go with him to the rescue. He consented, and father and daughter, she taking the oars while he steered, went pulling away for the wreck; and I can fancy how the poor fellows watched the life-boat like a speck on the waters, counting each minute as it neared them, then fearing, as it seemed to be almost lost amid the mountains of hissing and boiling waves, lest it should never come to them at all. But at last they are alongside; the sufferers hesitate not a moment, but jump for the life-boat, and so nine precious lives were saved from a watery grave.

Every one sang the praises of brave Grace Darling. A sum of $3,500 was presented to her as a testimonial, and she was invited to dine with the Duke of Northumberland. She died at the early age of twenty-seven, of consumption.

Now, my readers cannot all be Grace Darling, but they can come to the help of the perishing; those that are weary and ready to die. They can all do something, by working, by little efforts of self-denial, and by praying for those who are in danger of being lost; and then one day they will hear those wonderful words, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me." A testimonial worth having indeed!



ADAM AND EVE.

Adam and Eve are my two pet doves, They live in a cot in the maple tree, They coo and coo as other doves do, And I know they are fond of me.

Eve is a dear little milk-white dove, Her eyes and feet are of coral red. She wears a quill of gray in her wing, And a small white cap on her head.

Adam is bold, and he struts about, In coat and vest of chocolate brown; Eve is as sweet as a dove can be, And Adam will sometimes frown.

Adam and Eve are my two fond doves, Their cottage stands in the maple tree, They coo and coo, as other doves do, And often take lunch with me.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.



SWINGING SONG.

Swinging! Swinging! Up where the bees and the butterflies are, Winging! Winging! Their flights 'mong the blossoms that shine near and far.

Ringing, Ringing, Song of the blue-bird and bobolink's call, Singing, Singing, Up in this beautiful world are they all!

Clinging, clinging, In this green shadow, the clematis swings. Bringing, bringing, Hints of strange odors, and dim woodland things.

Flinging, flinging, The snow-ball, its white, pretty blossoms on me, Springing, springing, The damask rose climbs to the lattice to see!

Backward my hair is floating and swaying, Here o'er the garden-walk softly I sing; Far more delightful, than wearily straying, Is it to dream here, while gently I swing.



HOW THE DAYS WENT AT SEA-GULL BEACH.

No school! And the beautiful summer days coming so early in the morning, that none of us children ever could get awake to see the sun rise, and staying so long that we grew quite tired of being happy; and some of us, Gracie and Jimmie in particular, were so little, that they couldn't stay awake through the whole of it, and went off into a nap every day after dinner.

But this was in the city, and when we arrived at the beach we didn't get tired or cross the whole day long. There were many children at the hotel, and when we came, with our dolls and toy boats, our fishing-tackle and spades, and pails, we made a host of friends immediately.

Reginald and Willie, our older brothers, did not always go with Gracie and Jimmie and me, but made the acquaintance of the men that went out to sea to fish for the great hotels; and they went oftentimes with them, and we used to enjoy seeing the little boats launched; they almost stood on end when they went over the breakers, making us scream with excitement and delight. And as the little fleet grew less and less, and at last disappeared, we girls thought it was a grand thing to have such brave brothers.

I was the elder girl, being ten, and Gracie seven. Our Gracie was a lovely little sister; she had large blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, and was very gentle and obedient, and people called her "Pet," almost as soon as they became acquainted with her.

Mother had blue flannel suits made for us, and dressed in these, with sailor hats that had little tapping ribbons at the sides, we scurried along the beach, climbed the rocks, or waded out into the salt water.

But we had on our very prettiest dresses in the evening, for the children were allowed to have the grand parlor, and dance to the music of the band until nine o'clock. This was a privilege we older ones talked of continually, and looked forward to all day. We were so dainty, genteel, and good-mannered for an hour, that it impressed even ourselves; and boys and girls became models of gentleness and polite behavior, and the effect of those delightful evenings has given growth and direction to many graces in our character.



But the little ones, like Gracie and her friends, really couldn't stand the excitement, and rolled around in odd corners on the floor, or sought the grateful obscurity behind the sofas, to indulge in naps, long before nine o'clock. I found Gracie, in her pink silk dress and violet slippers, lying curled up under the table, with her head on the back of Bosin, the great Newfoundland dog that had stolen into the parlor against rules.

Nelson Faber was a little boy, not much older than Gracie, and they seemed to enjoy each other's society very much. He too oftentimes succumbed to sleepiness when we wanted him to do his sailor dance; but when the morning came, they were as rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed as ever, and trotted along the pleasant walks with their hoops and pails, inseparable friends. It was fortunate for Gracie, too, that he preferred to play with her, rather than to go off with the boys, for one day after a boisterous night, the sea came up higher on the beach than we had ever before seen it; and unsuspecting Gracie was caught by a wave and thrown down, and as it retired it seemed to drag her along with it; we older ones lost our presence of mind entirely, and screamed and cried, and did nothing, but that heroic little fellow ran into the boiling surf and caught her dress, and with the dog's assistance, dragged her to a safe place. She said he was, "Very nice and dood."

One day, some of my girl companions proposed to visit the rocks that lay at the mouth of Green river, just where it gently met the ocean. Right there, no end of sea-weed and shells, and things thrown up by the ocean, could be found; and there were such curious rocks, with nooks and basins, where the water stayed in tiny pools, and there we went fishing, and brought lunch, setting it out on the most convenient flat rock we could find. I tell you, cold chicken, pickles, cheese, and sponge cake, with milk, tasted as they never did before or since, to our party of hungry children. We climbed and fell, and laughed, and chatted, with the salt breeze lifting our hair, and fanning our brown faces, and going out far on the point, we came upon a little shining lake, surrounded by rocks, upon which we could sit, and dabble our feet in the water. It was no place more than a foot deep, and we decided to wade round in it. It was a comical sight to see us navigating ourselves in procession through that water, but it was a very questionable joke, when Milly Sayre jumped and screamed, and ran like a frantic creature from the pool, and up the rocks.

"What's the matter, Milly," we cried. "Are you hurt? What did you see?" we breathlessly shouted.

"Oh! oh!" was all she could gasp, pointing to a place she had just left. We all scrambled out instantly, and peered over the rocks into the water.



What should we see but a little creature, grotesque and hideous, that made its way round in the water, with astounding celerity, throwing out legs or claws, or whatever they were, from every point of its circumference. Its body was flat and was a green color above and pink under, and to add to its alarming appearance, it looked at us with two black eyes, in a very sinister and uncanny manner. We looked at each other with blanched faces and speechless horror, and then kept a sharp lookout, lest it might take it into its head (we couldn't tell if it had any head, for the place where the eyes were, did not seem different from any other part of its body,) take it into its "internal consciousness," to crawl out on to the rocks and chase us. It got through the water in a distracting manner, which was really quite amusing after a few moments, and from being horribly frightened, we became interested when we found it did not attempt the offensive. We gave it some lunch and called it "Jack Deadeye," and for the whole afternoon he was the center of attraction.

"Let us take him back with us," I proposed. "We can get him into a pail, and then we can have him in some pool nearer home, and see what he'll turn into. I don't believe but what he'll be something else in a few days."

My knowledge of natural history had always been lamentably meager, and more than once I had brought the laugh upon myself by my ignorance. So I forbore to predict what would be his ultimate form of beauty.

"A whale!" said Susie Champney.

"Oh, dear, no; whales don't have legs and claws," said Estella Bascom. "It's a tadpole."

"You're mistaken there," said Mamie Fitz Hugh; "tadpoles are just the little jokers that do have tails. I've seen hundreds of them, and this creature has no tail."

We all rushed again to the edge of the rocks to look at him, with added wonder.

"Well, we'll take that tad home on a pole, any way," said Nannie White, who was the cutest girl to say things in the whole crowd. She immediately ran off to secure a piece of drift that was tumbling about on the wet sand. But how to get him into a pail was the next problem. A committee of the whole was called. I thought we could obstruct his path by putting the mouth of the pail in front of him, and then when he sailed into it, we could instantly pull him out. This was decided upon; but how to get it down to him without falling in? A bright idea struck me. I whipped off my flannel sash, and running it through the handle, dashed it into the water; but that proceeding only frightened him—we must move more cautiously. We worked for an hour and had him in twice, but were so excited both times that he escaped.

First time, Totty Rainsford shouted, "We've got him!" and immediately rolled off the rocks, head first, into the water. We were all so scared, with the water splashing, and she screaming at the top of her voice, "Save me! Save me!" that Jack got away. She scrambled out pretty lively, and when we got him in again, we were all seized with another fit of laughing at Totty, who, in her moist predicament, was jumping round to dry herself, because she didn't want to go home, that he crawled out as leisurely as possible. But we secured him at last, safe in the pail; and to prevent his crawling out, I clapped my sailor hat over the top of it, and the elastic kept it down tight. We put the pole through the handle and Estella and myself took hold of the ends, and we came near losing him every few minutes, owing to the inequalities of the ground. The pail would slide down to either end, as the pole inclined, and Estella would drop it and scream when she saw the pail traveling noiselessly toward her, and if it hadn't been for my happy thought of putting the hat over him, he'd have got away to his "happy hunting grounds," or rather, waters, in short order.

We arrived at the hotel at last, with Jack all safe, and the rest of the girls went to dress for dinner, and left me to find the boys, to help me deposit him in a secure place, for we were sure we should very greatly astonish the boarders and achieve renown as having discovered a new species of marine beast.

The boys were in a perfect ecstacy of curiosity to see what the girls had caught. When I carefully took off the hat, I found the water had all leaked out, and his monstership lay kicking and crawling at the bottom.

"Ho! ho! ho!" shouted Willie, "is that what-cher call a curiosity?"

"Oh, Flossie! you have been dreadfully taken in," said Regy.

"Oh, no," I said, "it's this wonderful animal that's been 'taken in,' and he's going to be kept in, too."

I began to feel, though, that there was a great laugh somewhere in the future, and that it was coming at our expense.

"Why, Flossie! it's nothing but a baby crab," said Regy. "I can get a peck of them in an hour, over in the river."

I felt greatly chagrined, and blushed with mortification. The boys kept bursting out laughing every few minutes, asking such questions as:



"How many girls did it take to land him?" "Was he gamey, Flossie?" "Did ye bait him with a clam-shell, or an old boot? they'll snap at any thing."

"Oh! I'd given away my dinner to have been there!" and then Regy would stir him up with a stick, and turn him on his back, all of which caused me to scream every time, and sent tremors all over me.

"What-cher goin' to do with him?" inquired Willie.

"I shall study his habitudes, and improve my knowledge of the crustacea," said I, giving him a sentence directly out of my text-book. "I shall look at him every day."

"Yes, and he'll look at you every night. I have read a book that told about a traveler that offended a crab once, and he informed the other crabs, and they all made for him at night, and twenty thousand of them came that night and crept under his tent, and sat there and looked at him. And there he was in the middle of them, and you know their eyes are fastened in their heads by a string, and they can throw them out of their heads and draw them back again; and, at a signal, they all threw their eyes at him. He was so horrified that night, that he got insane and had to be sent to a lunatic asylum."

"I've heard your stories before, Regy, and I simply don't credit them. We girls are going to hunt up a pond to put him in, where we can pet him, and educate him."

"You'd best hunt up a frying pan to put him in; he's capital eating for breakfast, well browned, with hard-boiled eggs and parsley round him," said Reginald.

I told him if he couldn't do any better than to lie there and make an exhibition of his bad taste and ignorance, he'd better get up and work off the fit. I insisted upon his helping me to fill the pail with salt water, and hang him upon the rocks until we could make a future, permanent disposal of him.



That evening our parlor manners were somewhat less decorous and elegant, owing to the fact that Reginald and Willie had been industriously circulating the episode of the morning, with such additions as they thought would add point and piquancy, among the rest of the boys, and there was no end of innuendo and witticism indulged in, that caused the young gentlemen to retire in groups and laugh; and we could hear such remarks as, "Dick, there was a whale hooked on this coast this afternoon, did you know it?" Or, "I think Jack Deadeye is the most comical character in Pinafore, he's so crabbed."

The girls of our party stood it as they best could; and in the morning we stole out to look at our prize, after the boys had gone off, but the tide had swept Jack and the pail out to sea.

It was a long time before we heard the last of it, however.



MAX AND BEPPO.

Down by the lake they trotted, All the summer day; Max and Beppo never plotted Yet, to run away. Two little donkey pets, Oh, I loved them so! When I was in Switzerland, just a year ago.

How they liked bananas! And our apples sweet; They had lovely manners, Every thing they'd eat. Then, I'd rub their furry ears, and they'd shake their bells, While old driver Raspar, funny stories tells.

Max turns round and winks so pretty, Little, sharp round eyes; Beppo sings a jolly ditty, Quite to our surprise. Then we mount, and off we go, up and down the mall, Never do they careless trip, never make a fall.

Once, a princess royal Wanted little Max; How to part those friends so loyal, Her little brain she racks. She would give her gold and silver, in a little purse, Then throw in for measure good, her scolding English nurse!

Then she cried, and chattered All her pretty French, And her little feet she pattered, On the rustic bench. "My papa is king," she said, "and I'd have you know, I shall have the donkey, and to prison shall you go."

How their tiny feet would scamper, Up the valley blue, Carrying each his generous hamper, And his rider, too. Sure of foot, they'd clamber round the mountain spur Where the foot-sore tourist scarcely dared to stir.

In this bright, sunshiny weather, I remember with a sigh, We no more can play together, Beppo, Max and I. Never dearer friends exist, in this world below, Than I made in Switzerland, just a year ago.



PANSIES.

As I walked in my garden to-day, I saw a family sweet. Many wee faces looked up, From their cool and shady retreat. Some had blue eyes and golden curls, Some dark eyes and raven locks, Some were dressed in velvets so rare, And some wore quaint, gay frocks. I asked these babies so dear, To come and live ever with me! Then laughing so gaily they said; "We are Pansies, don't you see?"

MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER.



"COME, LITTLE BIRD!"

"Come, little bird, I have waited some time, Light on my hand, and I'll give you a dime. I have a cage that will keep you warm, Free from danger, and safe from storm."

"No, little lady, we cannot do that, Not for a dime, nor a brand new hat. We are so happy, and wild, and free, Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!"

"Fly, pretty bird, fly down, and take Just a crumb of my Christmas cake; Santa Claus brought it to me, you know, Over the snow. Over the snow."

"Yes, we know of your home, so rare, And stockings hung in the fire-light there; We peeped through the window-blinds to see. Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!

"We were on the button-ball tree, Closer than we were thought to be; Soon you may have us in to tea, Chee-dee-dee! Chee-dee-dee!"



SIRENA'S TROUBLE.

Adalina Patti was a doll of most trying disposition. You wouldn't tell, when she woke up, what distracting thing she'd do first. I've known her, when seated at the breakfast table, in her high chair, next to Sirena, her little mamma, I have known her to jerk suddenly forward, and plunge her face right into a plate of buttered cakes and syrup.

This necessitated the removing of her from the table and a good deal of cleansing and re-dressing on the part of Bidelia, the hired girl.

She had movable eyes; they were very lovely, but, if you'll believe it, she'd screw them round, just to be contrary, so that she'd look cross-eyed for hours together. No sweet persuasion or threat of punishment could induce her to look like a doll in her right mind.

This was not quite so bad though, as the outlandish noises she made when she didn't want to say "mamma," which she could do very distinctly when she first arrived, at Christmas.

But a crisis in her petulant obstinacy came, when she wouldn't sit still to have her hair combed, and it looked like a "hurrah's nest," her brother Bob said. All her naughtiness came right out then. She rolled one eye entirely up in her head, and left it there, and stared so wild with the other, that Sirena gave her a pretty lively shake, but she only dropped that eye and rolled up the other.

This made her little mamma pause and meditate. She got provoked as she looked at her, and then she gave her a double shake; then that bad doll rolled up both her eyes, and nothing could induce her to get them down again.

Oh, dear! How many dreadful things she looked like. There was a vicious parrot in the park that made its eyes look just like Adalina's did, just before it stuck its head through the bars of its cage to bite people. And there was a stone lady, that was named "Ceres," on one of the paths in the same park, and she kept her eyes rolled up all the time, greatly to the terror of Sirena and Bidelia, who had to pass her in coming home in the twilight. And down street there was a tobacconist's sign that represented a fairy queen, with butterfly wings, taking a pinch of snuff, and the weather had taken all the paint off her eyes and she looked simply hideous; and Sirena grasped Bidelia very tight, till they got round the corner. Now here was her lovely French doll looking like them and cutting up worse. She'd go to mamma with this trouble as she did with all others.

She put her doll down with her face against the carpet, and taking hold of her pink kid arm, dragged her, not very gently, over the carpet to her mother.

At that moment in bounced Rob, who, immediately taking in the situation of affairs, exclaimed,—"Oh, don't be so cruel to Adalina! Is she just horrid? You know, Rena, that's what you are, sometimes, yourself. What's the matter any way? What makes you look so glum?"

"This doll is acting dreadful; just look at her eyes!" said Sirena.

"You can't tell any thing by any one's eyes, yours look like the 4th of July, now, and you're a delightful little girl, everybody says; you don't whack things round, and scream, when the flowers bloom in the spring."

He was to be repressed immediately. Sirena looked at her mother.

"He wants to be funny, Sirena," said her mother, soothingly.

"Then he isn't funny; he's never funny," said Sirena, drawing herself up with dignity.

"Totty Belmont says you're the teasenest, hatefulest boy she knows! So there," remarked Sirena.

"Oh, ho! I don't wonder the doll is scared. Why don't you treat that pretty creature with some consideration? Dragging her over the carpet, and spoiling her pretty dress! Now you'll see, just as soon as she comes to me, because I'm good-looking and nice, she'll put her eyes down and smile at me as lovely as ever."

He took the doll and jumped it up and down in the air, dancing about and singing, "Tra-la."

As sure as the world! Down came the eyes, and Adalina was her charming self again.

"Now you see," said Rob, "if you want people to be good to you and love you, you must not be rude and ill-natured yourself. This doll is French, and particular, and she just won't look at cross little girls; so there!"

"I think," said her mamma, "that Sirena will not get so angry with her doll again. She looks as if she were ashamed of it now. However disagreeable we may think people are, it's best to watch ourselves, lest in finding fault with them, we fall into the same errors."



LADY VIOLET.

My little love, with soft, brown eyes, Looks shyly back at me, Beneath the drooping apple bough, She thinks I do not see. I cannot choose, I laugh with her, I catch her merry glee; Or stay you near, or go you far, Oh, little love, how sweet you are!

A hue, like light within a rose, Is dimpling on her cheek, It wins a grace, it deepens now With every airy freak; A love-light in the rose like this, Ah, you may vainly seek; It shines for me, no shadows mar, Oh, little love, how fair you are!

My heart clings to her pretty words, They will not be forgot; My happy brain will not discern, If they be wise or not. To ever be so charmed, so blessed, Ah, this were happy lot. My own, shine ever like a star Upon my life, so true you are.



ON TRIAL.

Little Hal Keys was pretty sure to throw a stone at every pussy cat he saw, and so all the cats around used to have a great deal to say about him as they sat together on the back fences, or when they had a party in the big barn. At last the cats determined to do something about it, and so they said: "We will have him up for trial before Judge Thomas White." He was the wisest and oldest of all the cats in town, and wore spectacles that made him look even wiser than he was. Eleven of the most learned cats said they would be lawyers, and get other cats to be witnesses, to tell what Hal had done, and try to get him punished. One of the eleven said: "For the sake of Hal's mother, who has always been kind to me from the time I was a little kitten, I will be his lawyer, and try to get his punishment made as light as I can."



Twelve cats had to be found who could say that they were not quite sure that Hal was such a bad boy as he seemed to be. They were stay-at-home cats, who did not know what was going on outside of the comfortable houses where they lived. These twelve cats were to be the jury, and it was their duty to hear all that the lawyers and the witnesses had to say about Hal's doings, and then to tell whether or not they thought he ought to be punished.

At last the day of the trial came; Judge Thomas White sat down in his big chair and took his pen; the lawyers took their places; the twelve jury cats were brought in, and put in a high box, so they could not jump out and run away. Hal was brought in and put in the prisoner's box, as they call it; and Christopher Gray, his mother's old cat, took his place beside Hal. Three cats, called "reporters," came in with pockets full of paper and pencils, to write down all that is said; to print in the newspapers, for all cats in the world to read.

The first witness to tell all the bad she knew about Hal was his sister Alice's little Dolly Varden. How saucy she looked, with the blue ribbon tied around her neck, as she sat on the witness stand telling how Hal chased her from cellar to garret; and stepped on her tail; and gave her saucer of milk to the dog Jack whenever he got a chance. "Cruel, cruel boy," said Dolly Varden, "he teases his sister almost as much as he teases me."

Hal trembled from head to foot when he heard what Dolly Varden said, for he knew it all was true, and he was much afraid that a very hard punishment would be given to him. Then the old black cat, on whom Hal had thrown a dipper of hot water, was called to the witness stand. Poor old thing! the hot water had taken the fur off his back. Then came another cat, limping up to the witness stand, whose leg had been broken by a stone which Hal had thrown. There were so many witnesses that it would make my story too long to tell about them all. All that Christopher Gray could say in Hal's favor was: "He has a good mother."

"The more shame for him," said one of the lawyers.

When the jury had heard all that was to be said, they went out of the room together; in five minutes they came back; all agreed that Hal should be punished. Then Judge Thomas White, in his most solemn tone, said: "Albert Keys, you are found guilty of great cruelty to good cats everywhere. I must, therefore, pronounce sentence upon you. You must go with us to Cat town for two days and one night."

There were tears in Hal's eyes, but the Judge had no pity on him, and he called in some of the strongest cats to take him. Oh! what a long, hard way it was; over fences, under houses, and through the barns. It was hard work for Hal to keep up with them, but they made him. What a time he had after he got to Cat town. All of the cats gathered around him, and howled at him, and scratched his face and hands, and made him wish he was any place but there. At last when he was set free, he never could have found his way home, if pretty little Dolly Varden had not forgiven him, and shown him the way back.

Hal was never known after that to throw a stone at a cat, or to treat one badly in any way.



TWO LITTLE GIRLS.

They don't know much, these little girls, I'll tell you why 'tis so, They played away their time at school, And let their lessons go.

One took a slate to cipher, And all went very well, Until she came to four times eight, And that she could not tell.

The other would make pictures In her copy book at school, Of boys and girls and donkeys Which was against the rule.

But nothing good could come of it, And this is what befell; She tried to write to papa, And found she could not spell.

The teacher said, "Of all sad things, I would not be a dunce, But would learn to write and cipher, And begin the work at once."



HELPFUL WORDS.

A great astronomer was, once in his early days, working hard at mathematics, and the difficulties he met with, made him ready to give up the study in despair. After listlessly looking out of the window, he turned over the leaves of his book, when the lining at the back attracted his attention. Looking at it closely, he found it was part of a letter written to a young man, apparently, like himself, disheartened with his difficulties. "Go on, sir, go on," was the counsel; "the difficulties you meet will disappear as you advance."

This short sentence seemed to give the student fresh courage. Following out these simple words he applied himself with renewed energy to his studies, and ultimately became one of the most learned men of his day.

D.



FALSE SHAME.

Do not be ashamed, my lad, if you have a patch on your elbow. It is no mark of disgrace. It speaks well for your industrious mother. For our part, we would rather see a dozen patches on your clothes than to have you do a bad or mean action, or to hear a profane or vulgar word proceed from your lips. No good boy will shun you or think less of you because you do not dress as well as he does, and if any one laugh at your appearance, never mind it. Go right on doing your duty.



CLARA AND THE ANIMAL BOOK.

Clara was a little western girl. She had lived in San Francisco until she was nine years old, when her dear mamma and papa brought her east to live with Aunt Mary and Cousin Charlie, and they were growing very fond of her indeed, for she was so sweet and kind and always obedient.

One day she was sitting out under the blossoming trees on the old Worden seat, her book lying, unread, in her lap, and her eyes having a dreamy, far-away look in them, when, from the balcony overhead, sounded a piping little voice:

"Clara, Tousin Clara! has oo dot my Animal book?" and a small, rosy-cheeked boy came running to her, rubbing his sleepy, dark eyes.

"Why, Charlie, have you finished your nap so soon? yes here is your Animal book, and what shall I read about?"

"Oh, about the deers, wiz their dreat big horns, and—and—every sin," and he nestled close, satisfied he would hear all he wished. So she read a short sketch of the deer, its haunts and habits, when he interrupted:

"Has oo ever seen a deer—a real live one?" and his black eyes opened wide.

"Oh, yes; and when we were coming east, across the plains, whenever the train drew near a wooded stream, often the screaming whistle would startle a herd of deer from their covert, and they would rush up through the trees, antlers erect, and sleek brown bodies quivering with alarm, and followed by the soft-eyed, gentle fawn. It was quite a pretty picture."

"Tell me more; what tind of a city did oo live in?"



"A very beautiful city, Charlie. You should see our noble bay, with the great ships riding at anchor; our fine parks and stately buildings. Then if you should go down in Market street, where most of the business is done, you would see some funny sights. All kinds of people are there—Ranchmen, Indians, Spaniards, English, Americans and lots of queer little Chinamen, and they have small, dark shops full of curious things, and besides spread their wares on the walk."

After telling about the orange groves and vineyards, the lovely flowers, especially the fuchsia, which winds its branches like a vine over the porches, often reaching the upper story of a house, Charlie thought it must be a wonderful country, and expressed his intention of living in California when he became a man.



In a Chinese village during a time of drought a missionary saw a row of idols put in the hottest and dustiest part of the road. He inquired the reason and the natives answered: "We prayed our gods to send us rain, and they wont, so we've put them out to see how they like the heat and dryness."



THE UNSOCIABLE DUCKS.

Three meadow birds went out in great glee, All in the sunshiny weather; Down by the pond, with the reeds waving free, Where the ducks were all standing together.

"Good day Mrs. Duck," said the three meadow birds, "From all the news we can gather, You're a very good friend, of very few words." Then one flew away with a feather.

"Quack!" said the duck, "That feather is mine, I see through your ways altogether; You want our feathers, your own nests to line, All in the bright summer weather."

"What shall we use?" said the three meadow birds, "There's no good in moss or in heather." "We don't care a straw," said the old blue drake, "If you line all your nests with sole leather."

"Quack! Quack! Quack! You must think we are slack! You talk too polite altogether; We've had quite enough of your high-flown stuff, And we know, you are birds of a feather."



PUTTING OUT THE CANDLE.

Charles Dickens, for that is the name of the gentleman you see sitting by the table, wrote many books and stories. Some of his stories are about little children for grown folks to read, and others are for the children themselves. Mr. Dickens had a pet cat, that was always in his library. Strange to say, it had no name. That was no matter, because the cat could not hear. He was deaf. But he liked very much to be petted, and plainly showed sometimes that he was not pleased to have his master do any thing else. One evening, when Mr. Dickens was sitting at the table reading, his candle suddenly went out. He did not know why it should have done so, but he got up and lighted it. In a few moments it began to get dark again, and he looked up quickly at the candle, and saw puss just raising his paw to put it out. "What did he do?" He gave the cat a loving little pat and went on with his reading. What a sly cat was that to find a way to make his master notice him.



SULKY ARCHIE.

BY C. MANNERS SMITH.

"It must be nice to be a sailor, and I wish I was one. Every thing goes wrong and mother is always scolding me, and father is never done growling; I am getting tired of it."

The speaker was a little, round-cheeked lad, of about nine years of age. He was standing, with a tall, fair-haired girl, evidently his sister, on the edge of the river Wyncombe. He was not a lively boy. He was one of those thoughtful, gloomy little boys who are always dreaming; always thinking and imagining some fancied injury from either father or mother.



Archie Phillips was the little boy's name, and he and his sister had got a holiday and were watching a party of older children from the Wynne High School, who had come down to the river to spend the afternoon. There was Algernon Wright with a large model yacht, and Willie Schofield, the Mayor's son, with a new silver-mounted fishing rod. They were all as happy and full of frolic as all boys in the spring-time of life ought to be. Little Archie was, however, of a morose temperament, and did not share in any of the amusements.

The village of Wynne is a fishing village, and is approached from the sea by a beautiful cove on the Cornish coast. The town is built on the slopes of the hills reaching down to the water's edge, and the river Wynne empties itself into the sea near by.

It is, indeed, a pleasant place. At the time of this story all the boys of Wynne, young and old, were crazy after maritime pursuits and sports. They spent the bulk of their holiday time either in sailing about the bay, or in fishing, bathing, or holding model yacht races in the cove.

"Why don't I have a yacht in the place of a silly ball? Why don't I have boys to play with instead of Lucy and Gyp? What do girls or dogs know about a top or a cat hunt? I'm disgusted! I'll go for a sailor! I'll run away; there!"

The girl took no notice of this discourse. It was no new thing for her to hear grumbling from her brother, and she was accustomed to bear it without murmur or dissent. Presently she ran away, along the river bank, with her doll, to a shady place, where she knew the sun was not strong, and where some rushes overhung the path. There she could put her doll to sleep. It was no use asking Archie to join her. He was too old and too much of a man to enter into any such stupidity.

Presently Archie sat down in the shade, on the balustrades of the churchyard and watched the glee of the High-Schoolboys with a sulky envy.

It was a glorious summer afternoon. The sky overhead was one vast, inverted field of blue, without a single speck of cloud. The hot sun was beating down almost perpendicularly, and the rays penetrated the leaves, shedding a lattice-work pattern on the ground.

"I know Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, will tell me how to go to sea. He has been a sailor himself, and I know he will tell me all about it. Nobody cares; well, mother might, perhaps, a bit, but then, I don't know."

Then he paused in his musings and thought of all the injustice done to him by his mother. He thought, like all gloomy, wretched little boys, of all that was ill. He didn't for one moment remember, how, that very morning, the self-same, unjust mother, after packing up his little lunch-basket, had put her arms round his neck, and a little red-cheeked apple in his pocket, and told him to keep away from the river. Oh, no, he seemed to have quite forgotten all that.

Then the sun went behind a cloud and Archie felt the cool wind, which blew from the cove, on his cheek, so he jumped down from his musing place and sped away as fast as his legs would carry him toward the house of the boat-builder. He ran across the green, down the grassy slopes and across a stretch of shingly beach, to the cottage of his friend.

Ben Huntly, the boat-builder, was a good-hearted fellow, and was extremely fond of all the children of the village. He had that method possessed by few people of searching into the heart of a child and arguing with him in a manner suitable for a child's understanding.

Archie had often sought Ben's counsel when things seemed to go wrong, and it was seldom that the boat-builder had failed to convince the boy, even to his satisfaction, that he was wrong.

It was an off day for the boat-builder. He was sitting, smoking his pipe, in the cottage porch, and reading a well-thumbed copy of "Gray's Master Mariner." He welcomed Archie with a secret delight, for he knew, by his little friend's face, that he was brooding over some fancied injury, and it gave the boat-builder pleasure to talk his little friend out of his troubles.

"Well, Archie, what's new in the wind," said Ben, as he greeted the boy with a grasp of the hand. "It seems almost an age since I saw you, my boy."

Little Archie sat down on a large stone bench in the porch, and told Ben his story. His mother had been vexed with him that morning. She had asked him to call at the rectory with a message for Doctor Hart, and he wanted to cut grass at the time, and objected. His mother did not scold him, oh, no, Ben, she sent Carrie, who willingly took the message, and his father had called him a name. Then, again, he had no toys like other boys. Some had a pony; he couldn't have one. His father always answered his request for a pony with the reply that he couldn't afford one just then and he would see about it some day. If Ben would only tell him how to go to sea he would certainly run away the next day.



Now, Ben knew the character of little Archie better, perhaps, than his own mother did; so, when he had given the little boy a draught of cool milk from the cottage kitchen, Ben lit his pipe afresh, and took down an old telescope, a relic of his sea-faring days, from the wall. The young man and the boy then strolled across a low, level tract of sand, to a grassy hillock, formed by the current of the Wyncombe. Here they sat down in the fast waning twilight, and discussed little Archie's purposed flight.

"Yes, Archie," said Ben, "a sailor's life is well enough, if you don't mind hard beds and harder words. If you can eat salty meat and mouldy bread it's a fine life, Archie. There is no life I'd like better if they'd give you fresher water and not quite so many cruel blows. But, if you've made up your mind, Archie, and think you can go to bed nights in a rolling, tossing sea, with the wind howling and the rain pouring, and your mother thousands of miles away, looking at your little empty bed, I should think very seriously about it." Archie looked thoughtful, as the gloom deepened on his face, and silence fell on the pair for a time.



Suddenly Ben spied a French frigate looming against the darkening sky and showed it to Archie through the telescope. He explained all the parts of the ship and dwelt long in his answers to the lad's questions. He told little Archie how, early one stormy morning, he had been awakened from his bed in the cottage by the sound of guns away at sea, how he had descended to the beach with a lot of the villagers, to find the waves beating mercilessly over a great broken ship. He told how they had all stood, in the leaden morning, stricken with dread at the sight of the disaster they were all powerless to prevent; leaning hard against the wind, their breath and vision often failing as the sleet and spray rushed at them from the great mountain of foaming sea which kept breaking on the rocks in the cove. He told farther, how, before all their eyes, the vessel had given one great heave backwards and sank beneath the waves forever; how they could faintly hear the heart-rending screams of women and children above the storm as the great waste of waters covered the struggling vessel. He told Archie that, on the following evening, while he was mending a boat down the bay, he came across something lying amongst a mass of sea-weed, and on turning it over had found it to be the dead body of a sailor—a fair, curly-headed youth.

"He was clad," said Ben, "in a pair of linen trowsers and a sea shirt, and the weeds and sand were all tangled in his hair. I raised him up from the beach and a small bundle fell out of his bosom. I laid him in my boat and went for Doctor Hart. It was the talk of the village for days. Dr. Hart found the bundle to contain a packet of letters written in a feeble hand and signed by the dead sailor's mother. They were loving letters of expected joy at her boy's return."

Ben would have gone on with the story, but he was attracted by the appearance of Archie. The little lad was sitting, with his pale face turned up to Ben, and with two great tears, as large as horse beans, in the corners of his eyes. On meeting Ben's gaze he broke down thoroughly and burst into a flood of tears, throwing his arms round the honest boat-builder's neck, sobbing on his breast.

"Oh, Ben, I don't want to leave mother; I am a wicked boy. If she were to die, Ben, what should I do? Do you think she is alive now, Ben? I don't want to go away, Ben."

The boat-builder soothed the little lad and smiled at the success of his purpose to divert the boy's mind.

It was now nearly night, and time for Archie to go home, so Ben took him on his shoulders and carried him to Mr. Archer's house, where the family were all waiting supper for the little boy.

Archie ran to his mother as soon as he got in and kissed her over and over again. He told her his little story, making the good woman's heart overflow with love for her little son.

Ben stayed to supper with the family that night, and all was bright and happy as the merry party sat round the board laughing and joking to their heart's content.

* * * * *

Archie is a young man now, and has outgrown his gloomy, brooding disposition. He is a clerk in the office of a rich corn merchant in Oxbridge, the nearest market to Wynne, and shows every tendency to become a successful and respected business man.

Occasionally, when things do not happen to his satisfaction, and he feels the old spirit of discontent rising, he checks it by reflecting on his early unhappiness. If his mother or father are harsh or angry with him, or if Mr. Gayton, his employer, speaks quickly or loudly to him, he stifles any tendency to sulk and become angry by thinking of Ben Huntly and the story of the wreck.



A WISH FOR WINGS.

O dear little birdie, how nice it must be To be able to fly Far away to the sky, Or to sit on the toss-away top of a tree.

I wish you would lend me your wings for a day. I have two little feet That can run on the street, One step at a time, but I can't fly away.

I would fly to the woods if I only had wings; Over house-top and tree, Like a bird or a bee, And sit by the side of the thrush while she sings.

I would count the blue eggs in her snug little nest; I would stay all day long, To hear her sweet song, And bring home a feather of gold from her breast.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.



CONSEQUENCES: A PARABLE.

The baby held it in his hand, An acorn green and small, He toyed with it, he tossed it high, And then he let it fall!

He sought for it, and sorely wept, Or did his mother know (Though sweet she kissed and clasped her boy) What loss had grieved him so.

Then he was borne to other lands, And there he grew to man, And wrought his best, and did his most, And lived as heroes can.

But in old age it came to pass He trod his native shore, Yet did not know the pleasant fields Where he had played before.

Beneath a spreading oak he sat, A wearied man and old, And said,—"I feel a strange content My inmost heart enfold.

"As if some sweet old secret wish Was secretly fulfilled, As if I traced the plan of life Which God Himself has willed!

"Oh, bonnie tree which shelters me, Where summer sunbeams glow, I've surely seen thee in my dreams!— Why do I love thee so?"

ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.



COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK.

BY RUTH LAMB.

If Mrs. Jemima Crook happened to be in a very good temper, when taking a cup of tea with some old acquaintance, she would sometimes allude to her private affairs in these words: "I don't deny it; Crook has left me comfortable." This was not much to tell, for Mrs. Crook was not given to confidences, and a frequent remark of hers was: "I know my own business, and that is enough for me. I don't see that I have any call to fill other people's minds and mouths with what does not concern them."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Crook's own mind and heart were entirely filled by Mrs. Crook herself, it was, perhaps, as well that she should not occupy too much of the attention and affection of her neighbors.

It is a poor, narrow heart, and a small mind, that find self enough to fill them; but these sorts are not unknown, and Mrs. Crook was a sample of such.

When she spoke of having been left "comfortable" by her deceased partner, there was a look of triumph and satisfaction on her face, and a "No-thanks-to-any-of-you" kind of tone in her voice, that must have jarred on the ear of a listener.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



AN EVENING SONG.

BY COUSIN ANNIE.

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

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

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

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



"BUT THEN."

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

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

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

"Yes; but then, it is a real nice day to fix our scrapbooks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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



WHAT THE SNAIL SAID.

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

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

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

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