THE LITTLE TEACHER.

know of a little girl, who, like Mozart, shows a great talent for music, though she is not yet ten years old. Before she could walk, it seemed to be her delight to creep along the floor to the piano, draw herself up so as to touch the key-board, and then strike the different keys. Some of the sounds were pleasing to her, and from some she would start and draw back, as if she were hurt. A false note in music seemed to inflict pain, while she would show great pleasure when the harmony was perfect. This little girl, whose name is Laura, has been so faithful in studying the rules of music, that, young as she is, she is employed to teach it to children still younger than herself. As her parents are poor, she is paid well for this service. In the picture you may see her standing, while Emma Dean, one of her little pupils, occupies the music-stool. "Oh, I shall never learn to play like you, Miss Laura," says Emma. "Pray don't call me Miss," says Laura; "for I am but a little girl like yourself." "But then you know so much more than I do, that I like to call you Miss," says Emma. "Are you not my teacher?" "I try to be," says Laura; "but, if we talk instead of work, we shall not make much improvement. Now let me hear you play over this exercise once more." "But I have played it a dozen times," says Emma. "Let us try something new." "You have played it a dozen times; but you must play it two hundred times more, if you expect to be perfect in it," says Laura. "Two hundred times! Oh, I can't think of it," exclaims Emma. "Let us try something new." Here Mrs. Dean, who from a room near by had overheard the conversation, came in, and said, "If you cannot obey your teacher, Emma, you must stop taking music-lessons. Miss Laura is quite right; and I am glad to see that she does not yield to your whims. The best way in learning is always to learn one thing thoroughly before passing to another." Emma gave up the point, and began to play the exercise with a good grace. She did so well, that, when she had played it over thirty times, Miss Laura said to her, "That will do for to-day. We will take it up again in our next lesson. Now we will pass to a new piece." But Mrs. Dean said, "You have done enough to-day, my children. Now go and pick some strawberries for yourselves in the garden, and then we will take a walk in the grove." And this is what they did.

DORA BURNSIDE.

THE ANT'S DAIRY.

o ants keep cows? Let us see. A little insect named an aphis is found on the leaf of most every plant. This little parasite lives on the sweet juice called honey-dew. Now the ants are very fond of this honey-dew, and know that they can obtain a supply from the body of the aphis. The ants, therefore, climb up trees on whose leaves the aphides have collected. Then an ant goes close to one of these insects for a drop of the sweet juice. If this be not soon given out, the ant will gently tap the body of the aphis, and thus obtain a supply of the sweet fluid. After feasting on this, the ant will pass to another little aphis and treat it in the same manner for another drop. But the ant has sense enough to treat the aphis as we treat our cows. Our farmers, you know, keep the cows in enclosed meadows, and supply them with hay and turnips when the grass fails. The ants also take a number of aphides close to their nests, and there keep them secure and supply them with suitable food. Now the lady-birds are also fond of the aphides, and eat them up by hundreds. But the ant has sense enough to keep the aphis for a supply of honey-dew instead of killing it as the lady-bird does. Is not the ant, therefore, entitled to be regarded as a cow-keeper, and are not the tiny little aphides his milch-cows?

T.C.

BABY JEAN.

Eyes as bright as diamonds, Mouth all sweet and clean, Cheeks with tempting dimples; That's my baby Jean! Hands as soft as rose-leaves, Teeth like glistening pearls, Little sunbeams woven On her heads for curls. Little feet that patter Here and everywhere, Little mind that's busy, Filled with childish care.		Lips from which the kisses Bubble all day long, Tongue that's ever singing Some sweet cradle-song. How I love my baby Words can never tell; And she—she loves papa Just as much and well. She's the dearest fairy That was ever seen; And from Heaven I'm certain Came my baby Jean!
		F.E. HAMILTON.

THE FRIENDLY DOG.

Poor Old Whitey! He fell lame, and was turned out in a little field to starve. And he would have starved, if it hadn't been for Milo.

And who was Milo? He was a dog who had lived in the stable with Old Whitey. They had become great friends. Each had found the other trusty and kind.

And I think Milo must have reasoned in this way: "Is it not sad to see my old friend shut up in that barren little field with nothing to eat? He has nibbled all the grass, and there is nothing left for him. It is too bad; and I can't stand it."

In the cellar of the stable were some turnips and beets. What does Milo do but take a long beet in his mouth, and carry it to Old Whitey, who neighs, as if to say, "Thank you, old friend."

Then he gobbles it up, and looks at Milo, as if to say, "Another, if you please." Milo trots off, and brings him a turnip. Oh, how it does relish! Old Whitey begins to caper, in spite of his lame legs.

Milo kept running to and fro for half an hour, till Old Whitey had made a good dinner. Then the man who had shut up the old horse found out what was going on.

He seized a whip, and ran at Milo to punish him. But it happened that the lady who owned the farm, and who did not know how Old Whitey had been treated, came back from the city just at that time to pass a month in the country.

She saw what was going on, asked what was the matter, and, when she learned it, said to the man, "The dog is a better Christian than you are. He shall stay, and you shall go. Come into the house, and let me pay you your wages."

Thenceforth Old Whitey was well taken care of; and, as for Milo, he was petted and praised to his heart's content. Cruelty to animals is an act which no good man or child can he guilty of. I was not sorry to learn that the man who had tried to starve Old Whitey was dismissed from his place.

UNCLE CHARLES.

CARLO'S BONNET.

Of course Carlo was a dog, and I'll tell you how he came to us. As my father was walking up Arch Street, Philadelphia, one day, with his hands clasped behind him, something cold and damp was pushed against his fingers. He turned round quickly, and a beautiful brown-and-white pointer came to his side, and looked up at him with such a pleading look in his soft brown eyes, that my father said, as he patted him on the head, "Poor fellow, are you lost?"

That was enough for Carlo, as we named him. He had found a kind master, and my father a faithful friend. Of course it wouldn't do to keep the dog without trying to find his owner: so the next day he was advertised; and, for several days after, every ring at the bell would make us children start, and feel afraid that somebody had come to take him away. But nobody came for him; and we loved and petted our new-found treasure to the neglect of wooden horses and dolls, and all our other toys.

Sometimes he would come to the parlor-door with his feet very wet and muddy from running through the street-gutters. Then we would say, "O Carlo! what dirty boots!" He would hang down his head, and go off to the back-yard, and lick his feet until they were clean, when, with a bound, and a wag of the tail, he would rush back to the parlor, quite sure that he would be let in.

But the month of June was coming,—a sorrowful time for dogs; for the city had ordered that all dogs found on the streets without muzzles on must be destroyed. At five o'clock every morning, the wagons used to go through the streets, and take up all dogs that were not muzzled. So we had to get a "bonnet," as we called it, for our pet.

It was made of bright red leather, and really he looked so handsome in it, that we thought he ought to like to wear it when he went out for a walk; but he didn't one bit. He used to rub his head on the sidewalk, and fuss and squirm, and, when he didn't get rid of his bonnet in that way, the cunning fellow used to hide it when he got home.

We kept it hung up on a high nail in the dining-room; but one day, when we called Carlo to have his bonnet put on before he went out, there was no bonnet to be found. Who could have taken it? I must say Carlo acted very much like the thief; for he hung his head, and looked sheepish, when we asked him about it.

We hunted under the chairs and the lounge, in the closets, in parlor and dining-room, Carlo fussing round with us, just as if he wanted dreadfully to find it; but it couldn't be found. So we went out, and shut the street-door after us, saying, "Well, Carlo, you can't go out to walk, that's all."

Those who hide know where to find. When Carlo saw, that, without his bonnet, there was no walk for him, he scampered into the basement-kitchen, got out the muzzle from a pile of old papers in one of the closets, carried it up stairs, and laid it down on the dining-room floor.

But this was not the last time Carlo hid his red bonnet and found it again. In all sorts of places he would stow it away when he came in from his walks. And at last he got so used to it that when we said, "Now, Carlo, go fetch your bonnet," he would dash off and pull it from its hiding-place, and quietly stand to have it buckled on.

He behaved so well in the streets, that before the dog-season was over, we used to take his bonnet off, and let him carry it home in his mouth. One rainy day, when the water was pouring down the open gutters, and I was hurrying home, I happened to look round, and there was Carlo coming along behind me; but his pretty red bonnet was bobbing along in the gutter, where the sly rascal had thrown it, hoping, I suppose, that it would be carried down to the Delaware River.

B.P.

CHARLEY GOES A-FISHING.

Will Charley go a-fishing?
Yes, of course he will;
Fix him out with hook and line,
And let him try his skill.

"Shall I fish for mackerel?
Shall I fish for shad?"
"Pull up any fish that bites,
That's a jolly lad!"

A.B.C.

WHAT WE SAW IN THE WOODS.

We were camping out in the woods, not far from the Canada line. In the party were my brother Tom, Mr. Brisk, who was a sportsman of fame, and uncle Ralph, who hated the sound of a gun. One day, as I was roaming through the thick wood, what should I see but a male deer, with branching horns, looking up at the blue sky! I crept back softly to our tent, and told Mr. Brisk what I had seen. He seized his gun. "What's that you say, Tom?" asked uncle Ralph. "Only this," said I; "there is a fine fat deer down by the brook; and, as we are all fond of venison, I think it's a good chance for Mr. Brisk to get a good shot at him." "Oh! that's it, is it?" said uncle Ralph, while his eyes flashed with mischief. "By all means let us kill the deer. Come, Brisk, where's your gun?" Mr. Brisk was looking at the barrels and the caps of his gun to see if all was right; then he said to uncle Ralph, "You and Tom had better stay here; for too many of us may startle the deer." "Go on," said uncle Ralph. "Be quick, or you will lose your chance." Mr. Brisk started for the brook, treading carefully, so as not to make a noise. No sooner was he gone than uncle Ralph seized me by the collar, and said, "Now, you young scapegrace, come along with me, and help me save the life of that deer." The old gentleman was in earnest. He could not bear to see life destroyed, whether of bird or beast. He lived on vegetables and fruits, and believed that the lower animals have souls. We took a by-path to the brook, and there found the deer quietly grazing. Just as Mr. Brisk was preparing to fire, uncle Ralph threw a stone at the deer, and sent him off on a fast gallop through the woods. "Hallo! What did you do that for?" asked Mr. Brisk. "I did it so that you should not have a venison dinner," said uncle Ralph, laughing. Mr. Brisk was pretty mad at first; but at last he joined in the laugh, and we all had a good feast on strawberries instead of Venison. THOMAS STAFFORD.