children. And it must be confessed that she was a rather unhappy and ill-treated creature. She was not pretty certainly. She was one of the has-beens, poor thing! But then she was not agreeable either. She had an unpleasant habit of shedding sawdust about all over the place, which was not improved by the fact that Kitty the mischievous selected her as her favourite playmate or plaything. I think you will readily believe that Kitty and her mother, Mrs. Puss, were altogether the most troublesome members of Milly's family, although they were certainly as amusing as any. As for Kitty's pranks, it is impossible to recount half of them, unless one were to write a book a mile long; but any little girl who has ever had a kitten of her own, or a kitten playfellow, knows the hundred and one pretty tricks with which that winsome little creature amused herself and everybody about her, and the numberless little scrapes which, by means of overturned baskets and unwound reels of cotton, she got herself into. As for Wilhelmina, her sufferings at the hands-or rather the claws-of Kitty, were untold. She was scratched and patted and rolled and tossed and torn, until at last there was hardly a bit of her left, and very little sawdust to speak of, but she got scarcely any sympathy, I am afraid, either from Milly or from Puss, who was really old enough to have known better, but who, we must suppose, didn't, as she would look on very calmly while Kitty was persecuting poor Wilhelmina, and not put out so much as a paw to save her from destruction. Indeed, if ever she did put out a paw, it was rather to aid and abet Kitty in her mischief than to reprove her. Of all Milly's children the baby was, I think, the pet-naturally, you will say. And this was a specially good baby. It never cried, except when it was squeezed very hard in the chest, and then it gave such a plaintive and musical note, that Milly was quite sure that it would turn out to be a musical genius byand-by, and she would sing and play to it at the piano most industriously by way of cultivating its talents. Milly could only play one tune-that was Rousseau's Dream, and she was not quite sure of the notes here and there, but she would sing all sorts of nursery songs to this one tune, while the baby sat up on the piano in front of her and listened, and seemed to enjoy the harmonies extremely. Sometimes. Pussy would join in with a note with great effect. Indeed Milly had some time before tried to teach her the piano, but Pussy's claws had always been rather in the way, and the lessons had been given up in despair. Milly has great hopes that she will be more successful with the baby. It is certainly a more tractable pupil than Puss ever was, and Milly is doing her very best to improve its mind, like the good little mother that she is. But, after all, the charge of seven little ones is no light duty, and Milly's anxieties are not few. GR L. G. SEGUIN, THE THIEVING JACKDAW. RANDPAPA Abbott's house stood back from the main street of the little town where my sister Fanny and I used to spend our holidays. There was a great iron gate, with stone pillars, on which huge cannon-balls were placed, as if ready to be thrown on the heads of an approaching foe. Then there was a lawn, smoothly mown and delightful for croquet; and on either side there was a thick shrubbery, in which we enjoyed many a charming game of hideand-seek. On the left hand, as you faced the house, the grounds ran out a good long way, and sloped down to a brook; and this part of the shrubbery, lying out of sight, was not kept in so good order as the rest; for the old gardener had a good deal to do, and, like all good servants, preferred to do it himself. As to the house, when you had gone up the spotless steps, and passed through the cool and tidy hall, it was a perfect marvel of cleanness, cosiness, airiness, and order, Grandpapa had been in the army for the best part of his life, and could not bear to see the least confusion; and, though he was very kind to us children, he could be very stern if our romps went a little too far, or if either of us committed any fault. So we held him somewhat in awe; but dear grandmamma more than made up for his sternness, by her goodness and sweetness that never ceased or changed. The pair lived alone, with an old housekeeper, and a young maid, who was strictly looked after; for she was very pretty, and nice in her ways, and the three old folk thought, of course, that ever so many young men would want to take Polly Bloom away. She was very fond of us, and so were we of her. It would have done your heart good to hear her laugh, and see her black eyes flash and her cheeks glow, as she chased us in through the shrubs to dinner. We always said our prayers at grandmamma's knee; but we never went to sleep quite happy unless Polly's rosy face peeped in to bid us good-night. Now Polly was nineteen; and she could not help it when pleasant Fred Farmer, the baker's son, who drove his father's cart, chatted with her a good deal longer than he needed to do if the talk had only been about loaves and rolls. But though Fred and Polly were pleased, everybody else was not. Hannah Beck, the old housekeeper, knew that it would be a long time before she got such another quick, good-natured Polly; so old Hannah drew awful pictures of the evils of married life, and told Polly dismal tales of suffering and sorrow endured by unhappy couples whom Hannah had known. She had not been and married, no, not she; although in her youth she had had sweethearts with the best of them, and if she had chosen, might have been a grand farmer's wife. Perhaps oid Hannah's preaching would not have had much effect; but when Polly's mother began to talk as old Hannah talked, things became more serious. Polly's mother was a soldier's widow, and had not been happy with her husband; and she told Polly often and again that she "would be a little fool if she went for to marry Fred Farmer." So what with Hannah Beck's gloomy sayings, and her mother's warnings, and her master's gruff but well-meant cautions that she should "never believe what young men say," Polly might have ceased to think of Fred. But a week or two before we went back to London, one August, after six delightful weeks at Grandpapa Abbott's, something befell that made Polly an unhappy girl, and Fred Farmer a happy man. The proverb says, "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good;" and the wind that blew Fred his happiness was a very ill one indeed, very cruel and cutting, for his sweetheart. For some time before this, little articles had been missed from the house or from the lawn, where we often sat to work and chat with grandmamma in the cool of the evening. Now it was my sister's tiny scissors, belonging to the reticule grandpapa had sent her on her birthday; now it was my little needle-book with the silver clasp, a gift from papa when I won the French prize at Miss Pinkerton's; now it was grandmamma's precious silver thimble, which grandpapa had given her when she was but a girl, in the great year of Waterloo, but which still fitted her dainty finger. You may suppose that all this made us very uncomfortable. It seemed that the things could only have been taken away by some one in the house; and if they had, then nobody in the house was to be suspected except Polly, who looked at you so fearlessly and innocently through her big bright eyes. Grandpapa was the most distrustful; he had seen more of the world, and, as he said, went less by "looks" than we did. So, one evening, when he was sauntering round the lawn just as the first stars came out, he saw Polly run in from the shrubbery, with her cheeks like flame. He was sure something was wrong. And when, next morning, his elegant gold-headed cane was nowhere to be found, he felt certain that Polly was the thief, and that, when he saw her, she had been giving her booty to some companion. A (To be continued.) D. L. PURVES. CICALA AND ANT. SHRILL Cicala on a tree Deafened every passer's ear, Ever singing loud and clear. "Oh, what a busy world!" sung he; "What tiring of my wings and feet! Oh, heavens! what a dust and heat!" Beneath the tree, and underground, An Ant had tunnelled deep a nest; DR. KEEPER AND NELSON. R. WATTS says that dogs may delight to bark and bite, "for 'tis their nature to." I am not quite so sure of that. At any rate, Keeper and Nelson were brethren who From their puppydwelt together in unity. hood they had lived on terms of perfect peace. This state of things vexed the mean soul of a mongrel cur, and one day when he met Nelson walking by himself, he told him that Keeper had been abusing him like a thief. "You contemptible little whipper-snapper, how dare you use such language in reference to me?" Nelson answered, and taking the cur up by the scruff of the neck, he shook him until he howled for mercy. Then he ran to Keeper, and said that Nelson had treated him most shamefully, because he had said that Keeper was a thousand times braver dog. "You said that, did you?" replied Keeper. "Then I must punish you for telling lies." And he dropped the cur into a muddy ditch. THE WOODMAN AND THE TREE. N the backwoods of Canada every part of the country is covered with great trees, which must be cut down before any wheat or other crop can be grown. The settlers build a rough hut, or a log-house on the land, which they intend to make into a farm, and begin to fell the trees round it. The only tool they use is the axe, but they are so skilful with it that they cut down thick trees very quickly. They make a notch on one side of the trunk, just the shape of this, and then. they begin a similar notch on the other side. After a time the tree is nearly cut through, and then there is a loud report when the centre strip begins to give way, and on hearing this the axeman runs off, so that the tree may not fall on him and kill him. Sometimes, however, it falls in the very direction in which the poor man runs, and then he is killed in a moment. In the picture we see just such a case. The axeman has been felling a great tree, and has run to one side to let it fall, but it has come down upon him, and there he lies, dead! His little child has come with dinner for him, but the poor father lies crushed below the huge tree! Men will have to come and chop the tree through, and drag it off the body, before he can be buried. This sad death often happens in the forests of the Far West. JAMES MIDDLETON. MR TIBBIE'S TEA-THINGS. (Continued from page 291.) R. EGREMONT smiled at Tibbie's remark, and said, "Like all your sex, Tibbie, you have much faith. But come, we'll repack the things, and you shall have food and rest; you need both.” "You won't let dad have them?" "Certainly not. You shall see that I have a fine place for them." When the box was again in the handkerchief, Lucy carried it carefully, and Mr. Egremont, taking the weary child in his arms, went swiftly to the house. Here, entering a fine book-clad room, he set Tibbie in a chair, while he unlocked a richly-carved press. In a drawer of this he locked the box, then locked the press itself, and put the keys in his pocket. Tibbie's eyes beamed with delight. 'Dad won't get them there!" she said softly to herself. "No, Tibbie, I think we've found a snug place. But come, let me take you to Mrs. Catherine, our head-servant; she shall give you food and put you to bed." So saying, Mr. Egremont took the little maid tenderly in his arms to his housekeeper's room, and there, bidding that every care should be shown her, left her with Lucy and this faithful servant. Mrs. Catherine gave poor Tibbie a nice tea and supper, and then put her to bed, where soon she fell into the deepest sleep. They then looked up some more decent clothes for the poor child, and spent the evening in altering them, as well as time would permit, to her size. Next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Egremont walked to the house of one of the parish overseers, and telling him of Tibbie, questioned him as to her father. "He "He is one of the most lawless vagabonds on the moors," replied the overseer. is as godless as he is drunken. It is said his wife's death came of his violence; and the child may perish if she go back to him." "She shall not. A plan for her future has occurred to me, though, except in a preliminary way, I do not like to act fully upon it till Mrs. Egremont's return. She will be home from visiting her father at Winchester, in the course of a week or two. Meanwhile, I should like the child's friend, old Molly Owen, to be assured of her safety, as but for her she must have wanted food, and perhaps shelter." "It will not do to go direct to the potwork, for if the wicked fellow be in search of the child, any person going from this village might give him a clue to her whereabouts. But I know the farm where Molly Owen's sons work, and if we could get some discreet messenger to go there, Molly would hear, if indirectly, this very evening of the child's safety." The overseer soon thought of a poor woman who would be glad to earn a trifle by a walk across the moors; so he went to her at once, and she was soon on the way. There were two very superior Government schools in the village; one for boys, another for girls. They were placed at a distance from each other, that for girls standing in a pretty croft and garden beside the river. The mistress was Miss Clare, a gentlewoman by birth and education; but who, preferring the independence of a home of her own and |