[to be continued.]
[MR. THOMPSON AND THE BULL-FROG.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
Mr. Thompson was lying in the shade on the bank of a small pond. He had come out to read, he said, but no sooner had he thrown himself on the soft turf than an irresistible desire to sleep came upon him; so, pillowing his head on his book, he closed his eyes.
"Cut-a-ka-chunk, cut-a-ka-chunk," croaked a big green frog down in the pond.
"I wish you'd keep still," growled Mr. Thompson.
"He's-goin'-to-sleep, he's-goin'-to-sleep," answered the frog, in a deep bass voice.
"Just-hear-him-snore, just-hear-him-snore," piped a little green fellow, sitting on a lily pad.
Mr. Thompson was getting angry. "I'm not asleep," he shouted.
"Don't-you-get-mad, don't-you-get-mad," urged the old frog.
This was too much. Mr. Thompson sat up and looked around. Directly in front of him, in the edge of the pond, sat a great bull-frog, dressed in a green coat, a canary-colored vest, and dark brown knee-breeches. He winked at Mr. Thompson sociably, and remarked, "How-do-you-do? how-do-you-do? how-do-you-do?"
"Pretty well," answered Mr. Thompson; "but I'm very sleepy."
"Come-take-a-swim," advised the frog, laconically.
"I would," said Mr. Thompson, hesitating, "only I'm afraid I'd get wet, and spoil my clothes."
"Never-hurts-mine, never-hurts-mine," answered the frog, jumping into the pond and taking a few strokes.
"But you see my clothes are not like yours," explained Mr. Thompson.
"Look-just-the-same, look-just-the-same," answered the frog.
Mr. Thompson looked down at his vest; the white had changed to lemon-color; his sober black pantaloons were metamorphosed into natty snuff-colored knee-breeches; and worst of all, his alpaca duster had become a tight green cut-away coat.
"If Angelina should see me in this rig, what would she say?" murmured Mr. Thompson, in despairing tones.
"Better-come-in, better-come-in," croaked the frog, with something like a smile on his broad mouth.
"I guess I will," thought Mr. Thompson, and plunging head first he dived into the pond. He soon came up with his mouth full of mud. That, of course, annoyed him, but he was more interested in how the mud got into his mouth, for, diving as he did, he should have struck the top of his head. He put his hand up to feel. Horror! instead of touching the top of his head, he thrust his hand into his mouth. He felt again; his mouth was on the top of his head. He climbed up on a lily pad, and looked at his reflection in the water. He could hardly believe his eyes; there was no Mr. Thompson; only a great green and yellow frog. The other frog was sitting not far off, watching him with an air of amusement.
"There are some boys on the bridge, and they are going to throw stones at us," whispered the old frog. Mr. Thompson forgot his sudden change of appearance, and assuming his most pompous manner, he shouted, "You-mustn't-do-that, you-mustn't-do-that."
"You old fool," bellowed the old frog, as he plunged into the water.
Mr. Thompson thought discretion to be the better part of valor, and followed.
"He's gone under," remarked one of the boys, regretfully. "Wouldn't he have made a splendid fry?"
Mr. Thompson rose with his nose under a lily pad and shuddered. His friend came up beside him. "What did you want to speak for when those boys were there? You only let them know where we were," he said, rather crossly. "That is the reason we wear green coats, so that we can sit among the lily pads and not be seen."
Mr. Thompson replied that he had forgot himself, and spoke without thinking. "So that's the reason for wearing green coats?" he added.
"Yes," replied the old frog. "Now you see my son here wears brown long clothes," he added, pointing to a pollywog that wiggled up to him. "That is because he stays on the bottom, and if he sees a boy, he keeps still, and his enemies think that he is a lump of mud or a stone."
"Ah," said Mr. Thompson, "and green coats have been in fashion for a long time?"
"Ever since the days of Homer. Don't you remember in Homer's poem, 'The Battle of the Frogs and Mice,' he says, 'Green was the suit his arming heroes chose'?"
"Oh yes," answered Mr. Thompson.
"My great-grandfather was in that battle, and my uncle was the original frog who would a-wooing go," continued the old frog; "but you know he got eaten up. He was a French frog, I think; at least I never saw an American frog with an opera hat."
How much more the old frog would have said Mr. Thompson never knew, for there on the bank he saw his beloved Angelina, sitting beside his deserted book, weeping as if her heart would break.
"I am here, dear one," he shouted. At the same moment he felt a sensation of dampness, and found himself lying half in the pond. He rose and accompanied Miss Angelina home; then, after putting on dry clothes, he related his adventures to a company of his friends. All were interested except one skeptical young man.
"But if my story is not true, how did I come in the pond?" argued Mr. Thompson.
"You got asleep, and rolled in; then when you felt wet, you dreamed that you were a frog," said the skeptical young man.
"That's not at all likely," sniffed Mr. Thompson, indignantly.
"Likely or not, it's undoubtedly true."
"Listen," said Mr. Thompson. Then far down in the marsh was heard the faint sound of the frog's chorus:
"Thompson-got-wet, Thompson-got-wet—
Ha, ha, ha, ha;
Guess-he-is-yet, guess-he-is-yet—
Ha, ha.
Had-to-go-home, had-to-go-home—
Ha, ha, ha, ha;
He'd-better-not-come, he'd-better-not-come—
Ha, ha."
"What do you say to that?" cried Mr. Thompson, shaking his head triumphantly, as he walked off to bed.
[A SCHOOL RESTAURANT.]
For most young people, going to school is the great business of life. Whatever ups and downs may occur in the family, they keep steadily on, learning lessons, reciting them, getting merits and demerits, and growing through it all as fast as they can toward the time when they shall be men and women.
The ancients—who are so called because when they lived this old world was young—had a wise saying about a sound mind in a sound body, which fathers and mothers in these days seem to have quite forgotten, if they ever heard it. Else how does it happen that Alice and Fanny, who never have the least appetite in the morning, are permitted to go to school, after a very slender breakfast, with a few cents in their pockets to buy lunch; and that Walter and Howard, with their heads full of other declensions, decline to take even so much as a sandwich, on the plea that they have no time to eat at noon?
DISPOSING OF THE CANDY.
Growing boys and girls need to eat if they are to be rosy, plump, and strong. Yet we can not blame children for disliking the usual school luncheon, which is seldom dainty-looking or inviting to the taste; sandwiches roughly and thickly cut, the bread clumsily buttered, and the meat in chunks instead of slices, cake crumbling and soggy, pickles, and pie that has been wedged into a dinner box for hours, are none of them the proper food for exhausted brains.
Of course, where it is possible, a run home between the morning and afternoon sessions of school, and a nice luncheon at the prettily set home table, with mamma smiling at the head, are the very best things to keep children well. Many reasons combine to make this arrangement very inconvenient, however, for most schools. The necessary prompt re-assembling after the noon recess would be out of the question where pupils live, as they frequently do, several miles distant from the school building.
LUNCH-HOUR IN AN INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL.
How would you like the idea of a school restaurant of your own, little folks? On the bill of fare we would have every day nice hot soup, good home-made bread, both white and brown, baked potatoes, apple sauce, rice pudding, crisp celery, cold ham, and ripe fruit, served at the order of the pupil-diner, at a daily cost of a few cents. We think there are clever women who could manage such an enterprise so that it would pay them very fair profits, and we are sure that if mammas and papas were consulted, they would consider it an economy to have their children well fed every day. It would save an immense amount in doctors' bills to some households.
That wonderful machine, the human body, is not unlike a stove, in which the fire will not keep on burning cheerily unless it is replenished from time to time with fuel. Now the very worst fuel in the world for the human stove is composed of pickles on the one hand, and creams and confections on the other. If the brain is to perform its high offices as it ought, the stomach must receive due attention.
After a comfortable luncheon at the school restaurant, we should advise the boys and girls to petition for a half-hour of merry play out-of-doors in pleasant weather. Snow-balling, coasting, and skating would not be amiss, for after the rapid exercise the mind would return to study not jaded and tired, but fresh and vigorous. In stormy weather a dance or a half-hour of calisthenics would set the blood to merry motion in the veins, and we would not see children coming home from school at four irritable and cross, or so often hear the family doctor say, "You must take that child from school."
We would just remind fathers and mothers that at present the only children who are sure of a good dinner at noon are the little waifs who go to the industrial schools, and for whom charity provides at least one hearty meal a day.
MID-DAY DINNER IN THE SCHOOL RESTAURANT.—Drawn by Mrs. Jessie Shepherd.