[A FLOCK OF GEESE.]
BY W. BERT FOSTER.
"That Al Peck thinks he's so smart," remarked Nat Bascom, coming into the kitchen with a scowl of fearful proportions darkening his face. "Just because he's got a flock of geese, and expects to make some money on them Christmas. I wish I had some geese—or something, father. I'd like to make some money as well as Al."
Mr. Bascom looked up from the county paper, in which he had been reading a political article, and said, curtly:
"You make money, Nat! You haven't a money-making bone in your body. Wish you had. Last spring I gave you that plot of ground back of the orchard to plant, and you let it grow up to weeds; and, a year ago, you had that cosset lamb, and let the animal die. 'Most any other boy around these parts would have made quite a little sum on either of them."
"Oh, well, the weeds got the start of me on that ground, and you know that lamb was weakly. Ma said it was," whined Nat.
"It was after you had the care of it," reminded the elder Bascom.