The wee tots must not think the Postmistress forgets them. She thinks this little story about a poor alarmed mother whose children ran away will be just what they will ask their own mammas to read to them two or three times over:
A FRIGHTENED LITTLE MOTHER.
She was a nice old mother, but not like yours, little children, because she was covered all over with feathers, and she had two wings, which, when she felt crusty, she would spread out until she seemed three times her usual size. She had always lived in the country, roaming around in the grass or scratching in the garden. She was a fluttering, fuming creature, but sometimes very civil and pretty-looking. This little mother was just an old hen.
Once upon a time she had been very quiet for three weeks. She had sat still the most of that time, and, indeed, the poor thing went half-starved often rather than forsake the little white eggs in her nest. She knew she must keep them warm, no matter what happened.
At last there came a fine spring morning, when Mrs. Hen stepped very carefully off her nest. In it there lay a mass of broken shells. She led into the sunlight a half-dozen golden balls. As they tottled along by her side, they looked very pretty. Of such a brood any mother might be proud.
Mother Hen was ever so proud. Any one could see that. She flustered about, calling one little bright speck to her, and then another, while scratching in the earth in search of something very nice for her pets.
Four weeks sped by. The country grew prettier and greener day by day. This kind mother thought she would give her darlings a treat—a sort of picnic. So off she started toward the meadow, the little brood walking after her. They went in single file through the path, the old hen's head bobbing up and down through the clover, as she encouraged the little mities waddling along to keep up with her. She came to a brook which fairly danced in the sunlight under the old willows. She drew near, and began to cluck, when, lo! her little brood stepped off all at once into the sparkling waters. The golden balls floated on the amber stream.
Poor old hen! how she fluttered and clucked and called! But all in vain; her children did not mind her. They knew more about water than she did, for these chicks were mere goslings. On they swam, and the poor hen did not know what to do.
But the little goslings came back after a while, and cuddled that night under their mother's wing.
A. E. T.
Let me tell you a story about a dog and a cat.
Wolf, the dog, was a great stag-hound, who could run almost as fast as a swift horse.
He loved to chase cats, and was their constant foe. One morning he spied a poor gray pussy in the garden, and away he went after her in full career.
She ran as fast as she could, but her short legs were no match for Wolf's long ones. The dog's master tried to call him off, but he was too excited to pay any heed to his voice.