This all happened last summer, but my hat is as pretty now as it ever was. Ma says she should have supposed the blue would have faded some by this time—blue is such a poor color to wear; but it hasn't a bit. When it does, I shall take it off, and have it for a sash for Rachel Tryphena, and the hat will be 'most as nice as it is now.
Kitty Hazel.
N.B.—I asked Polly how she thought of the umbrella. She said that when she was visiting her sister, that works for a dress-maker in Boston, she saw a picture of an old lady who was chased by a mad bull, and just as the bull was coming at her like sixty, the old lady turned and opened her umbrella square in his face. Polly said she always thought it was so cute of the old lady, and had meant to do the same when a mad bull chased her, if she had an umbrella with her. She said it all popped into her head when she saw the horses.
THE STORK AND THE CRANE: A FABLE.
By Howard Pyle.
A Stork and a Crane once frequented the same marsh. The Stork was a quiet, dignified individual, with a philosophical countenance. One would never have thought, from his deeply reflective look, of the number of frogs and pollywogs, eels and small fish, that had disappeared in his meditative mouth. For the Stork was like many another philosopher, and in spite of his supernaturally wise external appearance, inside he was just as selfish, and just as voracious, as all the rest of his kind.
Although he never mentioned the subject, he was secretly very proud to recall the former grandeur of his ancestors, one of whom, in old Greek days, had been a famous king over the frogs, eels, and snakes, in a Spartan marsh.
The Crane was a lively little fellow, and not at all philosophical. He ate his dinner without moralizing over it, and felt thankful when he had enough. He had not a particle of aristocratic blood in his veins, and, in consequence, rather ridiculed the possession of that indescribable material by the Stork. Ridicule as he would, however, he was really secretly proud of his acquaintance with the other, and used to say to his friends and relatives sometimes:
"There is no one in the world that more despises pretentiousness than myself. One only too frequently hears an animal boast of its aristocratic acquaintances. I never do that. Now, there is John Stork, of one of our highest families, and although I am not only on friendly but intimate terms with him, and even have been invited to call upon his estimable family, and make the acquaintance of Miss Stork (I have never had an opportunity to do so yet), one never hears me boast of his friendship and intimacy."