"Why, my boy," said his mother, "she's not a squirrel—you can't keep her as you did the bunny you found in the hickory tree, and not ask any questions!"
"I wish there were no newspapers, and that people couldn't read besides," wrathfully exclaimed Connor.
"Maybe," he added, with hopeful cheerfulness, "both her father and mother are drowned. May I keep her then? She may have half of my bread and milk."
Babies were no great rarity in Twinrip, but never was there such a happy, bright-eyed little maiden as this waif proved to be. Among the children she glowed like a dandelion in the grass, and reigned like a queen among her subjects.
Connor was the scholar of the family, and at length his conscience was sufficiently roused to make him indite an advertisement which did him much credit. He hoped it might be placed in some obscure corner of the paper where it would be overlooked.
But next day, in a conspicuous part of the Cincinnati Commercial, with four little hands pointing to it, appeared this rather unusual notice:
"Found in the Ohio river a baby in white dress with black eyes and red horseshoe round her neck, now belonging to Connor Magan. If the father and mother are not drowned they can enquire at the house of Tim Magan in Twinrip, where all is