His father and mother were both out hunting for him when he arrived home, and the way he made that wood fly, tired and hungry though he was, should have been a caution to any lazy boy. It was all cut and in the shed when his parents got home, but nevertheless the willow switch was well worn, and from that day forth Andrew Jackson Washington Jones was nearly, if not quite, cured of being lazy.
[THE BOY WHO COULD NOT BE HURT.]
BY DAVID KER.
I.
Many many years ago, about the time that Hendrick Hudson was smoking his first pipe with the Manhattan Indians on the site of New York, a group of school-boys were assembled one quiet summer evening in front of a house in the quiet little Swedish village of Hornelen.
"That's where the nest is, up there by the corner of the highest window," said one. "But who's to get it?"
"Oh! can't you really, Karl?" piped a poor little pale-faced cripple in the centre of the group. "That's just the egg I've been wanting ever so long. Can't you get it somehow?"
"I wish I could, little one, if only for your sake; but I've tried it twice, and got nothing but a good tumble for my pains."
"And so has Austrian Moritz here—haven't you, old fellow?" cried another, clapping the shoulder of a slim, dark-haired boy, who was spending his holidays at Hornelen with one of his father's Swedish friends.