JOHNNY'S SONG.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
"Come, now, Johnny, sing me a song—
Sing me a song," said Mabel.
"I will," said Johnny, whose voice was strong,
"For I'm the boy that is able."
So he sang, and whistled, and sang again,
Till all the woods were a-ringing,
And Mabel frowned, and began to complain,
"Why, Johnny, what's that you're singing?"
"Don't you like it?" said Johnny Stout
(Mabel her laugh must smother),
As he straightened himself in his roundabout,
And said, "I'll sing you another."
He sang and whistled with might and main,
Till Mabel's ears were a-ringing,
And she stopped them up, and exclaimed again
"Why, Johnny, what are you singing?"
"That's Pinafore," said Johnny Stout,
Who thought himself quite clever;
"You've heard it often enough, no doubt."
Said Mabel, "N—hardly ever."
And she made up her mind that never again
Would she ask Minnie Stout's big brother
To sing her a song, when 'twas very plain
He knew not one tune from another.
VIOLA'S SKETCH.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
We had been staying at Dinan, a pretty and cheap little summer resting-place in Brittany, and so picturesque were the costumes of the peasantry that Viola, my sister, was fascinated, and her sketch-book was getting crammed, while I, more frivolous, was longing to be in Paris, where I could go to the Bon Marché, see the newest fashions, and hear the latest doings and sayings of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Viola was always more sensible in some things than I, but she was weak on jugs, and mugs, and rugs, and picturesque old rags, and old women, and children; therefore it was no surprise to me, when we were on the road to the railway station, and our trunks already well on the way toward Paris, to have her insist upon stopping to find out what was the matter with a child who was crying bitterly. When, however, Viola discovered that the child was the grand-daughter of old Margot, who had been our "maid-of-everything" at the little cottage which aunt had hired for the season, who had cooked for us, and washed for us, and gone to market for us, at some ridiculously low wages, there was no use in arguing with her; stop she would, and alight she would from the queer old conveyance we were in—for it was not the day for the diligence—and aunt had to wait, nolens volens—and that means willingly if you choose, and unwillingly if you don't choose—and I had to wait, and I had to do all the scolding, for aunt is as meek as a turtle-dove. And after a while both aunt and I were just as much interested as was Viola, and there were we three all listening to little Suzette, forgetful of the train and of Paris.
Suzette had ceased crying, and was pulling a flower to pieces as she told us of her trouble. Margot had been obliged to remain away from home on account of our intended departure, and she had left orders, strict orders, for Jacques, Suzette's brother, not to do this, nor that, nor the other—in fact, had forbidden so many things that poor little Suzette knew not what was the thing he could do; nevertheless Jacques insisted upon doing just as he pleased, and Suzette and he had a quarrel. Suzette wished him to obey his grandmother; he called his grandmother an old witch, and said Suzette was her cat, and that as for voice and eyes, their cat had much finer ones. Then they had even worse words, and she had pulled his hair, and he had banged the door, and said he was going to drown himself; and he had come down to the pond, for she had run after him, and she was sure—yes, positively sure—that her brother was dead, and she should never see him again.
"But, Suzette," said Viola, "he may be hiding just to tease you."