POOR WILL,
WHO WAS SHOT IN THE WAR.
t is a fine warm day in June. Out of the town the air is soft and pure. Bird and bee flit from tree to tree, from blue-bell to rose, till at sun-set they hie away to nest and hive.
Bell and Lou were at play in a nice room in a home out of the town. They came to this dear home each year when it grew warm. Bell was hard at work with some bits of wood. "See, Lou," she said, "see my log hut; when it is done, your doll Fan can come and live in it."
"Oh! do not let it fall, Bell, for poor Fan is sick. She has got fits in her ear and all her ten toes. I have just put her in bed. Put your arm in the bed, my pet," she said to the doll in a kind tone; "you will get cold; and here, take this blue pill, dear. Do not make such a face. Poor soul! so sick! Has my pet got fits? So she has! O my!" So she gave Fan a kind pat, and then went with a soft step to look out at the door.
