THERE was once a gentleman, it is said, who was very wealthy. He had a large family of beautiful children; and he loved his wife and sons and daughters very dearly; and daily he would have his coachman take them out to ride.

Away they would go through country and city, and forest and park. But near one of the pleasant rides there was a deep chasm, and its sides were rocky and steep, so that to go too near it would be almost certain death.

But the coachman would often see how very close he could drive to the edge of the abyss without dashing his precious load to destruction. This he continued to do day after day; though he did not mean any harm. He only wanted to show how near he could come to danger and yet escape. But one day he came just a little nearer, when in an instant he became dizzy as he looked down into the dark chasm, and whirled from his high seat and was gone.

But horses, coach and family, all escaped and came safely home.

Then another coachman must be found; and the gentleman sent word all about, and advertised for a good, safe, skilful man. And many came and he questioned them, each by himself, in order to get the right one.

"How near can you drive to Danger Cliff—" so that chasm was called—"without driving over?" asked the gentleman of the first one who came.

"Alt, your honor, it's not every coachman that can do the likes o' me. Sure, I've driven as near as your finger's bridth minny's the time, an' twas as the sim as though 'twas a mile or more. I've niver hurt a hair o' the hid."

"You may pass out," was the answer. "I do not wish your services."

Then came another, and he was asked the same question about driving near the chasm. And he said he could come within six inches, but feared to go nearer.

"I do not wish you," was said, and he passed out, wondering how near the gentleman wanted his coachman to drive to this place of danger.

So they came and went, till one answered: "Sir, I think I could drive very near, even to the edge if necessary; but I always make it a point to keep as far-away as I can."

DANGER CLIFF.

"And you are the very man I wish, sir. Keep far-away from that and all other dangers as you drive the coach about the country. Remember, my family are in your keeping, and for their sakes as well as for your own, do not take one risk unless you must."

Many's the boy who has said: "I'm not afraid to taste cider, or beer, or wine, just this once. I know where to go, and where not to go, and what I can stand. And I don't need any pledge. And if I want to smoke a cigar I can smoke one, and there stop. And I can read one bad book and no more, if I set my heart upon it. And I can spend an hour with Jim Brown and not swear, even if he does. What's the use of a fellow's going to excess every time? Why can't he have a little of these things even if they are not quite so good, and stop just where one wants to?" Yes, but nine chances to one, the boy will keep coming nearer and nearer to Danger Cliff, and then in an instant his head will whirl, and over he will go and disappear in darkness forever.

Yes, but who ever plunged over Danger Cliff who kept as far-away from it as possible?

Keep far-away from every Danger Cliff.

[MY MOCKING-BIRD.]

IF you are an artist, and want to color this little fellow, be sure you use no yellows or glowing reds about him. His back must be made a sort of ashy brown, and his wings and tail nearly black, and his legs and bill quite black. A bit of white, as you see, may be put on his breast, but even this must not be too white; it ought to have a brownish tinge. There is really not a bit of brightness for trimming; no yellow at the tips of his wings, no ruffle of red about his throat. He isn't pretty, and I may as well own it at once. The lovely goldfinch in the cage opposite him, with her brilliant yellow wings that contrast so beautifully with the green vines among which she loves to hop, is often tossing her head at him in a saucy way, as though she knew she was a beauty; and I'm sure she does, for the first place she visits when I let her out of her cage, is the looking-glass.

Ah, but let me be just to my poor little goldfinch, if she is a trifle vain. There was a time that she really did not know it was her own pretty self she saw in the glass, and she actually took a seed with her, and offered it to the bird in the glass.

MY MOCKING-BIRD.

But you should see her when Mornie—that's the homely bird's name—makes up his mind to sing. She retires to the most distant corner of her cage, curls herself up in a still little heap, puts her head on one side, and listens without the flutter of a feather. Either I imagine it or there really does come a sad look in her eyes, as though she thought she would give all the yellow in her lovely tail if she could sing like that.

Oh, how he sings! Sometimes like a canary, sometimes like a wood-robin in a spring morning, sometimes like the true mate of the pretty little goldfinch herself. In fact, like any bird that he has ever heard; springing the notes from one style of music to another much more quickly than a young Miss at the piano can change her music, and begin again.

A mischievous bird is this Mornie of mine. In addition to his musical powers, he can cackle exactly like a hen; and when Mollie, my little errand girl, first came to live with me, Mornie kept her half the time running to see which hen had laid an egg, so sure was she that she would find a fresh one.

Then, no sooner does Tom go to sawing wood in the back-yard, than Mornie begins her "Screak! Screak! Screak!" so exactly like the sound which the saw makes, that you would be almost certain to think Tom had moved his work to the side piazza where Mornie hangs. Very often he wakens in the middle of the night and gives us a song. But there is this queer thing about him then. All his fun seems to be gone. Whether he is lonely and homesick or not, I do not know, but the plaintive little note that belongs to him is all he sings in the night.

That is not the time, he thinks, for mocking anybody.

I have some trouble in preparing his food for him; he is really very dainty, unlike my goldfinch. He is very fond of raw meat chopped fine; and indeed must have it, or he would lose his health. Mush and milk is also a favorite dish of his; at least, that is what we call it, though the meal is not cooked like our mush, but stirred raw into the milk.

Then, too, he must have his fresh fruit in its season. Strawberries are his special favorites, but he will kindly condescend to eat any fruit that he can get after strawberries are gone. Still, you need not suppose that his tastes are all so dainty. He is by no means above eating a good-sized grasshopper or beetle, and a fat worm now and then he considers a special dainty.

Now I have taken a good deal of pains to inquire into the character and habits of mocking-birds, and I find that mine is not an unusual one, but is quite like his race; so that if you think of getting such a bird for a pet, you may safely feed him as I do mine, and expect him to act very much as Mornie does.

He and all his class are very brave when they have any young birds to defend; they have been known to kill snakes by darting at their eyes and biting, and by striking them sharp blows on the head with their beaks. It is said that even cats discover that it is wise to keep away from the pretty little nest where young mocking-birds are being reared; if they don't, the fierce father bird will dart at them and pick their eyes out.

My cat Tabby has learned by some means that she is not to have any thing to do with Mornie; I never taught her, so I think he has explained it to her. By the way, another accomplishment he has is to bark like a dog. Tabby, who is mortally afraid of dogs, went around half the time with her back arched like a bow, when Mornie first came into the house; but she has learned now, that the bark which she dreads comes from the bird in the cage; and if she is awakened suddenly from a nap, and begins to arch her back in fear, she remembers in a trice, and goes off under the barn to feel ashamed.

Isn't it a wonder that Mornie never tries to talk? Perhaps he does try, but he never succeeds. I often feel sorry for him, to think that when he knows so much, he cannot learn to speak one little word. However, he gives me a great deal of pleasure with his music; as much as goldfinch does with her pretty ways and her gay dress; both of them are cheerful and happy all day long, and do just as well as they know how. Without any judgment, or reason, or soul, each contrives to do well and joyfully just what God wants him to do.

["LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"]

MEN, women, children, rich and poor, black and white, are hurrying into the post-office, and pressing close up to the delivery window. Some are expecting letters from distant friends.

That old man you see standing nearest the window, has been coming for a long time. He gets nothing, yet keeps coming.

He had a son once, whom he brought up very tenderly. He was an only child and was dearly loved. But the boy had a bad companion who led him astray. Once he enticed him into a saloon and to drink. He was carried back to his father drunk.

Do you wonder the poor father was heart-broken, and that he spoke severe words.

But the boy instead of being ashamed and begging his father's forgiveness, became very angry, and after a little, gathered all he had into a bundle, and without a word of farewell slipped away one dark night, where no one could tell.

When the father awoke the next morning and learned that his boy had gone, his grief knew no bounds. He wrote letters in all directions and put notices in a great many newspapers about his lost son. And he travelled many hundred miles in search of him. But all to no purpose.

He thinks he is somewhere in Mexico. Poor old man! In the last few months he has grown gray very fast. I don't think he will come here many more mornings asking for news from his lost Henry. Death will come and take him to the arms of Jesus, I trust, and maybe then he will get some good word about his wandering boy.

How are you treating your parents and your Heavenly Father?

Standing next to this old man is a boy nine years old. His mother has sent him to see if a letter has come yet from his father. Not long ago this father joined the army and went a thousand miles away to the West to fight the wild Indians.

But not a word has come from him. Many battles have been fought with the savages, and the papers say that some of the soldiers have been shot down.

Sometimes the soldiers wander away from the camp and while every thing seems so safe around them, suddenly the crack of a rifle is heard, and a bullet from an Indian gun speeds through the soldier's heart.

Or maybe he finds his way to a saloon and becomes drunk, and quarrels, and is killed, and his friends far-away at the East, expecting some day to welcome back a brave soldier, hear no more from him. I suppose whisky kills a great many more than war.

I am so glad this dear child does not know what dreadful thing has happened to his father, or his face would not be so sunny.

Next to this child is a lady. She is richly dressed and seems very cheerful. She is laughing and talking with the gentleman near her. She tells him she expects good news from her husband who is in Europe. But, see! There comes a letter for her, and there's a black border about it. She turns pale and trembles, and can hardly command herself enough to break it open. I wonder what it says; she has hurried away weeping and groaning.

And now the crowd presses on. The clerk says to this one and that, "Nothing for you!" "Nothing for you!" "Pass along there!" "Don't block up the way!" But there comes a rough-looking man. Wonder if he really expects any one will write him a letter.

Yet the clerk hands him out one, large and handsomely addressed. How astonished the man is. He blushes and shuffles away to a corner by himself, and after trying a long time he brings forth a great fine parchment. But, poor man! He can't read. He looks around the room for help. His eye rests upon me.

"Sir, will you be so kind as to give me the meaning of this paper? I'm a poor man without education, sir."

I take the large letter. It is from Europe, written by a lawyer, and it says that one of this man's relatives has died and left him five hundred pounds.

[A QUEER KIND OF SALT.]

THEY had been gathered around uncle Dick, who had just come back from the Old World.

The children all thought this a very queer name, all except Mary, the eldest, who thought she knew a little bit more than anybody else. She told her mother in triumph, that she "got ahead of Lucy Jones the other day, in geography, on the question: 'What is the Old World?'"

And little five-year-old Rose said that she "Fought it was queer it s'ould be older'n any ovver one; s'e dessed zis world was mos' sixty years old!"

But to go back to my story. Mamma came in and said:

"Children, you must go to bed now. I declare, if Rose isn't asleep already over the statue of Milton!"

So with their thoughts full of Milton, they reluctantly went to bed, and I am led to suppose that they dreamed of Milton that night. The next day at dinner they had corn-beef.

"Oh, dear!" said mamma. "This meat has too much saltpetre in it. I declare, I will never buy of that meat-man again!"

After dinner the children gathered around uncle Dick.

"Uncle," said Willie, getting up on uncle's knee, "what was that mamma said the meat had too much of in? Salt—"

"Why, Willie Lathrop!" exclaimed Mary. "It is saltpetre. You ignorant boy; I'm ashamed of you!" Mary was very much ashamed of Willie sometimes, and sometimes he had reason to be ashamed of her.

"What is saltpetre, then, Mary?" said uncle Dick.

"Why, wh-y, wh-y—it's saltpetre. That's all I know."

"Then you see that after all you don't know so much," said he.

Perhaps this was unkind, but he did not mean it to be so.

"Do tell us about it," said the children, all except Mary, she had gone over in the corner of the sofa.

"Well," continued uncle Dick, "when I was in India, it lay all over the ground like the snow here in winter, (only not so thick) in some parts of the country—kind of salt. When tasted it has a cooling, but bitter taste. About an inch of the earth is taken up and put in large tanks something like that you saw at Long Branch last summer (only not near so large) full of water, and soaked there. The water is then taken out, and the saltpetre is found in the bottom of the tanks. The most that we use comes from the East Indies. It is sometimes called nitre. In a great many places it is also found in caves."

"Well, now," said mamma, who had come in during the conversation, "that's something I never knew before."

"Nor I either," said Mary.

"But you know a little more about it than you did awhile ago, don't you?"

This from uncle Dick.

"How queer!" said Freddie and Willie.

[JOSEPH AND RICHARD.]

TWO boys about whom I think you will like to hear. Great friends they were, and schoolmates. If you had lived a few years earlier, and had been sent to London to school, you might have attended the school known as the "Charterhouse," and sat beside Joseph and Richard. I wonder if you would have liked them? They were very unlike each other. Joseph was a quiet, handsome, well-behaved boy, who always had his lessons, always did very nearly what was right, and always took a prize, sometimes two or three of them. But poor Richard was forever getting into trouble. A good-natured, merry boy who did what he happened to think of first, "just for fun," and sometimes spent hours in bitter repentings afterwards.

Yet in spite of their being so different, as I told you, the two boys were great friends, and in vacations, Joseph used to take wild Richard home with him to the minister's house; for his father was a clergyman.

Well, the years passed on, and the two boys became young men and went to college together. Perhaps you think you will hear now that the fun-loving boy became a great scholar, and the sober Joseph grew tired of study! Not a bit of it; they kept just about as far apart as when they were children. Joseph was a scholar and a poet; Richard slipped along somehow, contriving to study very little.

Why am I telling you about them? Why, because I know you like to get acquainted with people, and these are not boys put into a story—they actually lived, and were just such persons as I have been describing. It is time you heard their full names: Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Stop just here and look carefully at their pictures. Yes, they lived a good while ago, their style of dress would tell you so much.

It is a little more than two hundred years since they were born. If you want to be very particular about it, I might tell you that Richard was born in 1671 and Joseph in 1672.

When they were quite through with school life, among other things that they did, they published together a paper called "The Tattler." I suppose you never saw a paper quite like it. "Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff" was the imaginary name of a person, who, according to this paper, went everywhere and saw every thing and told his story in "The Tattler" to amuse and instruct other people. After two years the two friends changed the name and style of their paper. They called it "The Spectator," and in it a delightful man was made to visit all the interesting places in and about London, and elsewhere, and tell the most interesting things that took place.

RICHARD STEELE.

I suppose there never was a newspaper so eagerly watched for as the "Daily Spectator." You must remember that daily newspapers at that time were very new and strange things. And indeed this was more like a story book than a newspaper, only "The Spectator" went among real people, and told just what they said and did.

Joseph Addison wrote a great deal for this paper, and by this time the scholarly boy had become a great man; his writings were very much admired. Indeed, to this day scholars love to read Addison. When I was a little girl I remember seeing a copy of "The Spectator," which my father had among his treasures, and he used occasionally to take it out, and read bits of it to me, explaining why certain things in it were so witty, or so sharp, and I remember thinking that "Sir Roger" (one of the people whom The Spectator went often to see) was the nicest man who ever lived. I did not understand at the time that he was an imaginary man that Addison and Steele had created.

There is ever so much I would like to tell you about these two men. How, after a couple of years, they changed their paper again, calling it "The Guardian"; how, as the two men grew older, the difference between them kept growing. Joseph Addison being the scholarly gentleman, and Richard Steele being the good-humored, thoughtless, selfish man, always getting into debt, and looking to Addison or some one else to help him out. But I have only time to introduce them to you. When you begin to study English literature you will find a good deal in it about these two friends and the great difference there was between them.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

Sometimes I wonder whether anybody would have remembered Richard Steele at all, if he had not been a friend of Joseph Addison. Yet there was a good deal in him to like, and he might have made a splendid man, I suppose. "Poor Dick!" his friends used to say of him, but they always spoke of Addison with respect.

It is easy to get the name of being a very wild boy in school, always doing mischief; but it is not so easy to be the first scholar, and by and by one of the finest writers of the day.

[THE BROKEN PROMISE.]

MRS. MORSE kept no regular servant. Mrs. Sticht, a German woman, came every Monday to do the week's washing, and every Tuesday to do the ironing. She had always been a happy-faced, merry woman, but one morning Stella Morse, going into the kitchen to make a pudding for dinner, found a sad face over the wash-board.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sticht," Stella said.

"Good mornin', Miss Stella," responded the washerwoman soberly, looking up with tear-filled eyes.

"Are you sick, Mrs. Sticht? You look pale and tired."

"I'm not sick, miss, but I am tired; I didn't rest much last night," she answered wearily.

"Then you better wait until another day to wash; mamma would be willing, I'm sure," Stella said kindly.

"No, miss, I'll keep right on washin', but I thank you all the same for your kindness. I'll be just as tired to-morrow, an' the day after too. A mother can't have much rest with a sick child to tend."

"Is your little girl sick, ma'am?"

"She's bin sick these two weeks with an awful cold; she's that weak that she can't hardly walk about the room, an' she's dreadful wakeful nights."

"Who stays with her when you go out to wash?"

"No one but her little brother Tim; an' he's only seven years old."

"And you go out washing every day, do you not?"

"No, miss; if I did I'd have more money than I've got. This is my only wash-place; the rest of the week I help an old fruit-woman down in the market, but I don't get much pay."

"Do you earn enough to support your children?"

"Yes, miss; but my husband's long sickness and death brought some heavy bills for me to pay. I can't get any extras for my little sick girl, though she's that lonesome when I'm gone that Tim says she cries most of the time."

"I should think she would be lonely, poor little soul! What does she want most, Mrs. Sticht?" Stella asked.

A smile flickered over Mrs. Sticht's face. Perhaps this young lady would do something for her little sick girl.

"Her whole mind seems to be set on a doll; she's never had a doll, and she thinks she'd never get lonesome if she had one; she's a lovin' little thing, Patty is."

"She shall have a doll before the week is out," Stella said decidedly. "I have a pretty wax one with golden curls and blue eyes that I used to play with myself. I have not had it out for a long time, and it has no clothes, but I'll dress it up just as pretty as I can, and—let me see, to-day is Monday—by Wednesday I'll have it ready."

"Oh! That is very good of you, Miss Stella," the woman said gratefully. "Patty'll laugh for joy sure."

"Let me see, what is your number, Mrs. Sticht?"

"Number Eleven, Spraker's Court. I can come after the doll, if you say so."

"No, I'll not trouble you; besides, I want to see the little sick girl. Just tell her for me, please, that I'll be there on Wednesday with a beautiful doll, dressed in ruffled blue silk, and I will bring her some other things too."

Stella spoke earnestly, and a load was lifted from the mother's heart. Her unspoken thought was, "I believe the child will soon get better when she gets the doll she so longs for."

Patty's eyes grew bright when her mother told her that a dear, kind young girl was coming to her on Wednesday with a beautiful blue-eyed, golden-haired doll, dressed in blue silk.

"For my very own? O mamma, for my very own?" asked Patty, clasping and unclasping her thin white hands in her excitement.

There were tears in her mother's eyes as she bent her head and kissed Patty's forehead, saying tenderly, "Yes, dear, for your very own."

Wednesday came—a bright, beautiful day. Patty's first words to her mother were, "O mamma! this is the day that my dolly is coming. O mamma! I believe I'll get well quick when dolly comes."

Mrs. Sticht did not like to leave home that morning for some reason, but she felt that she must, for the rent was nearly due, and the doctor who came to see the child cared more for filling his pockets than for filling human hearts with thankfulness. She came home very weary, but with one glad thought, namely, "I suppose Patty is overjoyed with her pretty doll. How good of Miss Stella to think of my poor little one!"

But as she stepped over her own threshold, a very weary little face greeted her. Patty's cheeks were flushed, and she said brokenly, "O mamma, my dolly didn't come."

"An' she wouldn't stop cryin', mamma, an' my head aches," sobbed Tim, who was worn out by his sister's day of bitter sorrow.

Mrs. Sticht did not go to bed that night. She watched beside restless Patty, who tossed about all night, talking about blue eyes and golden hair and blue silk dresses, moaning in her sleep, "An' my dolly didn't come; an' my sweet, sweet dolly didn't come."

Monday morning came. A little boy stood knocking at Mrs. Morse's kitchen door. Stella opened it. "Mamma can't wash to-day, Patty's tuk worse," he said quickly, and then scampered away.

"Oh, what a shame that I haven't dressed that doll!" Stella said mentally. "I certainly meant to, but there were so many things to take up my attention that I kept putting it off. I'll dress it this very day."

Tuesday morning Stella, with the beautiful, tastefully dressed doll in her arms, and a little bag of oranges also, started for Mrs. Sticht's. In answer to her rap, Mrs. Sticht opened the door. Her eyes were heavy with weeping and her face had grown more aged.

"How is little Patty this morning, Mrs. Sticht? I've brought her the doll. Can I see her?" were Stella's rapid questions.

"Yes, Miss Stella, you can see her. Walk in, please."

There was anguish and reproof in the mother's tone; Stella stepped inside the poorly furnished room; the mother led the way to one corner, and pointed to a little white-draped cot.

The terrible truth dawned upon Stella. She had come too late. Patty was dead. She burst into tears as the sobbing, broken-hearted mother uncovered the little still face. Through her tears Stella could see how beautiful Patty was, with her golden hair brushed back from a pretty forehead, and her dear little hands clasped over her still bosom.

"And did you tell her I would bring the doll? Did she look for it?" Stella moaned, her remorseful tears rolling down her cheeks like rain.

"'Look for it!' Yes, Miss Stella, she looked for it day and night," Mrs. Sticht answered huskily. "She was very light-headed toward the last; she talked of nothin' else. Just before she died her reason returned. She sat up in bed, an' put her arms around my neck an' said, 'Good-by, mamma; I'm goin' to heaven.' I cried aloud, but Patty smoothed my cheek, and said, 'Don't cry, mamma, you'll come by and by, an' I'll be waitin' and lovin' my blue-eyed dolly, 'cause I know Jesus will give me one, 'cause there's no tears in heaven.'"

[GRANDMOTHER'S DARLINGS.]

"TO-MORROW will be grandma's eightieth birthday," said one of the children, "and we must make her just as happy as can be."

"What shall we do?" said another.

"Send her a long letter—four pages of foolscap—and a nice present," answered the first.

"Agreed!" said they all; and away they go among the stores on Main street. But this will not do, and grandma doesn't care for that; she has so many presents already it will be hard to find any thing fresh and good for her unless they buy something rare and costly; but she wouldn't be pleased to have so much money laid out for her, and the "children" can't afford it.

But one has a bright thought. "Grandma dearly loves flowers; let's get her a plant or two, they will not cost very much."

So they hurry from the stores to the greenhouse, for it must go out by the very next mail.

"How sweet!" they all exclaim as they enter. "See those roses! How moist and green and summery it is here!" Surely so! for the beauty and breath of ten thousand flowers that the Lord had made, that moment were there.

A marguerite and a begonia full of buds are soon bought, and the kind greenhouse man asks but a trifle for them. Does he know that they are going to grandma, and that she will take good care of the darlings? Maybe he has no grandma.

Home they hurry with their two treasures, and they tuck them away in a nice, new, clean pasteboard box. They look like two dear babies put to sleep in their crib.

Now a strong string is tied about the box, then a paper over that, and another string, and grandma's name and post-office are carefully written upon it. And just across the street is honest old uncle Samuel, or Sam, as most folks call him, but he was called that way when he was born. He is always ready to run on certain kinds of errands, and this is one of them. So he will carry the flowers and the big foolscap letter too, all the way to grandma—nearly a hundred miles—for fifteen cents! Very cheap, you see. But that's his way, and he makes a good living because he's never idle like some folks who won't work unless they get the highest wages.

On and on and on he hurries to carry your message, and he goes just as cheerfully and cheaply a thousand miles for you as one. How like Jesus, who came so far to bring us good tidings of great joy; only that he didn't charge any thing at all, and he would have come and died all the same, if there hadn't been but one poor sinner in all the world to be saved!

But uncle Samuel is there now. Can't you see him hand it out to grandma?

How she wonders who sent it, and what it is. There! She has her scissors, and she says, "Stand away, children, till I see what is in this pretty box!" Then "snap, snap," go the scissors, and away fly the cords, and she lifts the cover off carefully, and there the two darlings are sleeping as soundly as babies.

And they all gather around grandma, and exclaim, and try to help her wake them up softly and lift the sweet dears from their crib.

There they are now, looking out of the window, happy as two queens.

Every morning they lift up their faces and smile as soon as the sun rises in the east over the sea. And when grandma comes and sprinkles them all over with clean, cool water, they smile and say, "Thank you!" as well as they can.

They make grandma very happy; more happy than if the children had sent her a piano or silk dress.

Can't you send your grandma, or somebody's grandma a rose, or something?

["CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES."]

"I'LL just go down by the lake, mamma, and wait until you are ready."

"But, Rollo, remember you are dressed in white, and it soils very easily; don't go where you will get any stains."

"I won't, mamma, I'll be ever so careful."

This was the talk they had as Rollo, in his newest white suit, and brilliant red stockings and fresh sailor hat, kissed his hand to his mother and tripped out of the gate. Ten minutes more and he expected to be oft to the park to hear the lovely music, and see the swans and the monkeys.

It was less than ten minutes when he came back in just the plight which you see in the picture. One shoe off, one elastic gone, his bright red-stocking torn and hanging, himself covered from head to foot with mud. How could a boy have done so much mischief to himself in so short a time! If only Rollo had had a reputation for being careful, she would have surely stopped to hear his story; but, alas for him! A more heedless boy never lived than this same Rollo. Still, this was worse than usual; so much worse that the mother decided on the instant that he must have a severe lesson.

A SORRY PLIGHT.

"Rollo," she said in her coldest tone, "you may go at once to Hannah and have her put your every-day suit on, then you may go to my room and stay until I return."

"But, mamma," said Rollo, his face in a quiver, his lips trembling so that he could hardly speak.

But she passed him on the stairs without a word.

He called after her:

"Mamma, oh, mamma! Won't you please to listen to me?"

Then she said.

"Rollo, you may obey me immediately, and I do not wish to hear a word."

In a very few minutes after that the carriage rolled away, stopped at Mrs. Merrivale's and took up Helen and her mother, then on to the park.

You needn't suppose Rollo's mother enjoyed it. She seemed to care nothing for the park; she hardly glanced at the swans, and did not go near the monkeys. All the time she missed a happy little face and eager voice that she had expected to have with her. Miss Helen Merrivale was another disappointed one. Had not she and Rollo planned together this ride to the park? Now, all she could learn from his mother was that Rollo was detained at the last minute. She did not intend to tell the Merrivales that her careless little boy seemed to grow more careless every day; and how she felt that she must shut her ears to his pitiful little explanations, which would amount to nothing more than he "didn't mean to at all," and was "so sorry."

The mother believed that she had done right nevertheless she was lonely and sad. They came home earlier than they had intended. As they passed Mrs. Sullivan's pretty cottage she was standing at the gate with Mamie in her arms, and out she came to speak to them.

"You haven't the dear little fellow with you," she said eagerly, her lips trembling. "I wanted to kiss him, the darling, brave boy. O, Mrs. Grey, I hope and trust that he did not get hurt in any way?"

"Who?" said Mrs. Grey wonderingly. "My Rollo! Oh, no, he isn't hurt. Why? Did you hear of any accident?"

"Didn't he tell you? Didn't anybody tell you? Why, Mrs. Grey, if it hadn't been for your brave little Rollo—I shiver and grow cold all over when I think where my baby would be now! She climbed into the boat; it was locked, but she tried to sit down at the farther end, and she lost her balance and pitched head first into the lake. Rollo saw her, your little Rollo, he was the only one around; and I don't know how he did it, and he such a little bit of a fellow. He climbed over the side of the boat and reached after her; he stepped right in that deep mud and got stuck, and the little man had sense enough to unbutton his shoe and leave it sticking there, and wade out after baby. He saved her, I'm sure I don't know how, nobody seems to know, but he tugged her out and laid her on the bank, all unconscious, you know, and we thought she was dead, but she is as well as ever, and O, Mrs. Grey, isn't there any thing I can do for the blessed boy?"

"John," said Mrs. Grey, "drive home as fast as possible."

Up the steps she ran, gave the bell a furious pull, and dashed past the little nurse-girl to her own room like a comet.

"Where is Rollo?" she said breathlessly to Hannah.

"He's asleep now, ma'am. He cried as though his heart would break, and was a long time getting, comforted; but finally I got him dressed and coaxed him to take a nap, and there's been half the town here this afternoon to inquire how he is."

She didn't believe in disturbing sleeping boys as a rule, but she picked this one right out of his bed and carried him, half smothered with kisses, to her rocking-chair, and sat down to laugh and cry over him and kiss him. Only half awake he was at last, still grasping the big orange that Hannah had given him, when mamma, giving him more kisses, said:

"Dear little brave boy, will you forgive mamma for all the sorrow of this afternoon?"

Then he rubbed his eyes and looked at her wonderingly, and patted her cheek, and said:

"You mean you will forgive me? You will, won't you? I truly didn't mean to get wet and dirty."

How many kisses do you suppose he had then? As for Mrs. Sullivan, she hasn't found enough yet to do for Rollo, though she keeps doing nice little things all the time.

[NOBLE AND TRICKSY.]

TWO dogs they were, and I am about to tell you a true story concerning them. Tricksy belonged to little Robbie Parker, and was one of the nicest dogs I ever knew. Robbie thought so; he came to his mother almost every night with a fresh story of the fellow's goodness.

"It is a pity he has such a dishonorable name," the mother said. "I don't like tricky people."

"O, mamma!" would Robbie say. "He is only a dog; but then I know he wouldn't do any thing mean."

In the course of time, Robbie's older brother Nelson, became the owner of the wickedest looking little dog that over yelped. If you want to know just how he looked, here is his picture.

What Nelson saw in the little wretch to please him, it would be hard to say; and of all things, he was named Noble!

If the names could have been turned about, and "Tricksy" given to him, I think it would have suited every one but Nelson.

He was a queer fellow, and certainly he had many tricks. Brave old Tricksy took kindly to him, and used to frolic with him in a dignified way, and whether it was that being with the little scamp so much he learned some of his ways or not, I do not know, but certain it is that the funny thing I am going to tell you, actually happened.

There was nothing that the little scamp named "Noble" liked better than to have a race with old Tricksy around the great trees on the lawn. Yes, perhaps there was one thing that he liked almost as well, and that was, to curl himself on a certain cushion that before he came, had been the large dog's special property.

So sure as the old dog left it for a minute to do an errand, or to attend to any of his duties, up the little scamp would jump and be in possession. Good old Tricksy stood it patiently a good many times, but at last one day he evidently thought out a way to manage the little new comer. It was just after a hearty dinner, and it was a chilly day, and a cosy nap on the warm cushion, I suppose, looked most inviting to both dogs. The little one was ahead, as usual, and the old dog sat clown by the stove to think about it. At last he got up, moved gravely towards the door leading to the lawn, then turned around to the little dog and said as plainly as dog-language would admit:

"Come on, then, if you want a race."

TRICKSY.

Down jumped the little dog in a perfect flutter of delight, and wagged his tail, and barked his short, sharp barks that said "Oh, good, good!" and ran to the door.

What did our grave old dog do but turn around very quickly, spring to the bench behind the stove, curl himself on the cushion, and go to sleep, leaving the disappointed younger one to bear the loss of his frolic and his cushion, as best he might!

"He has earned his name!" somebody said, laughing. "O, Tricksy, Tricksy! We can never say you ought to be called 'Noble' any more."

But what do you think Robbie did? Instead of being delighted with the sharpness of his dear old dog, he burst into tears.

"Why, Robbie!" mamma said. "What is the matter?"

Then Robbie wailed forth his heart-breaking question:

"Was it wicked, mamma? Tricksy didn't know any better; he is only a dog."

"Of course it was wicked!" Nelson declared in his most teasing tone. "My good little Noble wouldn't think of doing such a cheating thing."

NOBLE.

Whether mamma wanted to comfort Robbie or whether she thought Nelson needed the lesson; or whether it was a little of both reasons that made her speak just then, I will not stop to tell you, but what she said was:

"He may have been led astray by bad example. I wonder if it can be possible that he saw a boy take his slate and book under his arm yesterday and walk towards the stairs as if he were going to the library to study, then dodge out at the side door, hide his books under a rose-bush, and run off to play marbles with the boys?"

Not a word said Nelson; his cheeks grew red, and he looked down and fumbled with his watch-chain. Do you think his mother could have meant him?

[GIESSBACH.]

THE two girls squealed with delight over the picture. "Just see! three falls, one on top of the other!" declared Fannie. "Oh dear me! How I should like to see them! You can't tell any thing by looking at a picture."

Tom came and looked over their shoulders.

"Where is the thing?" he asked.

"Why, it is that wonderful Giessbach fall in Switzerland that Mr. Warder told us about. He said it was just the loveliest view in all Switzerland; and he promised aunt Kate a picture of it. But pictures are the most unsatisfactory things! I want to see the color of the rocks, and the little ferns and bushes growing about, and hear the water dashing. But I don't suppose I ever shall see or hear any such things. I expect to fly, just as much as I expect to go to Switzerland."

"You needn't go to Switzerland to see a grand waterfall," declared Tom. "I don't believe Giessbach with its horrible name, is any finer than Cheyenne Cañon fall, that I stood under only last week. I tell you, Fannie, that was a sight! Three falls, distinct from each other, yet all tumbling into one at the bottom, and making the grandest kind of white foam. I stood as close to it as I do to you, and the spray came all over my face. Then we went up the mountain and looked down on it all. How many falls do you think we saw then? Seven of them, all roaring down together. That was a sight to remember, and we didn't have to go abroad for it, either. You can just make up your mind, Fannie, that there are about as grand things to look at in our own country as can be found anywhere."

But Fannie was in the mood to grumble:

"Oh, well, one might as well go abroad as to go to Colorado; I don't expect ever to be able to go there, either."

"Humph!" said Tom. "Neither did I expect to; I could have imagined myself in the moon as well as in Colorado, three weeks before I went; yet I went, and so may you. People can't ever tell what may happen to them. You just remember that when you do go, there is one place to see; the falls of Cheyenne Cañon. People who have seen both, say that there is nothing grander in Switzerland than they get up in that cañon."

Cora, meantime, had been listening in silence, gazing with thoughtful, far-away eyes at the picture. At last she spoke:

"Tom, what did you think of when you stood looking up at the wonderful foamy water coming down from so high a place?"

Tom's face flushed a little.

"People think different things," he said, laughing. "As I stood there looking at it, I said, 'What a grand place that would be for a shower bath. I'd just like to go and stand under it, and take a good one.' There was a little chap stood by me, a pale-faced fellow with blue eyes, who had taken off his cap and stared up without speaking, for ten minutes. Just then he turned to me and said:"

"'I've been thinking how easy it must be for God to make wonderful things! Here he has made all this white water and tumbled it down from away up in heaven—that is the way it looks—just for the sake of giving these old still rocks something bright to play with.'"

"Wasn't that a poetical thought? Sounds like you, Cora. It made me think of you at the time."

[A BIT OF LOGIC.]

RUFUS lay at full length on the sofa, and puffed a cigar, back parlor though it was; when Mr. Parker reminded him of it, he said there were no ladies present, and puffed away. Between the puffs he talked:

"There is one argument against foreign mission work which is unanswerable; the country cannot afford it. Two millions and a half of money taken out this year, and sent to the cannibals, or somewhere else. No country can stand such a drain as that upon it, with everything else it has to do. Foreign missions are ruinously expensive."

The two young sisters of Rufus, Kate and Nannie, stood on the piazza and laughed.

"O Rufus!" said Kate. "You won't take a prize in college for logic, I'm sure."

"What do you mean, little monkey? And 'what do you know about logic?"

"More than you do I should think. Just imagine the country not being able to afford two millions and a half for missions, when just a few years ago it paid over four millions for Havana cigars. Have you thought of that, Rufus?"

"And I wonder how much champagne is a bottle?" chimed in Nannie. "How much is it, Rufus? You know about ten million bottles are used every year. And oh! why, Rufus, don't you know that we spend about six millions for dogs! Something besides foreign missions might be given up to save money, I should think."

"Where did you two grow so wise? Where did you get all those absurd items?"

"We got them at the Mission Band; Kate is secretary, and I'm treasurer, and these figures were all in the dialogue that Dr. Stephens wrote for us to recite. If you choose to call what he says absurd, I suppose you can; but he is a graduate from a college, and a theological seminary, beside. I mean to tell him that you think two millions and a half for foreign missions, will ruin the country; I want to hear him laugh." And then the two girls laughed merrily.

"You needn't tell him anything about it," said Rufus sharply. After the girls ran away, he added thoughtfully:

"How fast girls grow up! I thought those two were children; and here they are with the Mission Bands, and their large words about 'secretaries and treasurers.'"

"And their embarrassing facts about money," interrupted Mr. Parker. "Those girls had the best of the argument, Rufus;" and then he too laughed.

[INTERLAKEN.]

INTERLAKEN means between the lakes, and is the name of a village in Switzerland. It is situated between two lakes called Thun and Brienz. All you geography scholars will be able to turn to it in your minds, or if not so, on your maps. The village is in a plain and on the river Aare, and you have in the picture a view of the bridge across the river. The people who live at Interlaken lead quite uneventful lives, gaining the means of living by carving toys in all sorts of quaint devices, which are sold in the shops which line the principal streets. The wonderful scenery brings large numbers of visitors to the place, and these visitors are the purchasers of the curiosities of the shops.

Large quantities of Swiss lace and Swiss carving find its way to the United States in the trunks of American travellers; and I have no doubt that when you visit Europe you will bring away a quantity of the work of these same Interlaken lace-makers and carvers. However you may set your face against the folly, you will be sure to find some things which you must have.

INTERLAKEN.

The scenery in this valley is among the finest in Switzerland. From the windows of some of the pensions or boarding-houses, you may get a view of the celebrated "Jungfrau." Do you know that Jungfrau means "the maiden?" There seems to be a dispute as to the origin of the name. Some say it was given to this lofty peak because of the spotless purity of appearance on account of the unsullied snow which always covers its summit. The view which you get of the Jungfrau at Interlaken is through an opening in the range of lower mountains that lie at the base of the grand old mountain itself, which is nearly fourteen thousand feet high. I believe that the first to reach the top was a party of natives of the valley, in 1828.

Soon after a scientific expedition, accompanied by the renowned Agassiz, made the ascent. You will find within a few miles of the village of Interlaken many points of wild and picturesque beauty, and you will want to visit the waterfall Staubbach, which means "sky born," and is one of the highest in Europe.

[WHITE AND CLEAN.]

"C-H-E-S-T-E-R!" It was his mother's voice, and it rang out from her room in the second story. "Only half an hour until school-time."

"Yes'm," shouted Chester. "I'll be there." But he bent over the tub and rubbed Sport so fiercely that he howled.

"Keep still, sir," said Chester. "A dog who can't stand being washed shouldn't have white feet and a white nose; I'm not going to have you trotting around looking so horrid dirty as you have for a week. Look here, sir; don't you try to bite me. If you do, you'll get a whipping. I'm in a hurry."

Rub, rub, souse, souse!

Poor Sport shivered, and howled, and struggled, and looked as though he would never feel equal to his name again: but Chester splashed away.

His mother opened her window again.

"My son, you shouldn't have begun with the dogs this morning; you knew it was late. Let Sport go at once, and leave Beauty until to-night."

THE CAUSE OF A POOR ARITHMETIC LESSON.

"O, mamma! I cannot possibly leave Beauty. He looks worse than Sport did."

"Can't help it, my boy. You will be late to school, and have a poor lesson."

"I'm coming, mamma, right away."

Out went Sport to the piece of carpet with which he was rubbed; glad was he to get out of that horrible tub at any cost. But in went Beauty, and the soaping, and howling, and splashing, and scolding went on again. Chester worked fast, no doubt—although I suppose Beauty did not think so—but before his work was half done, the window of his mother's room went up with a click that meant business.

"Chester, put that dog on the ground and come here immediately."

Which Chester immediately did, shaking the soapy drops from him as he went.

I suppose you are not surprised to hear that half an hour afterwards, in the arithmetic class, he said that seven times eight was ninety-four, and insisted that such was the case, even after half the girls in the class were laughing over it. This is about a specimen of the way in which he knew his entire lesson. Of course he sat gloomily in his seat during recess, with his arithmetic upside down.

"Chester," his teacher asked, "how is it that you failed on your lesson this morning?"

"I didn't have time to study it, sir."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Pierson. He thought a great deal of Chester, who, to tell you the truth, generally had his lesson. His mother often had trouble about it, but the teacher rarely had. "I think I'll have to excuse you," his teacher said kindly, "if you really had not the time to learn it. You may make it up to-morrow."

And Chester went to the playground with a hurrah on his lips. He seemed to be very happy the rest of the day. When he went home, he was full of play, and greeted the dogs with words of praise for keeping themselves looking so well.

"Your nose is almost as clean as it was this morning, when you fought so hard against my washing it, you ungrateful fellow!" he said to Sport.

A very happy boy he was all the evening. He went to bed happy. He knelt down in his white night-suit and said "Our Father," and then hopped into bed with a whistle, and the next minute was asleep.

Poor Chester! Why? Oh, to be a boy who disobeyed his mother, and told two falsehoods, and yet to think so little of it all that he could go to bed whistling, without even having asked to be forgiven, is to be a boy who needs pity.