[JIM'S THANKSGIVING.]
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
"Is that your dog?"
Jim looked around. A bright-looking boy of eight years was sitting in a carriage which stood before a six-story dry-goods store. He was gazing admiringly at the pretty terrier Jim held in his arms. He moved toward him, drawn by the quickly established chord of sympathy between two boys on the subject of dogs.
"Ain't he a beauty! Well, yes, I s'pose he's mine. He fell off the box of a big style carriage, somethin' like that o' yourn, one day. I picked him up and run after it, but I couldn't ketch it. I didn't steal him," added Jim, earnestly.
"Course you didn't."
"I've done some mean things, but I promised mother I'd never steal. He was lame for a while, poor little creetur, but I nussed him very careful, and he's well now."
"How'll you trade? I'd like to have him."
But Jim hugged the dog closer to him, as the small boy drew various treasures from his pockets.