Purchase When the Clock Strikes on Halloween.

A story about two kind children who help a witch to be part of her favourite time of year and join this witches’ Halloween parade. Please visit Geraldine Granleese’s website and consider purchasing House on the Hill.

Once upon a time there was a fisherman who had a wife and three children. Every morning he used to go out fishing, and whatever fish he caught he sold to the King. One day, among the other fishes, he caught a golden crab. When he came home he put all the fishes together into a great dish, but he kept the Crab separate because it shone so beautifully, and placed it upon a high shelf in the cupboard. Now while the fisherman’s wife was cleaning the fish, and had tucked up her gown so that her feet were visible, she suddenly heard a voice, which said:
‘Let down, let down thy petticoat
That lets thy feet be seen.’

She turned around in surprise, and then she saw the little creature, the Golden Crab.

‘What! You can speak, can you, you ridiculous crab?’ she said, for she was not very happy with the Crab’s remarks. Then she took him up and placed him on a dish.

When her husband came home and they sat down to dinner, they presently heard the Crab’s little voice saying, ‘Give me some too.’ They were all very much surprised, but they gave him something to eat. When the old man came to take away the plate which had contained the Crab’s dinner, he found it full of gold, and as the same thing happened every day he soon became very fond of the Crab.

One day the Crab said to the fisherman’s wife, ‘Go to the King and tell him I wish to marry his younger daughter if she will have me.’

The old woman went accordingly, and laid the matter before the King, who laughed a little at the notion of his daughter marrying a crab, but he did not decline the proposal altogether, because he was a wise king, and he knew that the Crab was likely to be a prince in disguise. He said, therefore, to the fisherman, ‘Go, old woman, and tell the Crab I will let him marry my daughter if by to-morrow morning he can build a wall in front of my castle much higher than my tower, upon which all the flowers of the world must grow and bloom.’

The fisherman went home and gave the crab this message. Then the Crab gave her a golden rod, and said, ‘Go and strike with this rod three times upon the ground on the place which the King shown you, and to-morrow morning the wall will be there.’

The old woman did so and went away again.
The next morning, when the King awoke, what do you think he saw? The wall stood there before his eyes, exactly as he had shown to put it!

Then the fisherman went back to the King and said to him, ‘Your Majesty’s orders have been fulfilled.’
‘That is all very well,’ said the King, ‘but I cannot let my daughter marry until there stands in front of my palace a garden in which there are three fountains, of which the first must play gold, the second diamonds, and the third gems.’

So the old woman had to strike again three times upon the ground with the rod, and the next morning the garden was there. The King now gave his consent, and the wedding was fixed for the very next day.

Then the Crab said to the old fisherman, ‘Now take this rod; go and knock with it on a certain mountain; then a man will come out and ask you what you wish for. Answer him this: ‘’Your master, the King, has sent me to tell you that you must send him his golden garment that is like the sun.‘’ Make him give you, besides, the queenly robes of gold and precious stones which are like the flowery meadows, and bring them both to me. And bring me also the golden cushion.’

The old man went and did his errand. When he had brought the precious robes, the Crab put on the golden garment and then crept upon the golden cushion, and in this way the fisherman carried him to the castle, where the Crab presented the other garment to his bride.

Now the ceremony took place, and when the married pair were alone together the Crab made himself known to his young wife, and told her how he was the son of the greatest king in the world, and how he was enchanted, so that he became a crab by day and was a man only at night; and he could also change himself into an eagle as often as he wished. No sooner had he said this than he shook himself, and immediately became a handsome youth, but the next morning he was forced to creep back again into his crab-shell. And the same thing happened every day. But the Princess’s affection for the Crab grew, and the polite attention with which she gave him, surprised the royal family very much. They suspected some secret, but though they spied and spied, they could not discover it.

Thus a year passed and her mother still thought the whole matter very strange. At last she said to the King that he ought to ask his daughter whether she would not like to have another husband instead of the Crab? But when the daughter was questioned she only answered:
‘I am married to the Crab, and he is the only one I will have.’

Then the King said to her, ‘I will appoint a tournament in your honour, and I will invite all the princes in the world to it, and if any one of them pleases you, you shall marry him.’
In the evening the Princess told this to the Crab, who said to her, ‘Take this rod, go to the garden gate and knock with it, then a man will come out and say to you, ‘’Why have you called me, and what do you require of me?’’ Answer him thus: ‘Your master the King has sent me here to tell you to send him his golden armour and his steed and the silver apple.‘’ And bring them to me.’
The Princess did so, and brought him what he desired.
The following evening the Prince dressed himself for the tournament. Before he went he said to his wife, ‘Now mind you do not say when you see me that I am the Crab. For if you do this bad things will come of it. Place yourself at the window with your sisters; I will ride by and throw you the silver apple. Take it in your hand, but if they ask you who I am, say that you do not know.’ So saying, he kissed her, repeated his warning once more, and went away.

The Princess went with her sisters to the window and looked on at the tournament. Presently her husband rode by and threw the apple up to her. She caught it in her hand and went with it to her room, and by-and-by her husband came back to her. But her father was very surprised that she did not seem to care about any of the Princes; he therefore arranged a second tournament.

The Crab then gave his wife the same directions as before, only this time the apple which she received from the man was of gold. But before the Prince went to the tournament he said to his wife, ‘Now I know you will betray me to-day.’
But she swore to him that she would not tell who he was. He then repeated his warning and went away.

In the evening, while the Princess, with her mother and sisters, was standing at the window, the Prince suddenly galloped past on his steed and threw her the golden apple.
Then her mother flew into a rage and cried out, ‘Does not even that prince please you?’

The Princess in her fright exclaimed, ‘That is the Crab himself!’
Her mother was still more angry because she had not been told sooner. She ran into her daughter’s room where the crab-shell was still lying, took it up and threw it into the fire. Then the poor Princess cried bitterly, but it was of no use; her husband did not come back.

Now we must leave the Princess and turn to the other people in the story. One day an old man went to a stream to dip in a crust of bread which he was going to eat, when a dog came out of the water, snatched the bread from his hand, and ran away. The old man ran after him, but the dog reached a door, pushed it open, and ran in, the old man following him. He did not overtake the dog, but found himself above a staircase, which he went down. Then he saw before him a stately palace, and, entering, he found in a large hall a table set for twelve people. He hid himself in the hall behind a great picture, so that he might see what would happen. At noon he heard a great noise, so that he trembled with fear. When he took courage to look out from behind the picture, he saw twelve eagles flying in. At this sight his fear became still greater. The eagles flew to the basin of a fountain that was there and bathed themselves, when suddenly they were changed into twelve handsome youths. Now they seated themselves at the table, and one of them took up a goblet and said, ‘A health to my father!’ And another said, ‘Health to my mother!’ and so the healths went round. Then one of them said:
‘A health to my dearest lady,
May she live long and well!
But a curse on the cruel mother
That burnt my golden shell!’

And so saying he wept bitterly. Then the youths rose from the table, went back to the great stone fountain, turned themselves into eagles again, and flew away.

Then the old man went away too, returned to the light of day, and went home. Soon after he heard that the Princess was ill, and that the only thing that did her good was having stories told to her. He therefore went to the royal castle, obtained an audience with the Princess, and told her about the strange things he had seen in the underground palace. No sooner had he finished than the Princess asked him whether he could find the way to that palace.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘certainly.’
And now she wanted him to guide her there at once. The old man did so, and when they came to the palace he hid her behind the great picture and advised her to keep quite still, and he placed himself behind the picture also. Presently the eagles came flying in, and changed themselves into young men, and in a moment the Princess recognised her husband among them all, and tried to come out of her hiding-place; but the old man held her back. The youths seated themselves at the table; and now the Prince said again, while he took up the cup of wine:
‘A health to my dearest lady,
May she live long and well!
But a curse on the cruel mother
That burnt my golden shell!’

Then the Princess could restrain herself no longer, but ran forward and threw her arms round her husband. And immediately he knew her again, and said:
‘Do you remember how I told you that day that you would betray me? Now you see that I spoke the truth. But all that bad time is past. Now listen to me: I must still remain enchanted for three months. Will you stay here with me till that time is over?’

So the Princess stayed with him, and said to the old man, ‘Go back to the castle and tell my parents that I am staying here.’
Her parents were very much confused when the old man came back and told them this, but as soon as the three months of the Prince’s enchantment were over, he ceased to be an eagle and became a man once more, and they returned home together. And then they lived happily ever after, and we who hear the story are happier still.

Once upon a time Ananzi planned a scheme. He went to town and bought ever so many containers of fat, and ever so many bags, and ever so many balls of string, and a very big frying pan, then he went to the bay and blew a shell, and called to the Head-fish in the sea, “Green Eel,” to him. Then he said to the fish, “The King sends me to tell you that you must bring all the fish on shore, for he wants to give them new life.”
So “Green Eel” said he would, and went to call them. Meanwhile Ananzi lit a fire, and took out some of the fat, and got his frying pan ready, and as fast as the fish came out of the water he caught them and put them into the frying pan, and so he did with all of them until he got to the Head-fish, who was so slippery that he couldn’t hold him, and the Head-Fish got back again into the water.

When Ananzi had fried all the fish, he put them into the sacks, and took the sacks on his back, and set off to the mountains. He had not gone very far when he met Lion, and Lion said to him:
“Well, brother Ananzi, where have you been? I have not seen you for a long time.”
Ananzi said, “I have been travelling about.”
“Oh! But what have you got there?” said the Lion.
“Oh! I have got some of my old treasures—I am taking them to the mountain to find a safe place to bury them for my children’s children to find someday. I think they will enjoy seeing the things that were important to me.”
Then they parted. After he had gone a little way, the Lion said: “I know that Ananzi is a great trickster; I dare say he has got something there that he doesn’t want me to see, and I will just follow him;” but he took care not to let Ananzi see him.
Now, when Ananzi got into the woods, he set his sacks down, and took one fish out and began to eat; then a fly came, and Ananzi said, “I cannot eat any more, for there is someone near;” so he tied the sack up, and went on farther into the mountains, where he set his sacks down, and took out two fish which he ate; and no fly came. He said, “There is no one near;” so he took out more fish. But when he had eaten about half a dozen the Lion came up and said:
“Well, brother Ananzi, a pretty tale you have told me.”
“Oh! Brother Lion, I am so glad you have come; never mind what tale I have told you, but come and sit down—it was only for my fun.”
So Lion sat down and began to eat; but before Ananzi had eaten two fish, Lion had emptied one of the sacks. Then said Ananzi to himself:
“You are a greedy fellow, eating up all my fish.”
“What do you say, sir?”
“I only said you do not eat half fast enough,” for he was afraid the Lion would eat him up.
Then they went on eating, but Ananzi wanted to get back at the Lion for eating so much fish, and he said to the Lion, “Which of us do you think is the stronger?”
The Lion said, “Why, I am, of course.”
Then Ananzi said, “We will tie one another to the tree, and we shall see which is stronger.”
Now they agreed that the Lion should tie Ananzi first, and he tied him with some very fine string, and did not tie him tight. Ananzi twisted himself about two or three times, and the string broke.
Then it was Ananzi’s turn to tie the Lion, and he took some very strong cord. The Lion said, “You must not tie me tight, for I did not tie you tight.” And Ananzi said, “Oh! no, to be sure, I will not.” But he tied him as tight as ever he could, and then told him to try and get loose.
The Lion tried and tried but he could not get loose. Then Ananzi thought, now he is stuck; so he went away and left him, for he was afraid to untie him because he thought he would catch him.
Now there was a woman called Miss Nancy, who was going out one morning to get some spinach in the wood, and as she was going she heard someone say, “Good morning, Miss Nancy!” She could not tell who spoke to her, but she looked where the voice came from, and saw the Lion tied to the tree.
“Good morning, Mr. Lion, what are you doing there?”
He said, “It is all that fellow Ananzi who has tied me to the tree, but will you untie me?”
But she said, “No, for I am afraid of what you might do if I untie you.” But he gave her his word he would not harm her; still she could not trust him; but he begged her again and again, and said:
“Well, if I do try to catch you, I hope all the trees will cry out shame upon me.”
So at last she agreed; but she had no sooner loosened him, than he came up to her to try and catch her, for he had been so many days without food that he was quite hungry, but the trees immediately cried out, “Shame,” and so he could not catch her. Then she went away as fast as she could, and the Lion found his way home.
When Lion got home he told his wife and children all that happened to him, and how Miss Nancy had saved his life, so they said they would have a great dinner, and ask Miss Nancy. Now when Ananzi heard of it, he wanted to go to the dinner also, so he went to Miss Nancy, and said she must take him with her as her child, but she said, “No.” Then he said, “I can turn myself into quite a little child and then you can take me,” and at last she said, “Yes;” and he told her, when she was asked what food her baby ate, she must be sure to tell them it did not eat baby food, but the same food as everyone else; and so off they went, and had a very good dinner, and then set off home again—but somehow one of the Lion’s sons figured out that everything was not quite right, and he told his father he was sure the baby was Ananzi, and the Lion set out after him.

Now as they were going along, before the Lion got up to them, Ananzi begged Miss Nancy to put him down, that he might run, which he did, and he got away and ran along the woods, and the Lion ran after him. When he found the Lion was overtaking him, he turned himself into an old man with a bundle of wood on his head—and when the Lion got up to him, he said, “Good morning, Mr. Lion,” and the Lion said, “Good morning, old gentleman.”
Then the old man said, “Who are you after now?” and the Lion asked if he had seen Ananzi pass that way, but the old man said, “No, that fellow Ananzi is always meddling with some one; what mischief has he been up to now?”
Then the Lion told him, but the old man said it was no use to follow him any more, for he would never catch him, and so the Lion wished the old man good-day, and turned and went home again and Ananzi got home safe and sound.

Written by Johnny Gruelle.

Jeanette was a new wax doll, and like Henny, the Dutch doll, she could say “Mamma” when anyone tipped her backward or forward. She had lovely golden brown curls of real hair. It could be combed and braided, or curled or fluffed without tangling, and Raggedy Ann was very proud when Jeanette came to live with the dolls.
But now Raggedy Ann was very angry—in fact, Raggedy Ann had just ripped two stitches out of the top of her head when she took her rag hands and pulled her rag face down into a frown (but when she let go of the frown her face stretched right back into her usual cheery smile).
And you would have been angry, too, for something had happened to Jeanette.
Something or someone had stolen into the nursery that night when the dolls were asleep and nibbled all the wax from Jeanette’s beautiful face—and now all her beauty was gone!

“It really is a shame!” said Raggedy Ann as she put her arms about Jeanette.
“Something must be done about it!” said the French doll as she stamped her little foot.
“If I catch the culprit, I will—well, I don’t know what I will do with him!” said the tin soldier, who could be very fierce at times, although he was seldom angry.
“Here is the hole he came from!” cried Uncle Clem from the other end of the nursery. “Come, see!”
All the dolls ran to where Uncle Clem was, down on his hands and knees.
“This must be the place!” said Raggedy Ann. “We will plug up the hole with something, so he will not come out again!”
The dolls looked around and brought rags and pieces of paper and pushed them into the mouse’s doorway.
“I thought I heard nibbling last night,” one of the penny dolls said. “You know I begged for an extra piece of pie last evening, when Marcella had me at the table and it kept me awake!”

While the dolls were talking, Marcella ran down-stairs with Jeanette and told Mommy and Daddy, who came up-stairs with Marcella and hunted around until they discovered the mouse’s doorway.
“Oh, why couldn’t it have chewed on me?” Raggedy Ann asked herself when she saw Marcella’s sad face, for Raggedy Ann was never selfish.
“Daddy will take Jeanette down-town with him and have her fixed up as good as new,” said Mamma, so Jeanette was wrapped in soft tissue paper and taken away.

Later in the day Marcella came bouncing into the nursery with a surprise for the dolls. It was a dear fuzzy little kitten.
Marcella introduced the kitten to all the dolls.
“His name is Boots, because he has four little white feet!” said Marcella. So Boots, the happy little creature, played with the penny dolls, scraping them over the floor and peeping out from behind chairs and pouncing upon them as if they were mice and the penny dolls enjoyed it hugely.
When Marcella was not in the nursery, Raggedy Ann wrestled with Boots and they would roll over and over upon the floor, Boots with his front feet around Raggedy Ann’s neck and kicking with his hind feet.
Then Boots would arch his back and pretend he was very angry and walk sideways until he was close to Raggedy. Then he would jump at her and over and over they would roll, their heads hitting the floor bumpity-bump.
Boots slept in the nursery that night and was lonely for his Mom, for it was the first time he had been away from home.
Even though his bed was right beside Raggedy Ann, he could not sleep. But Raggedy Ann was very glad to have Boots sleep with her, even if he was heavy, and when Boots began crying for his Mom, Raggedy Ann comforted him and soon Boots went to sleep.

One day Jeanette came home. She had a new coating of wax on her face and she was as beautiful as ever.
Now, by this time Boots was one of the family and did not cry at night. Besides, Boots was told of the mouse in the corner and how he had chewed on Jeanette’s wax, so he promised to sleep with one eye open.
Late that night when Boots was the only one awake, out popped a tiny mouse from the hole. Boots jumped after the mouse, and hit against the toy piano and made the keys tinkle so loudly it awakened the dolls.
They ran over to where Boots sat growling with the tiny mouse in his mouth.
My! how that mouse was squeaking!
Raggedy Ann did not like to hear it squeak, but she did not wish Jeanette to have her wax face chewed on again, either.

So, Raggedy Ann said to the tiny little mouse, “You should have known better than to come here when Boots is with us. Why don’t you go out in the barn and live where you will not destroy anything of value?”
“I did not know!” squeaked the little mouse, “This is the first time I have ever been here!”
“Aren’t you the little mouse who nibbled Jeanette’s wax face?” Raggedy Ann asked.
“No!” the little mouse answered. “I was visiting the mice inside the walls and wandered out here to pick up cake crumbs! I have three little baby mice at home down in the barn. I have never nibbled at anyone’s wax face!”
“Are you a Mamma mouse?” Uncle Clem asked.
“Yes!” the little mouse squeaked, “and if the kitten will let me go I will run right home to my children and never return again!”
“Let her go, Boots!” the dolls all cried, “She has three little baby mice at home! Please let her go!”
“No, sir!” Boots growled, “This is the first mouse I have ever caught and I want to keep her!” At this the little Mamma mouse began squeaking louder than ever.
“If you do not let the Mamma mouse go, Boots, I shall not play with you again!” said Raggedy Ann.
“Raggedy will not play with Boots again!” said all of the dolls in an awed tone. Not to have Raggedy play with them would have been sad, indeed.

But Boots only growled.
The dolls drew to one side, where Raggedy Ann and Uncle Clem whispered together.
And while they whispered Boots would let the little Mamma mouse run a piece, then he would catch it again and box it between his paws.
This he did until the poor little Mamma mouse grew so tired it could scarcely run away from Boots.
Boots would let it get almost to the hole in the wall before he would catch it, for he knew it would not escape him.
As she watched the little mouse crawling towards the hole scarcely able to move, Raggedy Ann could not keep the tears from her shoe-button eyes.
Finally as Boots started to spring after the little mouse again, Raggedy Ann threw her rag arms around the kitten’s neck. “Run, Mamma mouse!” Raggedy Ann cried, as Boots whirled her over and over.
Uncle Clem ran and pushed the Mamma mouse into the hole and then she was gone.

When Raggedy Ann took her arms from around Boots, the kitten was very angry. He laid his ears back and scratched Raggedy Ann with his claws.
But Raggedy Ann only smiled—it did not hurt her a bit for Raggedy was sewed together with a needle and thread and if that did not hurt, how could the scratch of a kitten? Finally Boots felt sad and went over and lay down by the hole in the wall in hopes the mouse would return, but the mouse never returned. Even then Mamma mouse was out in the barn with her children, warning them to beware of kittens and cats.

Raggedy Ann and all the dolls then went to bed and Raggedy had just dozed off to sleep when she felt something jump upon her bed. It was Boots. She felt a warm little pink tongue caress her rag cheek. Raggedy Ann smiled happily to herself, for Boots had curled up beside Raggedy Ann and was purring himself to sleep.
Then Raggedy Ann knew she had been forgiven for rescuing the Mamma mouse and she smiled herself to sleep and dreamed happily of tomorrow.

Written by Olive Thorne Miller.

SOMETHING very mysterious was going on in the Jarvis kitchen. The table was covered with all sorts of good things—eggs and butter and raisins and fruits and spices; and Jessie, with her sleeves rolled up and a white apron on, was bustling about, measuring and weighing and chopping and beating and mixing those various ingredients in a most bewildering way.
Moreover, though she was evidently working for dear life, her face was full of smiles; in fact, she seemed to have trouble to keep from laughing outright, while Betty, the cook, who was washing potatoes at the sink, fairly giggled with glee every few minutes, as if the sight of Miss Jessie working in the kitchen was the funniest thing in the world.

It was one of the most pleasant sights that big, sunny kitchen had seen for many a day, and the only thing that appeared mysterious about it was that the two workers acted strangely like conspirators. If they laughed—as they did often—it was very soft and at once smothered. Jessie went often to the door leading into the hall, and listened; and if there came a knock on the floor, she snatched off her apron, hastily wiped her hands, rolled down her sleeves, asked Betty if there was any flour on her, and then hurried away into another part of the house, trying to look cool and quiet, as if she had not been doing anything.

On returning from one of these trips, as she rolled up her sleeves again, she said:
“Betty, we must open the other window if it is cold. Mamma thought she smelled roast turkey!”
Betty burst into a laugh which she smothered in her apron. Jessie covered her mouth and laughed, too, but the window was opened to make a draught and carry out the delicious odours, which, it must be confessed, did fill the kitchen so full that no wonder they crept through the cracks, and the keyholes, and hung about Jessie’s dress as she went through the hall, in a way to make one’s mouth water.
“What did you tell her?” asked Betty, as soon as she could speak.
“Oh, I told her I thought pot pie smelled a good deal like turkey,” said Jessie, and again they both laughed. “Wasn’t it lucky we had pot pie to-day? I don’t know what I would have said if we hadn’t.”

Well, it was not long after that when Jessie lined a baking-dish with nice-looking crust, filled it with tempting looking chicken legs and wings and breasts and backs and a bowlful of broth, laid a white blanket of crust over all, tucked it in snugly around the edge, cut some holes in the top, and shoved it into the oven just after Betty drew out a dripping pan in which lay, in all the glory of rich brown skin, a beautiful turkey. Mrs. Jarvis couldn’t have had any nose at all if she didn’t smell that. It filled the kitchen full of nice smells, and Betty hurried it into the pantry, where the window was open to cool.
Then Jessie returned to the spices and fruits she had been working over so long, and a few minutes later she poured a rich, dark mass into a tin pudding-dish, tied the cover on tight, and slipped it into a large kettle of boiling water on the stove.
“There!” she said, “I hope that’ll be good.”
“I know it will,” said Betty confidently. “That’s your mom’s best recipe.”
“Yes, but I’ve never made it before,” said Jessie doubtfully.
“Oh, I know it’ll be alright, ‘and’ I will watch it closely,” said Betty; “and now you go and sit with your ma. I want that table to get dinner.”
“But I’m going to wash all these things,” said Jessie.
“You go along! I’d rather do that myself. It won’t take me any time at all,” said Betty.
Jessie hesitated. “But you have enough to do, Betty.”
“I tell you I want to do it,” the girl insisted.
“Oh, I know!” said Jessie; “you like to help about. Well, you may; and I’m much obliged to you, besides.” And after a last look at the fine turkey cooling his heels (if he had any) in the pantry, Jessie went into the other part of the house.

When dinner time arrived and papa came from town, there appeared on the table the pot pie and other things pleasant to eat, but nothing was seen of the turkey so carefully roasted nor of the chicken pie, nor of the pudding that caused the young cook so much anxiety. Nothing was said about them, either.

It was certainly odd, and stranger things happened that night. In the first place, Jessie sat up in her room and wrote a letter; and then, after her mother was in bed and everything still, she snuck down the back stairs with a candle, quietly, as though she was doing something mischievous. Betty, who came down to help her, brought a box in from the woodshed; and the two women, very silently, with many listenings at the door to see if any one was stirring, packed that box full of good things.
In it the turkey, wrapped in a snowy napkin, found a bed, the chicken pie and the plum pudding—beautiful looking as Betty said it would be—bore the turkey company; and numerous small things, jam jars, fruits, etc., filled the box to its very top. Then the cover, provided with screws so that no hammering needed to be done, was fastened on.

“Now you go to bed Jessie,” said Betty. “I’ll wait.”
“No, you must be tired,” said Jessie. “I’d just as happily wait.”
“But I’d rather,” said Betty shortly—”and I’m going to; it won’t be long now.”
So Jessie crept quietly upstairs, and before long there was a low knock on the kitchen door. Betty opened it, and there stood a man.
“Ready?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Betty; “but don’t speak loud; Miss Jarvis has sharp ears, and we don’t want her disturbed. Here’s the card to mark it by,” and she produced a card from the table.
The man put it in his pocket, shouldered the box, and Betty shut the door.
Not one of those good things ever went into the Jarvis’ dining-room!

The next morning things went on just as usual in the house. The kitchen door was left open and Mrs. Jarvis was welcome to smell any of the appetizing odours that wafted out into her room. Jessie resumed her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a great musician. She waited on her mother and took charge of the housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at the head of the kitchen. But that box of goodies! Let us see where it went.

It was Thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining settlement in Colorado. In a shanty rougher and more comfortless than the rest were two people: one, a man of thirty, deeply engaged in cleaning and oiling some tools; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove. Both wore miner’s suits, and picks and other things about the room told that their business was to dig for the yellow gold we are all so greedy to have.
Evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run down, and the two looked absolutely hungry.
It was Thanksgiving morning, as I said, but no thankfulness shone in the two pale, thin faces. Both were sad, and the younger one almost hopeless.
“Jack,” said the elder, pausing in his duties, “mind you give that old hen a good seasoning, or we won’t be able to eat it.”
“It’ll be better than nothing, anyway, I suppose,” said Jack gloomily.
“Not much. Especially if you don’t get the taste of sage brush out of it. I’ve seen worse dinners—even Thanksgiving dinners—than a sage hen.”
“I haven’t,” said Jack shortly; for the mention of Thanksgiving had brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost more than he could bear.

“Well, don’t be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good fat hen to eat!” replied the other cheerfully; “we haven’t struck it yet, but it’s always darkest just before dawn, you know. We may be millionaires before this time to-morrow.”
“We may,” answered Jack; but he didn’t look as if he had much hope of it.
A few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their Thanksgiving dinner. The elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held powder, and the dinner was about to begin.
But that hen was never meant to be eaten, for just at that moment the door was pushed open, a box set down on the floor, and a rough voice announced:
“A box for Mr. Jack Jones.”
Jack stood up.
“For me, there must be a mistake! Nobody knows——” He stopped, for he had not mentioned that his name was assumed.
“Likely not!” said the man, with a knowing look, “but folks have a mighty strange way of finding’ out,” and he shut the door and left.

Jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits. It could not be from home, for no one knew where he went when he snuck out of the house one night six months ago.
He had deliberately run away, because—he felt that he was not treated how he felt a sixteen year old should be treated and he wanted to show his father he could do more.
“Why don’t you open it?” The gruff but not unkind voice of his roommate, whom he called Tom, woke him up. “Maybe there’s something in it better’n sage hen,” trying to raise a smile.
But no smile followed. Mechanically Jack sought the tools to open it, and in a few moments the cover was off.
It was from home! On the very top was a letter addressed to Jack Jarvis in a hand that he knew well.

He quickly stuffed it into his pocket unopened. The layers of paper were removed, and as each one was thrown off, something new appeared. Not a word was spoken, but the kettle of sage hen was silently put on the floor by Tom as the bench began to fill up. A jar of cranberry sauce, another of orange marmalade, oranges and apples, a plum pudding, a chicken pie, and lastly, in its white linen wrapper, the turkey we saw browning in that far-off New England kitchen.
As one by one these things were lifted out and placed on the bench a deep silence reigned in the cabin. Jack had choked at the sight of the letter, and memories of days far different from these checked even Tom’s usually lively tongue. A strange unpacking it was; how different from the joyful packing at the middle of the night with those two laughing girl faces bending over it!
When all was done, and the silence grew painful, Jack blurted out: “Help yourself,” and bustled about, busily gathering up the papers and folding them, and stuffing them back in the box, as though he were the most particular housekeeper in the world. But if Jack couldn’t eat, something, too, stopped Tom. He simply said:
“Don’t feel hungry. Believe I’ll go out and see what I can find,” he quickly went out and shut the door.
Jack sat down on the keg and looked at the things which so vividly brought home, and his happy life there, before him. He did not feel hungry, either. He sat and stared for some time. Then he remembered his letter. He drew it from his pocket and opened it. It was very thick; and when he pulled it out of the envelope the first thing he saw was the smiling face of his sister Jessie, his twin sister, his playmate and comrade, and confidante from the cradle.
At last he read the letter. It began:

Dear Jack:—I’ve just found out where you are, and I’m so glad. I’m sending you this Thanksgiving dinner. It was too bad for you to go off so. You don’t know how dreadful it was for mom; she was sick for a long time, and we were scared, but she’s better now; she can sit up most all day.
Oh, Jack! Father cried! I’m sure he did, and he almost ran out of the room, and didn’t say anything to anybody all day. But I was determined I’d find you. I won’t tell you how I did it, but Uncle John helped me, and now, Jack, he says he wants just such a fellow as you to learn his business, and he’ll make you a very good offer. And, Jack, nobody but Betty knows anything about this box and this letter. I’m sending you all my money out of the savings (I didn’t tell anybody that), and I want you to come home. You’ll find the money under the cranberries. I thought it would be safe there, and I knew you’d eat them all, you’re so fond of cranberries. I didn’t tell anybody because I wanted to surprise them, and besides, let them think you came home because you got ready. It’s nobody’s business where you got the money anyway.
Now do come right home, Jack. You can get here in a week’s time, I know.
Your affectionate sister,
Jessie.

Jack laid the letter down with a rush of new feelings and thoughts that overwhelmed him. He sat there for hours; he knew nothing of time. He had mechanically turned the cranberry jar upside down and taken from the bottom, carefully wrapped in white paper, fifty dollars. Jessie’s money, she had worked so hard for it and she had such big plans. Why did she do this?

These thoughts and many more surged through his mind that long afternoon, and when Tom returned as the shadows were growing long, he sat exactly as he had been left.
At Tom’s entrance he roused himself. There was a new light in his eye.
“Come, Tom,” he said, “dinner’s waiting. You must be hungry by this time.”
“I am that,” said Tom, who had been through his own mental struggles meanwhile.
The two sat down once more to their Thanksgiving dinner, and this time they managed to eat.
After the meal, when the provisions were stored away in the cupboard, it had grown quite dark, and the two, still not in the mood to talk, went to their beds for the night.
But not to sleep—at least not Jack, who tumbled and tossed all night and got up in the morning with an energy and life he had not shown for weeks.
After breakfast Tom shouldered his pick and said:
“I’ll go on, Jack, while you clear up.” Yet he felt in his heart he should never see Jack again; for there was a homestruck look in his face that he knew well.
He was not surprised that Jack did not join him, nor that when he returned at night to the cabin he found him gone and a note pinned up on the door:
I can’t stand it—I’m off for home. You may have my share of everything.
Jack.

It was a cold evening in early December, and there seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement in the Jarvis household. The table was spread in the dining-room with the best silver and linen. Mrs. Jarvis was better, and had even been able to go into the kitchen to oversee the preparations for dinner.
Jessie went around with a shining face that no one understood and she could not explain.
Jessie heard the train she had decided to be the important one. She could hardly contain herself for expectation. She tried hard to contain herself now and then by the thought, “Perhaps he won’t come,” but she couldn’t stay contained, for she felt as certain that he would as that she lived.
You all know how it happened. The door opened and Jack walked in. One instant of blank silence, and then a grand noise.

Jack fell on his knees with his face in his mother’s lap, though he had not thought a moment before of doing any such thing. Jessie hung over him, frantically hugging him. Mr. Jarvis, trying to join this group, could only lay his hands on Jack’s head and say in a broken voice: “My son! My son!” while Betty performed a war dance around the party, wildly brandishing a basting spoon in one hand and wiping her streaming eyes on the dishcloth which she held in the other.
It was long before a word could be spoken, and the dinner was totally ruined.
Then the reaction set in, and justice was done to the dinner, while talk went on in a stream. Jack did not tell his adventures; he only said that he had come from the city, where he had made arrangements for a situation with Uncle John—at which Jessie’s eyes sparkled.
There is little more to tell. Jack Jarvis at seventeen was a different boy from the Jack who at sixteen started out to seek his fortune. And you may be sure that Jessie had her music lessons after all and went on to do everything her heart had wished for.

Written by Carl S. Patton.

Among the wild animals I have not known was a family of woodchucks who lived in a hollow log on the edge of a farm in New York State. Not that they cared much whether it was New York State or some other state. I mentioned it only that the details of this story may be verified by anyone who is inclined to doubt them. It was New York State.

Now here was a thing that distinguished this family to start with, from all other families of the neighbourhood—they lived in a hollow log. All their relatives and friends lived in the ground. I don’t know how this family got started living in the rotten log. But I do happen to know that there were a great many warm discussions about the relative merits of a house in a log, and a house in the ground, and though many ground houses in the best locations and with all modern improvements were offered to this family, they stuck to the house in the log.

The house certainly did have one advantage; it had two doors. And not only that, the log was part of an old fence, and the fence ran between the garden and the cornfield. So in the summer when the garden stuff was fine, all you had to do was to walk down the hallway of the log, until you came to the left-hand door, and there you were right in the garden. But when fall came and the garden was dried up, the corn was stacked in shocks or husked and put into the crib. All you had to do was to go down the hallway, to the door that turned to the right, and there you were in the cornfield. Quite aside from these advantages, who would live in a house with one door in it when he could just as well have one with two?
The log-house family consisted of a father, mother, and four children. The youngest of these—the favourite of the family, was named Monax. His mother had heard that the scientific name for woodchuck was Arctomys Monax, and being of a scientific turn of mind, she was much taken with this name. But no woodchuck in her neighbourhood had two names. So she took the last of the two and called her son Monax.

Monax had never been out in the world. He had been down to the two doors, and had looked out, but that was all. But he had been well instructed at home. He knew about men, and how they would sometimes try to catch woodchucks; and all about dogs, and about the corn-crib; and for a long time he had known all about garden vegetables and corn. He was certainly a promising boy, even his father and mother acknowledged it, but he had one problem—he could not learn which was his right hand and which was his left.

In the fall Monax’ father was laid up with rheumatism. He was a terribly old fellow to groan and carry on when he was sick, and his wife had to stand by him every minute. The house had to be fixed for winter, and the other children were at work on this. Saturday came and someone had to go to the market. Who was there to go except Monax? So it was decided that he should go.

Mrs. Woodchuck gave him his instructions. She always gave everybody their instructions. “You go out at the right-hand door,” said Mrs. Woodchuck to Monax; “mind me, at the right-hand door. You go through the cornfield ’till you come to the big rock in the middle of it. Then you turn to the right again.” She paused for a moment, and a look of hesitancy came into her face. “Do you really know?” she asked solemnly, “do you really know your right hand from your left?” “Yes,” said Monax. “Hold up your right one,” said his mother. Monax’ mind was in a whirl. He tried to imagine himself with his back to the cornfield door, where he stood when he had his last lesson on the subject. If he could only get that clearly in his mind, he could remember which hand he held up then. But he was too excited to think. So he held up one hand; he hadn’t the slightest idea which it was. “Correct,” said his mother, “correct. Your father said it was not safe to let you go, because you did not know your right hand from your left. But he under-rates you.” She spoke almost angrily. Then her mind seemed to be relieved, and she proceeded with her instructions. “Through the cornfield,” she said, “’till you come to the big rock; then you go to the right ’till you come to the edge of the field. You will see a couple of men in the cornfield. But do not be afraid of them; they are only scarecrows. Go right ahead. At the edge of the cornfield, by the maple tree, you turn to the right again—always to the right. Then you will see the barn. Go in and look around there. Keep away from the horses and don’t mind the odour. If you find a basket of corn on the barn floor, help yourself and come home. If you don’t you will have to go a little farther. Just to the right of the barn a few yards—always to the right—is the corn-crib. That is where your father and I get most of the supplies for the family. You climb up into the old wagon-box that stands on the scaffolding, and jump from that into the crib.
Getting out is much easier and after that all you have to do is to come home. You needn’t hurry especially. I won’t be worried about you, because there are no dogs there—the dog lives away over on the other side of the fence beyond the garage—and I know the scarecrows will not hurt you.”

So Monax started out. Down the hall he went, pondering his instructions. If Mrs. Woodchuck had not gone back to tie another piece of red flannel around Mr. Woodchuck’s rheumatic knee, she might have observed that Monax moved slowly, as if in deep thought. But she observed nothing, and so said nothing.
Monax was in deep thought. He was trying to decide which was his right hand and which was his left. If he could only be sure of either one of them he could guess at the other one. He had to know before he got to the first of the two doors. Why were everybody’s two hands so much alike? How could anyone be sure which was which? He stopped and held up one, then the other; they looked just alike. He struck one of them against the wall; then the other, they felt just alike. He couldn’t stop long about it; if his mother caught him at it, she would probably suspect what was the matter with him, and his little journey into the world would be stopped before it began.

He came to the first door, and a sudden inspiration came to him. He never knew how it was, but he felt perfectly confident which one was his right hand. It seemed perfectly simple, somehow. It was this one. So he turned out into the garden.
He didn’t see any corn-shocks. But he was not surprised at that. His mother had said maybe they would have been hauled away by this time. He looked ahead. Yes, there was the big stone. It did look a good deal like a cement horse-block. “But then,” he said to himself, “they make stone these days so that you can hardly tell it from cement.” He looked for the two scarecrows. If they were there he would know he was right. And there they were. They were awfully good imitations of men. One of them was walking about just a little. On a page of the “Scientific American,” which his mother brought home a few weeks before, he had read about the talking pictures that Mr. Edison had invented. He hadn’t read of the talking scarecrows, but he had no doubt there were such. “You never can tell what these men will invent next,” he said as he moved then leisurely by.
At the big stone he turned—this way—he said to himself. “It is surprising how sure I am about my right hand now.” He came to the edge of the field. There, just as his mother had said, was the barn. It looked more like a garage than a barn. But styles change. Anyway, there it was to the right, just as his mother had told him. “If you are sure of your direction everything else takes care of itself,” he said. “The location is right.”
He went into the barn. He noticed the odour; something like gasoline.
He looked for the horses; none there. He glanced about for the basket of corn. All he saw, instead, was a bunch of waste lying on top of a big red tank. Where the horses ought to have been was an automobile. “Probably they have changed it over from a barn to a garage since mother was here,” he said; “if you are going to keep up with the times these days you can’t stay in the house; you’ve got to get out where things are doing.” It was no use to look for corn there. So he took his time to look around the barn, and then moved leisurely out. Just a few yards to the right again, as his mother had said, was the corn-crib. He had never seen one before, and this one looked small to him. It looked more like a dog-house to him. But the location was right again—“always to the right,” his mother said.

The old wagon box wasn’t there. But at the back end of the corn-crib there was a board tacked up from the crib to the tree. That was probably one end of the scaffold that had held the wagon box. Of course they wouldn’t leave the wagon box there all fall. Probably they were using it to haul corn, at that very moment, to that very crib.
Meantime Mrs. Woodchuck was growing very worried at home—for Monax had taken more time for his journey than his mother thought he would. Mr. Woodchuck’s knee was very bad, and whenever he had rheumatism he was more pessimistic than usual. “I tell you,” said he, “that boy will never get home. He doesn’t know his right hand from his left.” “I tell you he does,” said Mrs. Woodchuck; “I tried him on it just before he went.” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mr. Woodchuck stuck to his position, “if he had turned out that left-hand door, into the garden and had gone to the garage instead of the barn. There is one thing for sure; if he tries to get corn out of that dog kennel, he will find out his mistake.” Mr. Woodchuck’s lack of sympathy always irritated his wife.
“Keep still,” she said, “you will give me nervous hives again if you keep saying such things.”
Monax had climbed up onto the board. He paused to look around a moment. Then thinking that he must not be quite so leisurely, he jumped quickly through the little window just under the roof.
Then things began to happen so fast that Monax could hardly keep track of them. For what Monax had really done was just what his father said he probably would do. He had turned to the left every time, where he ought to have turned to the right. He had gone through the garden instead of the cornfield, past the cement horse-block instead of the big stone, mistaken the garage for the barn, and now, worst luck of all, he had jumped into the dog kennel instead of into the corn-crib.

The old dog had been after the sheep and cows, and was fast asleep on the floor of his kennel. Still, he didn’t propose to lie there and be jumped on by a woodchuck—not in his own kennel. And Monax—well, perhaps he wasn’t surprised when, instead of landing on top of a crib of corn, he fell clear to the bottom, and felt his feet touching something furry that moved. But it didn’t have time to move much. Monax felt that a crisis had arrived, and it was time to act. He didn’t wait to look for the door of the kennel; he didn’t want to try any more new routes. He just rebounded off the back of the dog like a rubber ball from the pavement. Up he went, breaking the woodchuck record for the high jump, back through the window, onto the board, down to the ground quick as a flash. The dog was after him, but Monax was six feet ahead.
Away he went, past the barn; the car was just backing out; it came over Monax that it wasn’t a barn after all. He dodged under the car; the dog had to run around it; three feet more gained. He went by the big stone at full speed,—it looked more than ever to him like a cement horse-block. Past the two scarecrows; he could see that they had moved quite a little since he passed them coming out. He didn’t have much time to reflect, but it did come over him that these were not scarecrows, but men.
On he sped, through the garden; it was perfectly plain now that it had never been a cornfield, and on like a flash through the garden door into the log-house, and into his father’s room—fluttering and trembling.
“Did you turn to the right?” asked his mother.
“I did—on the way back,” said Monax.

Written by Clara D. Pierson.

One day the three big Kittens who lived with their mother in the farmer’s barn had an awful fight. If their mother had been with them, she would probably have cuffed each of them and scolded them soundly. She was not with them because she had four little new Kittens lying beside her in the hay-loft over the stalls.
You would think that the older Kittens must have been very proud of their baby brothers and sisters, yet they were not. They might have done kind little things for their mother, but they didn’t. They just hunted food for themselves and never took a mouthful of it to her. This does not prove that they were bad Kittens. It just shows that they were young and thoughtless.

The Brown Kitten, the one whose fur was black and yellow mixed so finely as to look brown, had climbed the barn stairs to see them. When he reached their corner he sat down and growled at them. His mother said nothing at first, but when he went so far as to switch his tail at them, she left her new babies and sprang towards him and told him not to show his whiskers upstairs again until he could behave properly.
His sisters, the Yellow Kitten and the White Kitten, stayed downstairs. They didn’t dislike babies as much as their brother. They just didn’t care anything about them. Cats never care much about Kittens, you know, unless they are their own, and big brothers always say that they can’t stand them.

Now these three older Kittens were perfectly able to care for themselves. It was a long time since their mother stopped feeding them, and they were already excellent hunters. They had practised crouching, crawling, and springing before they left the hay-loft. Sometimes they hunted wisps of hay that moved when the wind blew in through the open door. Sometimes they pounced on each other, and sometimes they hunted the Grasshoppers who got brought in with the hay. It was when they were doing this once that they got so badly scared, but that is a story which can be told another time.
There was no reason why they should feel neglected or worry about getting enough to eat. If one of them had poor luck in hunting, all he had to do was to hang around the barn when the Cows were brought up, and go into the house with the man when he carried the great pails full of foamy milk. Then if the Kittens acted hungry, meowed very loudly, and rubbed up lovingly against the farmer’s wife they were sure to get a good, dishful of warm milk.

You can see how unreasonable they were. They had plenty to eat, and their mother loved them just as much as ever, but they felt hurt and sulked around in corners, and answered each other quite rudely, and would not run after a string which the farmer’s little girl dangled before them. They were not cross all the time, because they had been up the whole night and had to sleep. They stopped being cross when they fell asleep and began again as soon as they awakened. The Hens who were feeding around became so used to it that as soon as they saw a Kitten twist and squirm, and act like awakening, they put their heads down and ran away as fast as they could.

They did not even keep themselves clean. Oh, they licked themselves over two or three times during the day, but not thoroughly. The Yellow Kitten did not once try to catch her tail and scrub it, and actually wore an unwashed tail all day. It didn’t show very plainly because it was yellow, but that made it no cleaner. The White Kitten went around with her fore paws looking really disgraceful. The Brown Kitten scrubbed his ears in a sort of half-hearted way, and paid no attention to the place under his chin. When he did his ears, he gave his paw one lick and his ear one rub, and repeated this only six times. Everybody knows that a truly tidy Cat wets his paw with two licks, cleans his ear with two rubs, and does this over and over from twenty to forty times before he begins on the other ear.

Toward night they quarrelled over a dish full of milk which the farmer’s wife gave them. There was plenty of room for them all to put their heads into the dish at once and lap until each had his share. If it had not been for their whiskers, there would have been no trouble. Their whiskers hit, and each told the others to step back and wait. Nobody did, and there was such a fuss that the farmer’s wife took the dish away and none of them had any more. They began to blame each other and talk so loudly that the man drove them all away as fast as they could scamper.
Now that they were separated, each began to grow more and more discontented. The Brown Kitten had crawled under the carriage house, and as soon as it was really dark he stole off to the forest.

“My mother has more Kittens,” he said, “and my sisters get my whiskers all bent out of shape, and I’ll go away and never come back. I won’t say good-by to them either. I guess they’ll feel badly then and wish they’d been nicer to me! If they ever find me and want me to come back, I won’t go. Not if they beg and beg! I’ll just turn my tail toward them and walk away.”

The Brown Kitten knew that Cats sometimes went to live in the woods and got along very well. He was not acquainted with one who had done this; but his mother had told him and his sisters stories of Cats who chose to live so. She said that was one thing which showed how much more clever they were than Dogs. Dogs, you know, cannot live happily away from men.
“I will find a good hollow tree,” said he, “for my home, and I will sleep there all day and hunt at night. I will eat so much that I shall grow large and strong. Then, when I go out to hunt, the forest people will say, ‘Sh! Here comes the Brown Cat.'”

As he thought this he was running softly along the country road toward the forest. Once in a while he stopped to listen, and stood with his head raised and turned and one fore foot in the air. He kept his ears pointed forward all the time so as to hear better.
When he passed the marsh he saw the Fireflies dancing in the air. Sometimes they flew so low that a Kitten might catch them. He thought he would try, so he crawled through the fence and toward the place where they were dancing. He passed two tired ones sitting on a leaf and never saw them. That was because their wings covered their sides so well that no light shone past, and their bright bellies were close to the leaf. He had almost reached the dancers when he found his paws getting wet and muddy. That made him turn back at once, for mud was something he couldn’t stand. “I wish I had something to eat,” he said, as he took a bite of catnip. “This is very good for a snack, but not for a whole meal.”

He trotted on toward the forest, thinking about milk and Fireflies and several other things, when he was stopped by some great winged person flying down toward him and then sweeping upward and landing on a branch. The Brown Kitten drew back stiffly and said, “Ha-a-ah!”
“Who? Who? To who?” asked the person on the branch.
The Brown Kitten answered, “It is I.” But the question came again: “Who? Who? To who?”

That made the Brown Kitten remember that, since his voice was not known in the forest, nobody could tell anything by his answer. This time he replied: “I am the Brown Kitten, if you please, and I have come to live in the forest.”
“Who? Who? To who?” was the next question, and the Brown Kitten thought he was asked to whose home he was going.
“I am not going to anybody’s home,” he said. “I just wanted to come, and left my old home suddenly. I shall live alone and have a good time. I didn’t even tell my mother.”
“Who? Who? To who?” said the Great Horned Owl, for it was he who spoke.

“My m-mother,” said the Brown Kitten, and then he ran away as fast as he could. He had seen the Owl more clearly as he spoke, and the Owl’s face reminded him a little of his mothers and made him want to see her. He ran so fast that he almost bumped into the Skunk, who was taking a dignified stroll through the forest and sniffing at nearly everything he saw. It was very lucky, you know, that he did not quite run into the Skunk, for Skunks do not like to be run into, and, if he had done so, other people would soon have been sniffing at him.
The Brown Kitten thought that the Skunk might be related to him. They were about the same size, and the Brown Kitten had been told that his relatives were not only different colors, but different shapes. He thought that the Skunk’s elegant long-haired shape needn’t prevent his being a Cat.

“Good evening,” said the Brown Kitten. “Would you mind telling me if you are a Cat.”
“Cat? No!” growled the Skunk. “They sometimes call me a Wood-Kitty, but they have no right to. I am a Skunk, Skunk, Skunk, and I am related to the Weasles. Step out of my path.”

A family of young Raccoons in a tree called down teasingly to him to come up, but after he had started they told him to go down, and then chuckled because he had to go tail first. He did not know that forest climbers turn the toes of their hind feet backward and scamper down head first. Still, it would have made no difference if he had known, for his toes wouldn’t turn.

He found something to eat now and then, and he looked for a hollow tree. He found only one, and that was a Bee tree, so he couldn’t use it. All around him the most beautiful mushrooms were pushing up from the ground. White, yellow, orange, red, and brown they were, and looked so plump and fair that he wanted to bite them. He knew, however, that some of them were very poisonous, so he didn’t even lick them with his eager, rough little pink tongue. He was just losing his Kitten teeth, and his new Cat teeth were growing, and they made him want to bite almost everything he saw. One kind of mushroom, which he thought the prettiest of all, grew only on the trunks of fallen beech trees. It was white, and had a great many little branches, all very close together.

Most of the plants which he saw were sound asleep. Every plant has to sleep, you know, and most of them take a long nap at night. Some of them, like the water-lilies, also sleep on cloudy days. He was very fond of the clovers, but they had their leaflets folded tightly, and only the mushrooms, the evening primroses, and a few others were wide awake. Everybody he met was a stranger, and he began to feel very lonely. Cats do not usually mind being alone. Indeed, they rather like it; still, you can see how hard it would be for a Kitten who had always been loved and cared for to find himself alone in a dark forest, where great birds ask the same questions over and over, and other people make fun of him. You wouldn’t like it yourself, if you were a Kitten.

At last, when he was prowling along an old forest road and hoping to meet a tender young Wood-Mouse, he saw a couple of light-colored animals ahead of him. They looked to him very much like Kittens, but he remembered how the Skunk had snubbed him when taken for a Cat, and he kept still. He ran to overtake them and see more clearly, and just as he reached them they all came to a turn in the road.
Before he could speak or they could notice that he was there, the wind roared through the branches above, and just ahead two great eyes glared at them out of an old log. They all stopped with their back-fur bristling and their tails arched stiffly. Not a sound did one of them make. They lifted first one foot and then another and backed slowly and silently away. When they had gone far enough, they turned quickly and ran down the old road as fast as their twelve feet could carry them. They never stopped until they were on the road home and could look back in the starlight and be sure that nobody was following them. Then they stared at each other—the Yellow Kitten, the White Kitten, and the Brown Kitten.
“Did you run away to live in the forest?” asked the sisters.
“Did you?” asked the Brown Kitten.
“You’ll never tell?” they said.
“Never!” he said.
“Well then, we did run away, and met each other just before you came. We meant to live in the forest.”
“So did I,” said he. “And I couldn’t find any hollow trees.”
“Did you meet that dreadful bird?” they said,—”the one who never hears your answers and keeps talking to you over and over?”
“Yes,” he said. “Don’t you ever tell!”
“Ha-ha!” screamed a laughing little Screech-Owl, who had seen what had happened in the old forest road and flapped along noiselessly behind them.

“Three big Kittens afraid of some light! O-ho! O-ho!”
Now all of them had been told about logs by the road and knew it was the light which shines from some kinds of rotten wood in the dark, but they held up their heads and answered, “We were not afraid.”
“Ha-ha!” screamed the Screech-Owl again. “Thought you saw something looking at you. Dare you to come back if you are not afraid.”
“We don’t want to go back,” answered the Brown Kitten. “We haven’t time.”
“Ha-ha!” screamed the Screech-Owl. “Haven’t time! Where are you going?”
“Going home, of course,” answered the Brown Kitten. And then he whispered to his sisters, “Let’s go!”
“All right,” they said, and they raced down the road as fast as they could go. To this day their mother does not know that they ever ran away from home and they probably will never go again.

Written by Thornton W. Burgess.

Happy Jack Squirrel sat with his hands folded across his white waistcoat. He is very fond of sitting with his hands folded that way. A little way from him sat Peter Rabbit. Peter was sitting up very straight, but his hands dropped right down in front. Happy Jack noticed it.
“Why don’t you fold your hands the way I do, Peter Rabbit?” said Happy Jack.
“I—I—don’t want to,” stammered Peter.
“You mean you can’t!” said Happy Jack.
Peter pretended not to hear, and a few minutes later he hopped away towards the dear Old Briar-patch, hippety-hippety-hop. Happy Jack watched him go, and there was a puzzled look in Happy Jack’s eyes.

“I really believe he can’t fold his hands,” said Happy Jack to himself, but speaking aloud.
“He can’t, and none of his family can,” said a gruff voice.
Happy Jack turned to find Old Mr. Toad sitting in the Lone Little Path.
“Why not?” asked Happy Jack.
“Ask Grandfather Frog; he knows,” replied Old Mr. Toad, and started on about his business.

And this is how it happens that Grandfather Frog told this story to the little meadow and forest people gathered around him on the bank of the Smiling Pool.
“Ribbit!” said Old Grandfather Frog. “Old Mr. Rabbit, the grandfather a thousand times removed of Peter Rabbit, was always getting into trouble. Yes, Sir, old Mr. Rabbit was always getting into trouble. Seemed like he wouldn’t be happy if he couldn’t get into trouble. It was all because he was so dreadfully curious about other people’s business, just as Peter Rabbit is now. It seemed that he was just born to be curious and so, of course, to get into trouble.

“One day word came to the Green Forest and to the Green Meadows that Old Mother Nature was coming to see how all the little meadow and forest people were getting along, to settle all the little troubles and fusses between them, and to find out who were and who were not obeying the orders she had given them when she had visited them last. My, my, my, such a hurrying and scurrying and worrying as there was! You see, everybody wanted to look their best when Old Mother Nature arrived. Yes, Sir, everybody wanted to look their best.

“There was the greatest changing of clothes you ever did see. Old King Bear put on his blackest coat. Mr. Raccoon, Mr. Mink, and Mr. Otter sat up half the night brushing their suits and making them look as fine and handsome as they could. Even Old Mr. Toad put on a new suit under his old one, and planned to pull the old one off and throw it away as soon as Old Mother Nature should arrive. Then everybody began to fix up their homes and make them as neat and nice as they knew how—everybody but Mr. Rabbit.
“Now Mr. Rabbit was lazy. He didn’t like to work any more than Peter Rabbit does now. No, Sir, old Mr. Rabbit was afraid of work. The very sight of work scared old Mr. Rabbit. You see, he was so busy minding other people’s business that he didn’t have time to take care of his own. So his brown and gray coat was always rumpled and tumbled and dirty. His house was a tumble-down affair in which no one but Mr. Rabbit would ever have thought of living, and his garden—oh, dear me, such a garden you never did see! It was all weeds and brambles. They filled up the yard, and old Mr. Rabbit actually couldn’t have gotten into his own house if he hadn’t cut a path through the brambles.
“Now when old Mr. Rabbit heard that Old Mother Nature was coming, his heart sank way, way down, for he knew just how upset she would be when she saw his house, his garden and his shabby suit.
“‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?’ wailed Mr. Rabbit, wringing his hands.

“‘Get busy and clean up,’ advised Mr. Woodchuck, hurrying about his own work.
“Now Mr. Woodchuck was a worker and very, very neat. He meant to have his home looking just as fine as he could make it. He brought up some clean yellow sand from deep down in the ground and sprinkled it smoothly over his doorstep.
“‘I’ll help you, if I get through my own work in time,’ shouted Mr. Woodchuck over his shoulder.
“That gave Mr. Rabbit an idea. He would ask all his neighbors to help him, and perhaps then he could get his house and garden in order by the time Old Mother Nature arrived. So Mr. Rabbit called on Mr. Skunk, Mr. Raccoon, Mr. Mink, Mr. Squirrel, and Mr. Chipmunk, and all the rest of his neighbors, telling them of his trouble and asking them to help. Now, in spite of the trouble Mr. Rabbit was forever making for other people by his dreadful curiosity and meddling, all his neighbors had a warm place in their hearts for Mr. Rabbit, and they all promised that they would help him as soon as they had finished their own work.

“Instead of hurrying home and getting to work himself, Mr. Rabbit stopped a while after each call and sat with his arms folded, watching the one he was calling on work. Mr. Rabbit was very fond of sitting with folded arms. It was very comfortable. But this was no time to be doing it, and Mr. Skunk told him so.
“‘If you want the rest of us to help you, you’d better get things started yourself,’ said old Mr. Skunk, carefully combing out his big, plumy tail.
“‘That’s right, Mr. Skunk! That’s right!’ said Mr. Rabbit, starting along briskly, just as if he was going to hurry right home and begin work that very instant.
“But half an hour later, when Mr. Skunk happened to pass the home of Mr. Chipmunk, there sat Mr. Rabbit with his arms folded, watching Mr. Chipmunk hurrying about as only Mr. Chipmunk can.

“Finally Mr. Rabbit had made the round of all his friends and neighbors, and he once more reached his tumble-down house. ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Mr. Rabbit, as he looked at the tangle of brambles which almost hid the little old house, ‘I can never, never clear away all this! It will be a lot easier to work when all my friends are here to help,’ So he sighed once more and folded his arms, instead of beginning work as he should have done. And then, because the sun was bright and warm, and he was very, very comfortable, old Mr. Rabbit began to nod, and presently he was fast asleep.

“Now Old Mother Nature likes to take people by surprise, and it happened that she chose this very day to make her promised visit. She was greatly pleased with all she saw as she went along, until she came to the home of Mr. Rabbit.
“‘Mercy me!’ exclaimed Old Mother Nature, throwing up her hands as she saw the tumble-down house almost hidden by the brambles and weeds. ‘Can it be possible that any one really lives here?’
Then, peering through the tangle of brambles, she spied old Mr. Rabbit sitting on his broken-down doorstep with his arms folded, fast asleep.
“At first she was very upset, oh, very upset, indeed! She decided that Mr. Rabbit should be punished very severely. But as she watched him sitting there, dreaming in the warm sunshine, her anger began to melt away. The fact is, Old Mother Nature was like all the rest of Mr. Rabbit’s neighbors—she just couldn’t help loving happy-go-lucky Mr. Rabbit in spite of all his faults.

With a long stick she reached in and tickled the end of his nose.
“Mr. Rabbit sneezed, and this made him wake up. He yawned and blinked, and then his eyes suddenly flew wide open with fright. He had discovered Old Mother Nature frowning at him. She pointed a long finger at him and said:
‘In every single blessed day.
There’s time for work and time for play.
Who folds his arms with work undone
Doth cheat himself and spoil his fun.’
“‘From this day on, Mr. Rabbit, you and your children and your children’s children will never again be able to sit with folded arms until you or they have learned to work.’
“And that is why Peter Rabbit cannot fold his arms and still lives in a tumble-down house among the brambles,” concluded Grandfather Frog. “Maybe one day he will learn how to fold his arms, but his work must be done first!”

Written by Richard Barnum.

Once upon a time, some years ago, but not so long that you could not easily remember if you tried, there lived in a muddy river of a far-off country called Africa, a great, big, animal-baby named “Chunky.” He was not a fish, though he could stay under water, not breathing at all, for maybe ten minutes, and that is why he swam in the muddy river so much. He did not mind the mud in the river. He rather liked it, for when he sank away down under the dark, brown water no one could see him. And Chunky did not want any of the lions or tigers, or perhaps the African hunters to see him, for they might have hurt him.
But, for all that, Chunky was a happy, jolly, little animal-baby, and would soon grow up to be a big animal boy, for he ate lots and lots of the rich, green grass that grew on the bottom and banks of the African river.

Now, I suppose, you are wondering what sort of animal-baby Chunky was. In the first place he was quite large—as large as the largest pig on your grandfather’s farm. And Chunky really looked a little like a pig, except that his nose was broad and square instead of pointed.
Chunky was a hippopotamus, as perhaps you have guessed. But, as hippopotamus is quite a long and hard word for little boys and girls to remember, I will first tell you what it means, and then I will make it short for you, so you will have no hard work at all to remember it, or say it.
Hippopotamus means “river-horse”; and a great many years ago when people first saw the strange animals swimming in the African rivers, they thought they were horses that liked to be in the water instead of on land. So that is how the hippopotamus got its name of river horse. But we’ll call them hippos for short, and it will do just as well.

Chunky was called the happy hippo. And he was very happy. In fact when he opened his big mouth to swallow grass and river weeds you might have thought he was laughing.
Chunky lived with Mr. and Mrs. Hippo, who were his father and mother, in a sort of big nest among the reeds and bushes on the bank of the river. Near them were other hippos, some large and some small, but Chunky liked best to be with his own folks.
Besides his father and mother, there were Mumpy, his sister, and Bumpy, his brother. Funny names, aren’t they? And I’ll tell you how the little hippos happened to get them.

One day, when Chunky didn’t have any name, nor his brother or sister either, a great, big, fat hippo mother came over to see Mrs. Hippo. The visitor, whose name was Mrs. Dippo, as we might say, because she liked to dip herself under the water so much—this Mrs. Dippo said, talking hippopotamus talk of course:
“My, what nice children you have, Mrs. Hippo.”
“Yes, they are rather nice,” said Mrs. Hippo, as she looked at the three of them asleep in the soft, warm mud near the edge of the river. You may think it strange for the little hippo babies to sleep in the mud. But they liked it. The more mud they had on them the better it kept off the mosquitoes and other biting bugs.
“Have you named them yet?” asked Mrs. Dippo.
“Not yet,” answered Mrs. Hippo. “I’ve been waiting until I could think of good names.”
“Well, I’d call that one Chunky,” said Mrs. Dippo, pointing with her left ear at the largest of the three hippos. Mrs. Dippo had to point with her ear, for she was too heavy to raise one foot to point and stand on three. She had only her ears to point with. “I’d call him Chunky,” said Mrs. Dippo.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Hippo.
“Oh, because he’s so jolly-looking; just like a great, big fat chunk of warm mud,” answered Mrs. Dippo. “Call him Chunky.”
“I will,” said Mrs. Hippo, and that is how Chunky got his name.

“Now for your other two children,” went on Mrs. Dippo. “That one,” and she pointed her ear at Chunky’s sister, “I should call Mumpy.”
“Why?” Mrs. Hippo again asked.
“Oh, because she looks just as if her cheeks were all swelled out with the mumps,” answered Mrs. Dippo. For animals sometimes have mumps, or pains and aches just like them. But Chunky’s sister didn’t have them—at least not then. The reason her cheeks stuck out so was because she had a big mouthful of river grass on which she was chewing.
“Yes, I think Mumpy will be a good name for her,” said Mrs. Hippo, and so Chunky’s sister was named. Then there was only his brother, who was younger than Chunky.

Just as Mrs. Dippo finished naming the two little animal children, the one who was left without a name awakened from his sleep and got up. He slipped on a muddy place near the bank of the river and bumped into Chunky, nearly knocking him over.
“Oh, look out, you bumpy boy!” cried Mrs. Hippo, speaking, of course, in animal talk.
“Ha! That’s his name!” cried Mrs. Dippo, with a laugh.
“What is?” asked Mrs. Hippo.
“Bumpy!” said Mrs. Dippo. “Don’t you see? He bumped into Chunky, so you can call him Bumpy!”
“That’s a fine name,” said Mrs. Hippo, and Bumpy liked it himself.

So that is how the three little hippos were named, and after that they kept on eating and growing and growing and eating until they were quite large.

One day, Mr. and Mrs. Hippo and most of their animal friends were quite far out in the river, diving down to dig up the sweet roots that grew near the bottom. Chunky, Mumpy and Bumpy were on the bank lying in the sun to get dry, for they had been swimming about near shore.
“Are you going in again?” asked Mumpy, to her brothers, talking, of course, in the way hippos do.
“No, I’ve been in swimming enough to-day,” said Bumpy. “I’m going back into the jungle and sleep,” for the river where the hippos lived was near a jungle, in which there were elephants, monkeys and other wild animals.

“I’m going in the water once more,” said Mumpy. “I haven’t had enough grass to eat.”
“I haven’t, either,” said Chunky, who was fatter than ever and jollier looking. “I’ll go in with you, Mumpy.”
So the two young hippos walked slowly down to the edge of the deep, muddy river. Far out in the water they could see their father and mother, with the larger animals, having a swim. Chunky and Mumpy walked slowly now, though they could run fast when they needed to, to get away from danger; for though a hippo is fat and seems clumsy, and though his legs are very short, he can, at times, run very fast.

And as they went slowly along, Chunky and Mumpy looked about on all sides of them, and sniffed the air very hard. They were trying to see danger, and also to smell it. In the jungle wild animals can sometimes tell better by smelling when there is danger than by looking. For the tangled vines do not let them see very far among the trees, but there is nothing to stop them from smelling unless the wind blows too hard.
“Is everything all right, Chunky?” asked Mumpy of her brother, as she saw him stop on the edge of a patch of reeds just before going into the water, and sniff the air very hard.

“Yes, I think so,” he answered in hippo talk. For his father and mother had taught him something about how to look for danger and smell for it—the danger of lions or of tigers or of the hunter men who came into the jungle to try to catch the wild animals.
“Come on, Mumpy!” called Chunky. “We’ll have another nice swim.”
“And we’ll get some more sweet grass to eat—I’m still hungry!” replied the little girl hippo; for animals, such as elephants and hippos who live in the jungle or river, need a great deal of food.

Out to the edge of the river went Chunky and his sister. They saw some other young hippos—some mere babies and others quite large boys and girls, as we would say—on the bank or in the water.
Just as Chunky and Mumpy were going to wade in, they noticed, on a high part of the bank, not far away, a fat hippo boy who was called Big Foot by the jungle animals, as one of his feet was larger than the other three.
“Watch me jump into the river!” called BigFoot.
Then, when they were all looking, and he thought, I suppose, that he was going to do something smart, he gave a jump and splashed into the water. But something went wrong. BigFoot stumbled, just as he jumped, and, instead of making a nice dive, he went in backward and made a great splash.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Chunky, wagging his stubby tail. “I can jump better than that, and I’m not as large as you, BigFoot! Ha! Ha!” and Chunky laughed again. “That was a very funny jump!”
BigFoot climbed out of the water up on the bank. His eyes, which seemed like lumps or bumps on his head, appeared to snap at Chunky as he looked at him and Mumpy.
“Someone laughing at me?” growled BigFoot in his deep voice. “Ha! I’ll show you! Why are you laughing at me?” he asked, and he went so close to Mumpy that he bumped into her and almost knocked her into the river.

“Here! You leave my sister alone!” cried Chunky bravely, stepping close to Big Foot.
“Well, what did she want to laugh about when I splashed in the water?” asked BigFoot.
“I didn’t laugh,” answered Mumpy, speaking more gently than the two boy hippos.
“Yes, you did!” exclaimed BigFoot, angrily.
“No, she didn’t laugh. I laughed,” said Chunky, and his sister thought he was very brave to say it right out that way. “I laughed at you, BigFoot,” said Chunky. “You looked so funny when you fell into the water backwards. Ha! Ha! Ha!” and Chunky laughed again.

“So! You’ll laugh at me, will you?” asked BigFoot, and his voice was more angry. “Well, I’ll fix you!” and with a loud grunt, like a great big pig, he rushed straight at Chunky.

Oh, Chunky!” cried Mumpy, as she saw BigFoot rushing at her brother. “Oh, Chunky, come on home!”
“Pah! I’m not afraid of him!” said Chunky, as he stood still on the river bank and looked at the on-rushing BigFoot.
“I’ll go and call father,” went on Mumpy, as she waded into the water and began to swim out toward the grown hippos where they were having fun of their own in the river.

“I’ll show you that you can’t laugh at me!” grunted BigFoot, who came on as fast as he could. “I’ll bite you and push you into the river, and see how you like that.”
“Pah! I’m not afraid!” said Chunky again, but really he was, a little bit.

Of course, if you had been in the jungle, or hidden among the reeds on the bank of the African river, you would not have understood what Chunky and BigFoot said. In fact, you would not even have guessed that they were talking; but they were, all the same, though to you the noises they made would have sounded only like grunts, squeals and puffings. But that is the way the hippos talk among themselves, and they mean the same things you mean when you talk, only a little different, of course.
“Oh, look! BigFoot is going to do something to Chunky!” cried the other boy hippos, and they gathered around to see what would happen. For fights often took place among the jungle animals. They did not know any better than to bite, kick and bump into one another when they were angry.
“I’ll fix you!” said BigFoot again.
“Pah! I’m not afraid,” answered Chunky once more, just as you may often have heard boys say.

To tell the truth, Chunky would have been glad to run away, but he did not like to do it with so many of his young hippo friends looking on. They would have thought him a scardy-cat. So he had to stand and wait to see what Big Foot would do.
On came the larger hippo boy, and, all of a sudden, when he was quite close to Chunky, he gave a jump and bumped right into him. Chunky tried to get out of the way, but he was not quick enough.
The next minute he found himself slipping into the river, for BigFoot had knocked him off the bank. But Chunky did not mind falling into the water. He had been going in anyhow for a swim with his sister. Chunky was not hurt. No water even went up his nose, as it does up yours when you fall into the water. For Chunky could close his nose, as you close your mouth, and not a drop of water got in.

“There, I told you I’d fix you for laughing at me!” growled BigFoot, as he stood on the bank and watched Chunky swimming around in the water. “If you laugh at me any more I’ll push you in again!”
“Oh, you will, will you?” exclaimed a voice behind BigFoot. “Well, you just leave my Chunky alone after this! He can laugh if he wants to, I guess!”
And with that Mrs. Hippo, who had quickly swam to shore when Mumpy told her what was going on, gave BigFoot a shove, and into the water he splashed.

“Ha-ha!” laughed all the other hippo boys and girls, as they saw what had happened. “Look at BigFoot! Ha-ha-ha!”
BigFoot was very angry because Mrs. Hippo had pushed him in. But when he saw all the others laughing at him, he knew that he could not knock them all into the water, as he had knocked Chunky, so he made the best of it.
“Ha-ha!” laughed Chunky. “So you’re here too, BigFoot! I saw my mother push you in. She’s awfully strong, isn’t she? I hope she didn’t hurt you. She didn’t mean to if she did. Here are some nice sweet grass roots I dove down and pulled up off the bottom of the river. Would you like some?” and Chunky held out some in his mouth.

Now BigFoot liked grass roots very much indeed, as did all the hippos. So, though he still felt a little angry, he took them from Chunky, and when the big boy hippo, with one foot larger than his other three, had swallowed the sweet, juicy roots he felt much better.
“They were good,” he said. “Thanks! And say, I hope I didn’t hurt you when I shoved you into the river just now, Chunky.”
“No, you didn’t,” Chunky answered. “And I hope my mother didn’t hurt you when she shoved you in.”

“Ho! Ho! I should say not!” answered BigFoot, and he laughed now. “I’m sorry I got mad,” he went on. “Come on, let’s have a game of water-tag!”
“All right,” said Chunky, “I will. Come on, Mumpy!” he called to his sister. “We’re going to have a game of water-tag.”
“Let’s all play!” cried Bumpo, who had not gone away after all. Then he slid down the river bank into the water.
“Yes, we’ll all play tag!” chimed in the rest of the hippos, and they were soon swimming and diving about in the water, splashing and bumping into one another almost as you boys and girls play when you go swimming at the beach in the summer. Only, of course, the hippos, being very big, made huge splashes.

Written by Clara D. Pierson.

When the Sand-Hill Cranes were married, they began to work for a home of their own. To be sure, they had chosen a place for it beforehand, yet there were other things to think about, and some of their friends told them it would be very foolish to build on the ground. “There are so many accidents with ground nests,” these friends said. “There are Snakes, you know, and Rats, and a great many other people whom you would not want to have looking in on your children. Besides, something might fall on it.”
The young couple talked this all over and decided to build in a tree. “We are not afraid of Snakes and Rats,” they said, “but we would fear something falling on the nest.” They were talking to quite an old Crane when they said this.
“Do you mean to build in a tree?” he said. “My dear friends, don’t do that. Just think, a high wind might blow the nest down and spoil everything. Do whatever you wish, but don’t build in a tree.” Then he flew away.
“Dear me!” exclaimed young Mrs. Crane, “one tells me to do this and never to do that. Another tells me to do that and never to do this. I shall just please myself since I cannot please my friends.”
“And which place do you choose?” asked her husband, who always liked whatever she did.
“I shall build on the ground,” she said decidedly. “If the tree falls, it may hit the nest and it may not, but if we build in the tree and it falls, we are sure to hit the ground.”

“How wise you are!” exclaimed her husband. “I believe people get in a way of building just so, and come to think that no other way can be right.” Which shows that Mr. Sand-Hill Crane was also wise.
Both worked on the nest, bringing roots and dried grasses with which to build it up. Sometimes they went to dance with their friends, and when they did they bowed most of the time to each other. They did not really care very much about going, because they were so interested in the nest. This they had to build quite high from the ground, on account of their long legs. “If I were a Duck,” said Mrs. Sand-Hill Crane, “it would do very well for me to sit on the nest, but with my legs? Never! I would as soon sit on two bare branches as to have them doubled under me.” So she tried the nest until it was just as high as her legs were long.

When it was high enough, she laid in it two gray eggs with brown spots. After that she did no more dancing, but stood with a leg on either side of the nest, and her soft body just over the eggs to keep them warm. It was very tiresome work, and sometimes Mr. Crane covered the eggs while she was fishing. The Cranes are always very kind to their wives.
This, you know, was the first time that either had had a nest, and it was all new and wonderful to them. They thought that there never had been such a beautiful home. They often stood on the ground beside it, and poked it this way and that way with their bills, and said to each other, “Just look at this fine root that I wove in,” or, “Have you noticed how well that tuft of dried grass looks where I put it?” As it came near the time for their eggs to hatch, they could hardly bear to be away long enough to find food.

One day young Mr. Sand-Hill Crane came home very excited. “Our neighbors, the Cranes who live across the pond,” he said, “had two children hatched this morning.”
“Oh, how glad I am!” cried his wife. “How glad I am! Those eggs were laid just before ours, which means ours must hatch very soon now.”
“That is what I thought,” he said. “I feel so sorry for them, though, for I saw their children, and they are dreadfully homely,—not at all like their parents, who are quite good-looking.”
“I must see them myself,” said his wife, “and if you will cover the eggs while I go for food, I will just peep in on them. I will hurry back.” She flew steadily across the pond, which was not very wide, and asked to see the babies. She had never seen any Crane children, you know, since she herself was little. She thought them very ugly to look at, and wondered how their mother could seem bright and cheerful with two such disappointing children. She said all the polite things that she honestly could, then got something to eat, and flew home. “They are very, very homely,” she said to her husband, “and I think it strange. All their older children are good-looking.”

She had hardly said this when she heard a faint tapping sound in the nest. She looked, and there was the tip of a tiny beak showing through the shell of one egg. She stood on one side of the nest, watching, and her husband stood on the other while their oldest child slowly made his way out. They dared not help for fear of hurting him, and besides, all the other Cranes had told them that they must not.
“Oh, look!” cried the young mother. “What a dear little bill!”
“Ah!” said the young father. “Did you ever see such a neck?”
“Look at those legs,” she cried. “What a beautiful child he is!”
“He looks just like you,” said the father, “and I am glad of it.”
“Ah, no,” she said. “He is exactly like you.” And she began to clear away the broken egg-shell.

Soon the other Crane baby poked her bill out, and again the young parents stood around and admired their child. They could not decide which was more handsome, but they were sure that both were remarkable babies. They felt more sorry than ever for their neighbors across the pond, who had such homely children. They took turns in covering their own damp little Cranes, and were very, very happy.

Before this, it had been easy to get what food they wanted, for there had been two to work for two. Now there were two to work for four, and that made it much harder. There was no time for dancing, and both father and mother worked steadily, yet they were happier than ever, and neither would have gone back to the careless old days for all the food in the pond or all the dances on the beach.

The little Cranes grew finely. They changed their down for pin-feathers, and then these grew into fine brownish gray feathers, like those which their parents wore. They were good children, too, and very well brought up. They ate whatever food was given to them, and never found fault with it. When they left the nest for the first time, they fluttered and tumbled and had trouble learning to walk. A Mud Turtle Father who was near, told them that this was because their legs were too long and too few.

“Well,” said the brother, as he picked himself up and tried to stand on one leg while he drew the other foot out of the tangled grass, “they may be too long, but I’m sure there are enough of them. When I’m thinking about one, I never can tell what the other will do.”
Still, it was not long before they could walk and wade and even fly. Then they met the other pond people, and learned to tell a Stickleback from a Minnow. They did not have many playmates. The saucy little Kingfishers sat on branches over their heads, the Wild Ducks waddled or swam under their very bills, the Fish Hawks floated in air above them, and the Gulls screamed hoarsely to them as they circled over the pond, yet none of them were long-legged and stately. The things that the other birds enjoyed most, they could not do, and sometimes they did not like it very well.

One night they were talking about the Gulls, when they should have been asleep, and their father told them to tuck their heads right under their wings and not let him hear another word from them. They tucked their heads under their wings, but they peeped out between the feathers, and when they were sure their father and mother were asleep, they walked softly away and planned to do something naughty.
“I’m tired of being good,” said the brother. “The Gulls are never good. They scream, and snatch, and contradict, and have lots of fun. Let’s be bad just for fun.”
“All right,” said his sister. “What shall we do?”
“That’s the trouble,” he said. “I can’t think of anything naughty that I really care for.”
Each stood on one leg and thought for a while. “We might run away,” she said.
“Where would we go?” he asked.
“We might go to the meadow,” she said. So they started off in the moonlight and went to the meadow, but all the people there were asleep, except the Tree Frog, and he scrambled out of the way as soon as he saw them coming, because he thought they might want a late supper.
“This isn’t any fun!” said the brother. “Let’s go to the forest.”
They went to the forest, and saw the Bats flitting in and out among the trees, and the Bats flew close to the Cranes and scared them. The Great Horned Owl stood on a branch near them, and stared at them with his big round eyes, and said, “Who? Who?” Then the brother and sister stood closer together and answered, “If you please, sir, we are the Crane children.”

But the Great Horned Owl kept on staring at them and saying “Who? Who?” until they were sure he was deaf, and answered louder and louder still.
The Screech Owls came also, and looked at them, and bent their bodies over as if they were laughing, and nodded their heads, and shook themselves. Then the Crane children were sure that they were being made fun of, so they stalked away very stiffly, and when they were out of sight of the Owls, they flew over toward the farmhouse. They were not having any fun at all yet, and they meant to keep on trying, for what was the good of being naughty if they didn’t?

They passed Horses and Cows asleep in the fields, and saw the Brown Hog lying in the pen with a great many little Brown Pigs and one White Pig sleeping beside her. Nobody was awake except Collie, the Shepherd Dog, who was sitting in the farmyard with his nose in the air, barking at the moon.
“Go away!” he said to the Crane children, who were walking around the yard. “Go away! I must bark at the moon, and I don’t want anybody around.” They did not start quite soon enough to please him, so he dashed at them, and ran around them and barked at them, instead of the moon, until they were glad enough to fly straight home to the place where their father and mother were sleeping with their heads under their wings.

“Are you going to tell them?” asked the brother.
“I don’t know,” answered the sister. When morning came, they looked tired, and their father and mother seemed so worried about them that they told the whole story.
“We didn’t care so very much about what we did,” they said, “but we thought it would be fun to be naughty.”

The father and mother looked at each other in a very knowing way. “A great many people think that,” said the mother gently. “They are mistaken after all. It is really more fun to be good.”
“Well, I wish the Gulls wouldn’t scream, ‘Goody-goody’ at us,” said the brother.
“What difference does that make?” asked his father. “Why should a Crane care what a Gull says?”
“Why, I—I don’t know,” stammered the brother. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference after all.”
The next day when the Crane children were standing on the edge of the pond, a pair of young Gulls flew down near them and screamed out, “Goody-goody!”

Then the Crane brother and sister lifted their heads and necks and opened their long bills, and trumpeted back, “Baddy-baddy!”
“There!” they said to each other. “Now we are even.”

Written by Clara Dillinger Pierson.

During the warm weather, the Minks did not come often to the pond. Then they had to stay nearer home and care for their babies. In the winter, when food was not so plentiful and their youngest children were old enough to come with them, they visited there every day. It was not far from their home.
The Minks lived by a waterfall in the river, and had burrows in the banks, where the young Minks stayed until they were large enough to go out into the world. Then the fathers and mothers were very busy, for in each home there were four or five or six children, hungry and restless, and needing to be taught many things.
They were related to the Weasels who lived up by the farmyard, and had the same slender and elegant bodies and short legs as they. Like the Weasels, they sometimes climbed trees, but that was not often. They did most of their hunting in the river, swimming with their bodies almost all under water, and diving and turning and twisting gracefully and quickly. When they hunted on land, they could tell by smelling just which way to go for their food.
The Minks were a very dark brown, and scattered through their close, soft fur were long, shining hairs of an even darker shade, which made their coats very beautiful indeed. The fur was darker on their backs than on the under part of their bodies, and their tapering, bushy tails were almost black. Their under jaws were white, and they were very proud of them. Perhaps it was because they had so little white fur that they thought so much of it. You know that is often the way—we think most of those things which are scarce or hard to get.
There was one older Mink by the river who had a white tip on his tail, and that is something which many people have never seen. It is even more uncommon than for Minks to have white upper lips, and that happens only once in a great while. This Mink was a bachelor, and nobody knew why. Some people said it was because he was waiting to find a wife with a white tip on her tail, yet that could not have been, for he was too wise to wait for something which might never happen. However, he lived alone, and fished and hunted just for himself. He could dive more quickly, stay underwater longer, and hunt by scent better than any other Mink round there. His fur was sleeker and more shiny than that of his friends, and it is no wonder that the sisters of his friends thought he ought to marry them.

When the Minks visited together, somebody was sure to speak of the Mink’s luck. They said that, whatever he did, he was always lucky. “It is all because of a white tip on his tail,” they said. “That makes him lucky.”
The young Minks heard their fathers and mothers talking, and wished that they had been born with white tips on their tails so that they could be lucky too. Once the Bachelor heard them wishing this, and he smiled and showed his beautiful teeth, and told them that it was not the tip of his tail but his whole body that made him lucky. He did not smile to show his teeth, because he was not at all vain. He just smiled and showed his teeth.

There was a family of young Minks who lived at the foot of the waterfall, where the water splashed and dashed in the way they liked best. There were four brothers and two sisters in this family, and the brothers were bigger than the sisters (as Mink Brothers always are), although they were all the same age. One was very much larger than any of the rest, and so they called him Big Brother. Big Brother thought there was never such a fine Mink as the Bachelor, and he used to follow him around, and look at the tip on his tail, and wish that he was lucky like him. He wished to be just like him in every way but one; he did not want to be a bachelor.

The other young Minks laughed at Big Brother, and asked him if he thought his tail would turn white if he followed the Bachelor long enough. Big Brother stood it very patiently for a while; then he snarled at them, and showed his teeth without smiling, and said he would chase anybody who spoke another word about it. Minks are very brave and very fierce, and never know when to stop if they have begun to fight; so, after that, nobody dared tease Big Brother by saying anything more about the Bachelor. Sometimes they did look at his tail and smile, but they never spoke, and he pretended not to know what they meant by it.

A few days after this, the Bachelor was caught in a trap—a common, clumsy, wooden trap, put together with nails and twine. It was not near the river, and none of his friends would have found him, if Big Brother had not happened along. He could hardly believe what he saw. Was it possible that a trap had dared to catch a Mink with a white-tipped tail? Then he heard the Bachelor groan, and he knew that it was so. He hurried up to where the trap was.
“Can’t you get out?” he said.
“No,” said the Bachelor. “I can’t. The best way to get out is not to get in—and I’ve gotten in.”
“Can’t you do something with your lucky tail to make the trap open?” asked Big Brother.

“I could do something with my teeth,” answered the Bachelor, “if they were only where the tip of my tail is. Why are Minks always walking into traps?” He was trying hard not to be angry, but his eyes showed how he felt, and that was very angry indeed.

Then Big Brother became very excited. “I have good teeth,” said he, “Tell me what to do.”
“If you will help me out,” said the Bachelor, “I will give you my luck.”
“And what shall I do with the tail I have?” asked the young Mink, who thought that the Bachelor was to give him his white-tipped tail.
“Never mind now,” answered the Bachelor, and he told the young Mink just where to gnaw. For a long time there was no sound but that of the young Mink’s teeth on the wood of the trap. The Bachelor was too brave to groan or make a fuss, when he knew there was anybody around to hear. Big Brother’s mouth became very sore, and his stomach became very empty, but still he kept at work. He was afraid somebody would come for the trap and the Mink in it, before he finished.

“Now try it,” he said, after he had gnawed for quite a while. The Bachelor backed out as far as he could, but his body stuck in the hole. “You are rumpling your beautiful fur,” cried the young Mink.
“Never mind the fur,” answered the Bachelor. “I can smooth that down afterward. You will have to gnaw a little on this side.” And he raised one of his hind feet to show where he meant. It was a beautiful hindfoot, thickly padded, and with short partly webbed toes, and no hair at all growing between them. The claws were short, sharp, and curved.
Big Brother gnawed away. “Now try it,” he said. The Bachelor backed carefully out through the opening and stood there, looking tired and hungry and very much rumpled.

“You are a fine young Mink,” he said. “We will get something to eat, and then we will see about making you lucky.”
They went to the river bank and had a good dinner. The Bachelor ate more than Big Brother, for his mouth was not sore. But Big Brother was very happy. He thought how handsome he would look with a white-tipped tail, and how, after he had that, he could surely marry whoever he wished. It was the custom among his people to want to marry the best looking and strongest. Indeed it is so among all the pond people, and that is one reason why they care so much about being strong. It is very hard for a young Mink to have the one he loves choose somebody else, just because the other fellow has the bushiest tail, or the longest fur, or the thickest pads on his feet.

“Now,” said the Bachelor, “we will talk about luck. We will go to a place where nobody can hear what we say.” They found such a place and lay down. The Bachelor rolled over three times and smoothed his fur; he was still so tired from being in the trap. Then he looked at the young Mink very sharply. “So you want my tail?” he said.
“You said you would give me your luck,” answered Big Brother, “and everybody knows that your luck is in your tail.”
The Bachelor smiled. “What will you do with the tail you have?” he said.
“I don’t know,” answered Big Brother.
“You wouldn’t want to wear two?” asked the Bachelor.
“Oh, no,” answered Big Brother. “How that would look!”
“Well, how will you put my tail in place of yours?” asked the Bachelor.
“I don’t know,” answered the young Mink, “but you are so wise that I thought you might know some way.” He began to feel discouraged, and to think that the Bachelor’s offer didn’t mean very much after all.

“Don’t you think?” said the Bachelor slowly, “don’t you think that, if you could have my luck, you could get along pretty well with your own tail?”
“Why, yes,” said the young Mink, who had begun to fear he was not going to get anything. “Yes, but how could that be?”
The Bachelor smiled again. “I always tell people,” he said, “that my luck is not in my tail, and they never believe it. I will tell you the secret of my luck, and you can have luck like it, if you really care enough.” He looked all around to make sure that nobody was near, and he listened very carefully with the two little round ears that were almost hidden in his head-fur. Then he whispered to Big Brother, “This is the secret: always do everything a little better than anybody else can.”

“Is that all?” asked the young Mink.
“That is enough,” answered the Bachelor. “Keep trying and trying and trying, until you can dive deeper, stay underwater longer, run faster, and smell farther than other Minks. Then you will have good luck when theirs might not be so lucky. You will have plenty to eat. You can win every fight. You can have sleek, shining fur. Luck is not a matter of white-tipped tails.”
The more the young Mink thought about it, the happier he became. “I don’t see that I am to have your luck after all,” he said. “When I have learned to do everything in the very best way, it will be luck of my own.”
“Of course,” answered the Bachelor. “Then it is a kind of luck that cannot be lost. If I carried mine in the tip of my tail, somebody might bite it off and leave me unlucky.”

Big Brother kept the secret, and worked until he had learned to be as lucky as the Bachelor. Then he married the person he wanted, and she was very beautiful and strong. It is said that one of their sons has a white-tipped tail, but that may not be so.

Purchase Cat City by Patti Larsen on Amazon.

Authored by Jim Munroe

Please visit https://rhymes4life.com to purchase the book.

This week in Cat City we are going to see what happens when the rats are gone. Susan gets to eat and sleep and Tucker is treated like a hero. Vinnie has been made Captain and takes his cats out to make sure that all the rats are gone. Alfred tells Susan that the Council still wants to meet with her and she is worried about what that might mean.

Cat City is written by Patti Larsen. Purchase Cat City on Amazon.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea.
“I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school to-day,” said Diana. “He’s been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He’s awfully handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out.”
Diana’s voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out.
“Gilbert Blythe?” said Anne. “Isn’t it his name that’s written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell’s and a big ‘Take Notice’ over them?”
“Yes,” said Diana, tossing her head, “but I’m sure he doesn’t like Julia Bell so very much. I’ve heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles.”

“Oh, don’t speak about freckles to me,” implored Anne. “It isn’t delicate when I’ve got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy’s. Not, of course,” she hastened to add, “that anybody would.”
Anne sighed. She didn’t want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it.
“Nonsense,” said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of the Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. “It’s only meant as a joke. And don’t you be too sure your name won’t ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is dead gone on you. He told his mother—his mother, mind you—that you were the smartest girl in school. That’s better than being good-looking.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Anne, feminine to the core. “I’d rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie Sloane. I can’t bear a boy with goggle eyes. If any one wrote my name up with his I’d never get over it, Diana Barry. But it is nice to be head of your class.”

“You’ll have Gilbert in your class after this,” said Diana, “and he’s used to being head of his class, I can tell you. He’s only in the fourth book although he’s nearly fourteen. Four years ago his father was sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health and Gilbert went with him. They were there three years and Gil didn’t go to school hardly any until they came back. You won’t find it so easy to keep at the head after this, Anne.”
“I’m glad,” said Anne quickly. “I couldn’t really feel proud of keeping ahead of little boys and girls of just nine or ten.

When Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room hearing Prissy Andrews’ Latin Diana whispered to Anne,
“That’s Gilbert Blythe sitting right across the aisle from you, Anne. Just look at him and see if you don’t think he’s handsome.”
Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance to do so, for the said Gilbert Blythe was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby Gillis, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. He was a tall boy, with curly brown hair, roguish hazel eyes and a mouth twisted into a teasing smile. Presently Ruby Gillis started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her and Mr. Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the most serious face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Anne and winked with inexpressible drollery.
“I think your Gilbert Blythe is handsome,” confided Anne to Diana, “but I think he’s very bold. It isn’t good manners to wink at a strange girl.”

But it was not until the afternoon that things really began to happen.
Gilbert Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him and failing utterly, because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious, not only of the very existence of Gilbert Blythe, but of every other student in Avonlea school and of Avonlea school itself. With her chin propped on her hands and her eyes fixed on the blue glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters that the west window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous dreamland, hearing and seeing nothing save her own wonderful visions.
Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure. She should look at him, that red-haired Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren’t like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school.
Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne’s long red braid, held it out at arm’s length and said in a piercing whisper,
“Carrots! Carrots!”
Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance!
She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, her bright fancies fallen into cureless ruin. She flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert from eyes whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally angry tears.
“You mean, hateful boy!” she exclaimed passionately. “How dare you!”
And then—Thwack! Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert’s head and cracked it—slate, not head—clear across.

Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his hand heavily on Anne’s shoulder.
“Anne Shirley, what does this mean?” he said angrily.
Anne returned no answer. It was asking too much of flesh and blood to expect her to tell before the whole school that she had been called “carrots.” Gilbert it was who spoke up stoutly.
“It was my fault, Mr. Phillips. I teased her.”
Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert.
“I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such a temper and such a vindictive spirit,” he said in a serious tone, as if the mere fact of being a pupil of his ought to root out all evil passions from the hearts of small imperfect mortals. “Anne, go and stand on the platform in front of the blackboard for the rest of the afternoon.”
As for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him. She would never look at him again! She would never speak to him!!
When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door.
“I’m awful sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne,” he whispered contritely. “Honest I am. Don’t be mad for keeps, now.”
Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. “Oh, how could you, Anne?” breathed Diana as they went down the road, half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that she could never have resisted Gilbert’s plea.
“I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe,” said Anne firmly.
“You mustn’t mind Gilbert making fun of your hair,” she said soothingly. “Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it’s so black. He’s called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either.”
“There’s a great deal of difference between being called a crow and being called carrots,” said Anne with dignity. “Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings excruciatingly, Diana.”

On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced, before going home to lunch, that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished.
All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell’s spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to “pick a chew.” But spruce groves are tempting and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a the old spruce, “Master’s coming.”
The girls, who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself, with a wreath of rice lilies on her hair as if she were some wild divinity of the shadowy places, was latest of all. Anne could run like a deer, however; run she did with the impish result that she overtook the boys at the door and was swept into the schoolhouse among them just as Mr. Phillips was in the act of hanging up his hat.
Mr. Phillips’ brief reforming energy was over; he didn’t want the bother of punishing a dozen students; but it was necessary to do something to save his word, so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for breath, with her forgotten lily wreath hanging askew over one ear and giving her a particularly rakish and dishevelled appearance.
“Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys’ company we shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon,” he said sarcastically. “Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe.”
The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne’s hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master as if turned to stone.
“Did you hear what I said, Anne?” asked Mr. Phillips sternly.
“Yes, sir,” said Anne slowly, “but I didn’t suppose you really meant it.”
“I assure you I did,”—still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children, and Anne especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. “Obey me at once.”

For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk.
To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy; but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation.

When school went out Anne marched to her desk, took everything from out, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate.
“What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?” Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.
“I am not coming back to school any more,” said Anne.
Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it.
“Will Marilla let you stay home?” she asked.
“She’ll have to,” said Anne. “I’ll never go to school to that man again.”

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One morning, Buster Bunny and his best friends Sam the squirrel, Max the mouse, and Francine the frog arrived at school.
“What’s in those boxes, Miss?” asked Buster.
“Costumes!” said Miss Nibbler. “Today you’re going to dress up as people who lived a long time ago. I want you to make something from the time when they lived, and tell us all about it!”

“I’m going to find out about Vikings,” said Buster.
“I want to be a knight,” said Sam. “They have amazing helmets!”
“I think I’ll be a princess!” cried Francine.
“I can’t decide what to find out about,” said Max.
“Why don’t you dress up as an Egyptian ruler?” said Buster, taking a book from the shelf. “They were called pharaohs.” But the pharaoh’s crown was missing from the box.

“I don’t want to be a king without a crown!” said Max. Just then he noticed a poster on the classroom wall.
“I want to be an Egyptian mummy!” he said. “They’re so cool!” He rummaged in the costume box. “Bother,” he said. “There’s no mummy costume.”

“I’ve got a knight’s sword and helmet,” said Sam. “I’m going to make a shield to go with them.”
“I’m building a model of a Viking ship,” said Buster.
“And I’m making a palace for a princess,” said Francine.

Soon Buster, Sam, and Francine were busy making things. But Max still didn’t know what to make.
“I really want to dress as a mummy,” he grumbled.
“What else do you know about Egyptians?” asked Buster.
“I know they built big pyramids,” said Max.
“Why don’t you build one of those?” suggested Buster.

Max found some big sheets of cardboard and tried to make a pyramid. “Oh dear,” he said. “This is trickier than I thought.”

Francine showed him how to look up pyramids on the computer. “Ah, now I see,” said Max. “A pyramid has four sides, not three. And each side is exactly the same size.”

Max finished his pyramid proudly, but then he sighed. “I still don’t know what to wear!” he said.
“Ouch!” said Buster suddenly. “I just got a paper cut!”
“It’s only a small one,” said Miss Nibbler. “But you’d better go to the school nurse for a bandage.”
“That gives me an idea!” said Buster. He whispered in Max’s ear. “Great!” laughed Max. “Please don’t be long!”

When it was time to present to the class, the friends took turns showing what they had made.

“I am a knight,” said Sam. “My shield protected me in battle. It was brightly painted so that my friends could recognize me when my helmet was shut!”

I’m a princess,” said Francine. “I lived in a palace. I wore long silky dresses and tall pointy hats. And I often got to boss around all the knights!”

Buster, back from the nurse, showed the class his Viking ship. “I’m a Viking,” he said. “I loved to sail in a very fast ship called a longship. It had a dragon’s head carved on the front to scare my enemies!”

“Thanks Buster,” said Miss Nibbler. “Now, it’s Max’s turn.”

“Egyptians lived a very, very long time ago,” said Max’s voice. But he was nowhere to be seen… “They built amazing pyramids,” the voice went on. “The pyramids were taller than ten houses on top of each other! Nobody lived in them, except for — MUMMIES! RAAAAH!”
And Max leaped out of the pyramid.

“So that’s where you were hiding!” cried Francine.
“Where did you get that wonderful mummy costume?” asked Sam. “I thought there wasn’t one.”
“I borrowed the bandages from the school nurse,” said Max. “It was Buster’s idea.”
“Clever thinking, Buster!” said Miss Nibbler. “And well done to everybody. Your costumes look amazing, and you’ve all learned some really interesting things. What a wonderful show and tell!”

Written by Clara Dillingham Pierson.

In one corner of the meadow lived a fat old Cricket, who thought a great deal of himself. He had such a big, shining body, and a way of chirping so very loudly, that nobody could ever forget where he lived. He was a very good sort of Cricket, too, ready to say the most pleasant things to everybody, yet, sad to say, he had a dreadful habit of boasting. He had not always lived in the meadow, and he liked to tell of the wonderful things he had seen and done when he was younger and lived up near the white farm-house.

When he told these stories of what he had done, the big Crickets around him would not say much, but just sit and look at each other. The little Crickets, however, loved to hear him talk, and would often come to the door of his house (which was a hole in the ground), to beg him to tell them more.
One evening he said he would teach them a few things that all little Crickets should know. He had them stand in a row, and then began: “With what part of your body do you eat?”

“With our mouths,” all the little Crickets shouted.
“With what part of your body do you run and leap?”
“Our legs,” they cried.
“Do you do anything else with your legs?”
“We clean ourselves with them,” said one.
“We use them and our mouths to make our houses in the ground,” said another.
“Oh yes, and we hear with our two front legs,” cried one bright little fellow.

“That is right,” answered the fat old Cricket. “Some creatures hear with things called ears, that grow on the sides of their heads, but for my part, I think it is much nicer to hear with one’s legs, as we do.”
“Why, how funny it must be not to hear with one’s legs, as we do,” cried all the little Crickets together.
“There are a great many strange things to be seen in the great world,” said their teacher. “I have seen some terribly big creatures with only two legs and no wings whatsoever.”

“How dreadful!” all the little Crickets cried. “We wouldn’t think they could move about at all.”
“It must be very hard to do so,” said their teacher; “I was very sorry for them,” and he spread out his own wings and stretched his six legs to show how he enjoyed them.

“But how can they sing if they have no wings?” asked the bright little Cricket.
“They sing through their mouths, in much the same way that the birds have to. I am sure it must be much easier to sing by rubbing one’s wings together, as we do,” said the fat old teacher. “I could tell you many strange things about these two-legged creatures, and the houses in which they live, and perhaps some day I will. There are other large four-legged creatures around their homes that are very terrible, but, my children, I was never afraid of any of them. I am one of the truly brave people who are never frightened, no matter how terrible the sight. I hope, children, that you will always be brave, like me. If anything should scare you, do not jump or run away. Stay right where you are, and——”

But the little Crickets never heard the rest of what their teacher began to say, for at that minute Brown Bess, the Cow, came through a broken fence toward the spot where the Crickets were. The teacher gave one shrill “chirp,” and scrambled down his hole. The little Crickets fairly tumbled over each other in their hurry to get away, and the fat old Cricket, who had been out in the great world, never again talked to them about being brave.

Cat City is written by Patti Larsen. Please consider purchasing her book.

This week in Cat City Susan leads the rats on a chase through the maze hoping they will get lost and not be able to find the city. Tucker and Vinnie warn the other cats and then Tucker meets up with Susan at the Gate where she has run into Julian. They are happy to see each other but they need to do their part to help against the rats. Susan lets Julian go and then tries to close the gate that he has opened, will she be able to?

Chuskit woke up early that morning. It was a very special day and she was too excited to sleep. She eagerly looked out of the room through the window next to her bed. It was springtime and the apricot trees were in full bloom. Two magpies had already begun their day and were busy looking for insects to eat. Her Ama-Ley was awake too. She could hear her in the kitchen, making gur-gur tea.

Chuskit had been awake for the last hour. This was a day she was going to remember for a long time. Can you guess why?

No, it was not Losar, the New Year festival. That was many months away.

Nor was it any special day in her village, like the gonpa festival, or a wedding day.

Today was going to be Chuskit’s first day at school. At nine years old, she had waited a long, long time for this.

The school was not very far from her home. To get there, you had to walk up to the main road.

Just before the prayer wheel, you took the path to the left of the road that ran along a narrow stream.

Near the poplar trees you crossed the stream by jumping over the big rocks. Once you got to the other side, a short walk up a slope took you to the school. All the children of Skitpo Yul, Chuskit’s village, walked to school everyday and with ease. But not Little Chuskit. She had a disability and could not walk.

Chuskit was born with legs that did not work like everyone else’s. Her father had taken her to the village amchi and then to the doctors in Leh. But no amount of medicine had helped her walk. At first, Chuskit did not realise that she was in any way different from Stobdan her younger brother, or her cousins. But soon there were many things she could not do as easily at them. “That does not matter,” her Aba-Ley would tell her whenever she felt sad. “You can stitch better than any of them. And you draw very well.” Aba-Ley often brought her some colored pencils from Leh.

Chuskit would sit at the kitchen window everyday and draw what she saw while her Ama-Ley cooked. She could see her family’s animals being taken to graze every morning. She could see the blue waters of the stream that flowed nearby. And she would be the first one to announce the arrival of a visitor to their house!

Chuskit used a chair fitted with wheels to move around. Elders called it a “wheelchair.” You could move it in any direction – forward, left, right, and even backward – by moving the wheels with your hands. You only needed to have really strong arms to push the weight of your body and the chair.

When Aba-Ley first brought the wheelchair home, everyone in her family was very excited.

“Now I won’t have to carry Chuskit everywhere, I can wheel her around,” said Ama-Ley, with tears of happiness in her eyes.

“And I will be able to go wherever I want!” Said Chuskit excitedly.

“Please, please, could I ride on your wheelchair once in a while?” Begged Stobdan. He wanted to wheel it around too. It looked like fun.

Billa, the big black cat, jumped on to the wheelchair and stretched across the seat. “Yes, this is far more comfortable than the sack cloth I sleep on,” she purred.

Slowly, Chuskit learnt to use her wheelchair. She would ask her mother to seat her in the wheelchair outside her home every evening. From here she would watch children returning from school, chattering and laughing merrily in groups.

In a while, the evening bus would return from the city, bringing back people from work and the marketplace. How much more exciting the world was from here than from the kitchen window!

One evening when Chuskit was sitting outside the house with her grandfather, a young boy came up to her. He carried a letter which he handed over to her grandfather. “Julley! The bus driver asked me to give this to you,” he said.

“My name is Abdul,” he said, turning to Chuskit. “I study in Class 6 at the Government School. I have often wondered why you don’t come to school.”

“Julley, Abdul,” said Chuskit. “I have never been to school. The path to the school is too uneven and pebbly and my wheelchair will get stuck. Besides, I cannot cross the little stream in front of the school. It would be very difficult for my parents to carry me to school and back everyday.”

“But would you like to come to school?” Asked Abdul.

“Of course!” Replied Chuskit. “I hear my younger brother talk of all that he does at school. I want to study like all of you, make friends, play games, wear a uniform, and even write exams. Sometimes my brother teaches me songs that he has learnt at school, and I love it. You may not believe this, but I sometimes dream of carrying a school bag, even eating a packed lunch….”

“Enough! Enough!” Interrupted her grandfather. “Stop dreaming, Chuskit. You know you cannot go to school. I have told you this many times. Learn as much as you can at home.”

“Meme-Ley, please,” pleaded Chuskit softly with tears in her eyes as her grandfather walked away angrily. “Meme-Ley does not understand how I feel,” said Chuskit.

“I remember the day my brother recited his tables with such pride, even the time he learned to read! My parents were very happy as they have never been to school. I too want to learn to read and do math. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said Abdul. “Chuskit, I will see you again. I must go now. My mother will be waiting for me. Julley!”

The next day, Abdul went straight to the Headmaster’s room after assembly. “Julley, Headmaster!” He said. “I want to talk to you about a girl from our village who does not go to school. Her name is Chuskit. She is Stobdan’s sister.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Headmaster. “I know her. She is disabled, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She uses a wheelchair to move around but cannot reach school, as the path from her home is too rough and uneven. I was wondering if we could do anything to help her, Headmaster. We could all get together and level the path and also build a small bridge across the stream.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Abdul,” said the Headmaster as he patted him on the back. “What made you think of Chuskit and her problems?”

“Headmaster, last week we read about the fundamental rights of citizens in our class. All children have a Right to Education. That includes Chuskit as well, does it not?”

“Yes, you are right, Abdul. Let me discuss this with the other teachers,” replied the Headmaster.

The next day the Headmaster called all the teachers to a meeting. He shared Abdul’s ideas with the group and asked the teachers what they felt.

“Impossible!” Said one of them. “How can we have a disabled child in our school? How will she be able to write, play, or go to the toilet like the other children do?”

“That’s exactly what we have to work out,” said the Headmaster. “I hear that in the village of Mentok Yul, the Village Education Committee has helped build a special toilet for one of their disabled children. We could ask them what they have done. But first we will have to get Chuskit to school. Then we could think of ways of helping her do things in school.”

Two weeks later there was great excitement at the Government School. All the children had gathered outside in the playground. They had come to school without their school bags: there were going to be no classes today!

The teachers divided the children into groups. One group worked in front of Chuskit’s house, and another on the path along the stream. A third group with some of the older children worked hard to help some of their teachers build a strong wooden bridge across the stream.

The children laughed and sang as they removed stones and rocks, leveled paths, and carried wooden planks to the stream. The Headmaster went from one group to another, making sure that all went according to plan.

Chuskit’s parents provided everyone with hot tea and biscuits. Chuskit’s grandfather sat under a willow tree by the stream watching the busy school children. “I never dreamed I’d see a day like this!” He thought to himself as he wiped a tear that rolled down his cheek.

At the end of the day it was a tired but happy group of children that returned to their homes. The path from Chuskit’s home to the school was now ready!

Chuskit was going to school for the first time in her life. And that’s why she was so excited!

Written by Thornton. W Burgess.

Hardly had jolly, round, red Mr. Sun thrown off his rosy blankets and begun his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky when Peter Rabbit and his cousin, Jumper the Hare, arrived at the place in the Green Forest where Peter had found Old Mother Nature the day before. She was waiting for them, ready to begin the first lesson.
“I am glad you are so prompt,” she said. “Promptness is one of the most important things in life. Now I am very, very busy these days, as you know, so we will begin school at once. Before either of you ask any questions, I am going to ask some myself. Peter, what do you look like? Where do you live? What do you eat? I want to find out just how much you really know about yourself.”

Peter scratched one ear with a long hind foot and hesitated as if he didn’t know just how to begin. Old Mother Nature waited patiently. Finally Peter began rather timidly.
“Of course,” he said, “the only way I know how I look is by the way the other members of my family look, for I’ve never seen myself. I suppose in a way I look like all the rest of the Rabbit family. I have long hind legs and short front ones. I suppose this is so I can make long jumps when I am in a hurry.”

Old Mother Nature nodded, and Peter, taking courage, continued. “My hind legs are plump and strong, but my front ones are rather weak. I guess this is because I do not have a great deal of use for them, except for running. My coat is a sort of mixture of brown and gray, more brown in the summer and more gray in the winter. My ears are longer for my size than those of most animals, but really not very long after all, not nearly as long for my size as my cousin Jumper’s are for his size. My tail doesn’t amount to much because it is so short that it is hardly worth calling it a tail. It is so short I carry it straight up. It is white like a little bunch of cotton, and I suppose that that is why I am called a Cottontail Rabbit, though I have heard that some folks call me a Gray Rabbit and others a Bush Rabbit. I guess I’m called Bush Rabbit because I like the bushy country in which to live.”

“I live in the dear Old Briar-patch and just love it. It is a mass of bushes and bramble-tangles and it is the safest place I know of. I have cut little paths all through it just big enough for Mrs. Peter and myself. None of our enemies can get at us there, excepting Shadow the Weasel or Billy Mink. I have a sort of nest there where I spend my time when I am not running about. It is called a form and I sit in it a great deal.”

“In summer I eat clover, grass and other green things, and I just love to get over into Farmer Brown’s garden. In winter I have to take what I can get, and this is mostly bark from young trees, buds and tender twigs of bushes, and any green plants I can find under the snow. I can run fast for a short distance, but only for a short distance. That is why I like thick brush and bramble-tangles. There I can dodge. I don’t know anyone who can beat me at dodging. If Reddy Fox or Bowser the Hound surprises me away from the dear Old Briar-patch I run for the nearest hollow log or hole in the ground. Sometimes in summer I dig a hole for myself, but not often. It is much easier to use a hole somebody else has dug. When I want to signal my friends I thump the ground with my hind feet. Jumper does the same thing. Hmmm. I forgot to say I don’t like water.”

Old Mother Nature smiled. “You are thinking of that cousin of yours, the Marsh Rabbit who lives way down in the Sunny South,” she said.
Peter looked a wee bit silly and admitted that he was. Jumper the Hare was very interested at once. You see, he had never heard of this cousin.
“That was a very good account of yourself, Peter,” said Old Mother Nature. “Now take a look at your cousin, Jumper the Hare, and tell me how he differs from you.”

Peter took a long look at Jumper, and then, as before, scratched one ear with a long hind foot. “In the first place,” he said, “Jumper is considerably bigger than I. He has very long hind legs and his ears are very long. In summer he wears a brown coat, but in winter he is all white but the tips of those long ears, and those are black. Because his coat changes so, he is called the varying Hare. He likes the Green Forest where the trees grow close together, especially those places where there are a great many young trees. He’s the biggest member of our family. I guess that’s all I know about Cousin Jumper.”

“That is very good, Peter, as far as it goes,” said Old Mother Nature. “You have made only one mistake. Jumper is not the biggest of his family.”
Both Peter and Jumper opened their eyes very wide with surprise. “Also,” continued Old Mother Nature, “you forgot to mention the fact that Jumper never hides in hollow logs and holes in the ground as you do. Why don’t you, Jumper?”

“I wouldn’t feel safe there,” replied Jumper rather timidly. “I depend on my long legs for safety, and the way I can dodge around trees and bushes. I suppose Reddy Fox may be fast enough to catch me in the open, but he can’t do it where I can dodge around trees and bushes. That is why I stick to the Green Forest. If you please, Mother Nature, what is this about a cousin who likes to swim?”

Old Mother Nature’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll get to that later on,” she said. “Now, each of you hold up a hind foot and tell me what difference you see.”
Peter and Jumper each held up a hind foot and each looked first at his own and then at the other’s. “They look to me very much alike, only Jumper’s is a lot longer and bigger than mine,” said Peter. Jumper nodded as if he agreed.
“What is the matter with your eyes?” demanded Old Mother Nature. “Don’t you see that Jumper’s foot is a great deal broader than yours, Peter, and that his toes are spread apart, while yours are close together?”
Peter and Jumper looked sheepish, for it was just as Old Mother Nature had said. Jumper’s foot really was quite different from that of Peter. Peter’s was narrow and slim.

“That is a very important difference,” declared Old Mother Nature. “Can you guess why I gave you those big feet, Jumper?”
Jumper slowly shook his head. “Not unless it was to make me different,” he said.
“I’m surprised,” said Old Mother Nature. “Yes, indeed, I am surprised. You ought to know by this time that I never give anybody anything without a purpose. What happens to those big feet of yours in the winter, Jumper?”
“Nothing that I know of, except that the hair grows out long between my toes,” Jumper replied.
“Exactly,” snapped Old Mother Nature. “And when the hair does this you can travel over light snow without sinking in. It is just as if you had on snowshoes. That is why you are often called a Snowshoe Rabbit. I gave you those big feet and make the hair grow out every winter because I know that you depend on your legs to get away from your enemies. You can run over the deep snow where your enemies break through. Peter, though he is small and lighter than you are, cannot go where you can. But Peter doesn’t need to always depend on his legs to save his life.

There is one thing more that I want you both to notice, and that is that you both have quite a lot of short hairs on the soles of your feet. That is where you differ from that cousin of yours down in the Sunny South. He has only a very few hairs on his feet. That is so he can swim better.”

“If you please, Mother Nature, why is it that a cousin of ours is so fond of the water?” piped up Peter.
“Because,” replied Old Mother Nature, “he lives in marshy country where there is a great deal of water. He is very nearly the same size as you, Peter, and looks very much like you. But his legs are not quite so long, his ears are a little smaller, and his tail is brownish instead of white. He is a poor runner and so in times of danger he takes to the water. For that matter, he goes swimming for pleasure. The water is warm down there, and he dearly loves to paddle about in it. If a Fox chases him he simply plunges into the water and hides among the water plants with only his eyes and his nose out of water.”

“Does he make his home in the water like Jerry Muskrat?” asked Peter innocently.
Mother Nature smiled and shook her head. “Certainly not,” she replied. “His home is on the ground. His babies are born in a nest made just as Mrs. Peter makes her nest for your babies, and Mrs. Jumper makes a nest for Jumper’s babies. It is made of grass and lined with soft fur which Mrs. Rabbit pulls from her own chest, and it is very carefully hidden. By the way, Peter, how do your babies differ from the babies of your Cousin Jumper?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “My babies don’t have their eyes open when they are born, and they don’t have any hair.”
Jumper pricked up his long ears. “What’s that?” he said. “Why, my babies have their eyes open and have the dearest little fur coats!”
Old Mother Nature chuckled. “That is the difference,” she said. “I guess both of you have learned something.”
“You said a little while ago that Jumper isn’t the biggest of our family,” said Peter. “If you please, who is?”

“There are several bigger than Jumper,” replied Old Mother Nature, and smiled as she saw the funny look of surprise on the faces of Peter and Jumper. “There is one way up the Frozen North and there are two cousins way out in the Great West. They are as much bigger than Jumper as Jumper is bigger than you, Peter. But I haven’t time to tell you about them now. If you really want to learn about them, be here promptly at sun-up to-morrow morning.

Hello! Here comes Reddy Fox, and he looks to me as if a good breakfast would not be refused. Let me see what you have learned about taking care of yourselves.”

Peter and Jumper gave one startled look in the direction Mother Nature was pointing. Sure enough, there was Reddy Fox. Not far away was a hollow log. Peter wasted no time in getting to it. In fact, he left in such a hurry that he forgot to say good-by to Old Mother Nature. But she didn’t mind, for she quite understood Peter’s feelings, and she laughed when she saw his funny little white tail disappear inside the hollow log. As for Jumper, he promptly took to his long legs and disappeared with great bounds, Reddy Fox racing after him.

Purchase Cat City by Patti Larsen on Amazon.

Written by Thornton W. Burgess.

The bank of the Smiling Pool was a lovely place to hold school at that hour of the day, which you know was just after sun-up. Everybody who could get there was on hand, and there were several who had not been to school before. One of these was Grandfather Frog, who was sitting on his big, green, lily pad. Another was Jerry Muskrat, whose house was out in the Smiling Pool. Spotty the Turtle was also there, not to mention Long Legs the Heron. You see, they hadn’t come to school but the school had come to them, for that is where they live or spend most of their time.

“Good morning, Jerry Muskrat,” said Old Mother Nature pleasantly, as Jerry’s brown head appeared in the Smiling Pool. “Have you seen anything of Billy Mink or Little Joe Otter?”
“Little Joe went down to the Big River last night,” replied Jerry Muskrat. “I don’t know when he is coming back, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see him any minute. Billy Mink was here last evening and said he was going up the Laughing Brook fishing. He is likely to be back any time. One never can tell when that fellow will appear. He comes and goes continually. I don’t believe he can keep still for five minutes.”
“Who can’t keep still for five minutes?” demanded a new voice, and there was Billy Mink himself just climbing out on the Big Rock.
“Jerry was speaking of you,” replied Old Mother Nature. “This will be a good chance for you to show him that he is mistaken. I want you to stay here for a while and to stay right on the Big Rock. I may want to ask you a few questions.”

Just then Billy Mink dove into the Smiling Pool, and a second later his brown head popped out of the water and in his mouth was a fat fish. He scrambled back on the Big Rock and looked at Old Mother Nature a bit fearfully as he laid his fish down.
“I—I didn’t mean to disobey,” he mumbled. “I saw that fish and dove for him before I thought. I hope you will forgive me, Mother Nature. I won’t do it again.”
“Acting before thinking gets people into trouble sometimes,” replied Old Mother Nature. “However, I will forgive you this time. The fact is you have just shown your friends here something. Go ahead and eat that fish and be ready to answer questions.”

As Billy Mink sat there on the Big Rock everybody had a good look at him. One glance would tell any one that he was a cousin of Shadow the Weasel. He was much larger than Shadow, but of the same general shape, being long and slender. His coat was a beautiful dark brown, darkest on the back. His chin was white. His tail was round, covered with fairly long hair which was so dark as to be almost black. His face was like that of Shadow the Weasel. His legs were rather short. As he sat eating that fish, his back was arched.
Old Mother Nature waited until he had finished his feast. “Now then, Billy,” she said, “I want you to answer a few questions. Which do you like best, night or day?”
“It doesn’t make any particular difference to me,” replied Billy. “I just sleep when I feel like it, whether it be night or day, and then when I wake up I can hunt. It all depends on how I feel.”

“When you go hunting, what do you hunt?” asked Old Mother Nature.
Billy grinned. “Anything that promises a good meal,” he said. “I’m not very particular. A fat Mouse, a tender young Rabbit, a Chipmunk, a Frog, Tadpoles, Chickens, eggs, birds, fish; whatever happens to be easiest to get suits me. I am rather fond of fish, and that’s one reason that I live along the Laughing Brook and around the Smiling Pool. But I like a change of fare, and so often I go hunting in the Green Forest. Sometimes I go up to Farmer Brown’s for a Chicken. In the spring I hunt for nests of birds on the ground. In winter, if Peter Rabbit should happen along here when I was hungry, I might be tempted to sample Peter.” Billy snapped his bright eyes wickedly and Peter shivered.

“If Jerry Muskrat were not my friend, I am afraid I might be tempted to sample him too,” continued Billy Mink.
“Pah!” exclaimed Peter Rabbit. “You wouldn’t dare tackle Jerry Muskrat.”
“Wouldn’t I?” replied Billy. “Just ask Jerry how he feels about it.”
One look at Jerry’s face showed everybody that Jerry, big as he was, was afraid of Billy Mink.

“How do you hunt when you are on land?” asked Old Mother Nature.
“The way every good hunter should hunt, with eyes, nose and ears,” replied Billy. “There may be folks with better ears than I’ve got, but I don’t know who they are. I wouldn’t swap noses with anybody. As for my eyes, well, they are plenty good enough for me.”
“In other words, you hunt very much as does your cousin, Shadow the Weasel,” said Old Mother Nature.
Billy nodded. “I suppose I do,” he said.

“You all saw how Billy catches fish,” said Old Mother Nature. “Now, Billy, I want you to swim over to the farther bank and show us how you run.”
Billy obeyed. He slipped into the water, dove, swam underwater for a distance, then swam with just his head out. When he reached the bank he climbed out and started along it. He went by a series of bounds, his back arched sharply between each leap. Then he disappeared before their very eyes, only to reappear as suddenly as he had gone. So quick were his movements that it was impossible for one of the little people watching to keep their eyes on him. It seemed sometimes as though he must have vanished into the air. Of course he didn’t. He was simply showing them his wonderful ability to take advantage of every little stick, stone and bush.

“Billy is a great traveler,” said Old Mother Nature. “He really loves to travel up and down the Laughing Brook, even for long distances. Wherever there is plenty of driftwood and rubbish, Billy is quite at home, being so slender he can slip under kinds of places and into all sorts of holes. Quick as he is on land, he is not so quick as his Cousin Shadow; and good swimmer as he is, he isn’t as good as his bigger cousin, Little Joe Otter. But being equally at home on land and in water, he has an advantage over his cousins. Billy is much sought after for his fur, and being this has made him very keen-witted. Mrs. Billy makes her home nest in a hole in the bank or under an old stump or under a pile of driftwood, and you may be sure it is well hidden. There the babies are born, and they stay with their mother all summer. Incidentally, Billy can climb readily. Billy is found all over this great country of ours. When he lives in the Far North his fur is finer and thicker than when he lives in the South. I wish Little Joe Otter were here. I hoped he would be.”

“Here he comes now,” cried Jerry Muskrat. “I rather expected he would be back.” Jerry pointed towards where the Laughing Brook left the Smiling Pool on its way to the Big River. A brown head was moving rapidly towards them. There was no mistaking that head. It could belong to no one but Little Joe Otter. Straight on to the Big Rock he came, and climbed up. He was big, being one of the largest members of his family. He was more than three feet long. But no one looking at him could mistake him for any one but a member of the Weasel family. His legs were short, very short for the length of his body. His tail was fairly long and broad. His coat was a rich brown all over, a little lighter underneath than on the back.

“What’s going on here?” asked Little Joe Otter, his eyes bright with interest.
“We are holding a session of school here today,” explained Mother Nature. “And we were just hoping that you would appear. Hold up one of your feet and spread your toes, Little Joe.”

Little Joe Otter obeyed, though there was a funny, puzzled look on his face. “Whyee!” exclaimed Jerry. “His toes are webbed like those of Paddy the Beaver!”
“Of course they’re webbed,” said Little Joe. “I could never swim the way I do if they weren’t webbed.”
“Can you swim better than Paddy the Beaver?” asked Jerry.
“I should say I can. If I couldn’t, I guess I would go hungry most of the time,” replied Little Joe.

“Why should you go hungry? Paddy doesn’t,” retorted Jerry.
“Paddy doesn’t live on fish,” replied Little Joe. “I do and that’s the difference. I can catch a fish in a tail-end race, and that’s going some.”
“You might show us how you can swim,” suggested Old Mother Nature.
Little Joe slipped into the water. The Smiling Pool was very still and the little people sitting on the bank could look right down and see nearly to the bottom. They saw Little Joe as he entered the water and then saw little more than a brown streak. A second later his head popped out on the other side of the swimming Pool.

“Phew, I’m glad I’m not a fish!” exclaimed Jerry and everybody laughed.
“You may well be glad,” said Old Mother Nature. “You wouldn’t stand much chance with Little Joe around. Like Billy Mink, Little Joe is a great traveler, especially up and down the Laughing Brook and the Big River. Sometimes he travels over land, but he is so heavy and his legs are so short that traveling on land is slow work. When he does cross from one stream or pond to another, he always picks out the smoothest going. Sometimes in winter he travels quite a bit. Then when he comes to a smooth hill, he slides down it on his stomach. By the way, Little Joe, haven’t you a slippery slide somewhere around here?”
Little Joe nodded. “I’ve got one down the Laughing Brook where the bank is steep,” he said. “Mrs. Otter and I and our children slide every day.”
“What do you mean by a slippery slide?” asked Happy Jack Squirrel, who was sitting in the Big Hickory-tree which grew on the bank of the Smiling Pond.

Old Mother Nature smiled. “Little Joe Otter and his family are quite as fond of play as any of my children,” she said. “They get a lot of fun out of life. One of their ways of playing is to make a slippery slide where the bank is steep and the water deep. In winter it is made of snow, but in summer it is made of mud. There they slide down, splash into the water, then climb up the bank and do it all over again. In winter they make their slippery slide where the water doesn’t freeze, and they get just as much fun in winter as they do in summer.”

“I suppose that means that Little Joe doesn’t sleep in winter as Johnny Chuck does,” said Jerry.
“I should say not,” exclaimed Little Joe. “I like the winter, too. I have such a warm coat that I never get cold. There are always places where the water doesn’t freeze. I can swim for long distances under ice, so I can always get plenty of food.”
“Do you eat anything but fish?” asked Jerry.
“Oh, sometimes,” replied Little Joe. “Once in a while I like a little fresh meat for a change, and sometimes when fish are scarce I eat Frogs, but I prefer fish, especially Salmon and Trout.”

“How many babies do you have at a time?” asked Happy Jack Squirrel.
“Usually one to three,” replied Little Joe, “and only one family a year. They are born in my comfortable house, which is a burrow in the bank. There Mrs. Otter makes a large, soft nest of leaves and grass. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I will go on up the Laughing Brook. Mrs. Otter is waiting for me up there.”

Old Mother Nature told Little Joe to go ahead.
As he disappeared, she sighed. “I’m very fond of Little Joe Otter,” she said, “and it distresses me greatly that he is sought after as he is. That fur coat of his is valuable, and man is forever looking for it. The Otters were once numerous all over this great country, but now they are very scarce, and I am afraid that the day isn’t far away when there will be no more Little Joe Otter. I think this will do for to-day. There are two other members of the Weasel family and these, like Little Joe and Billy Mink, and I will tell you about them another day.”

“School is dismissed,” said Old Mother Nature. “Bye for now!”

Written by Thornton W. Burgess.

All the little people who live on the Green Meadows and in the Smiling Pool and along the Laughing Brook were to have a holiday. The Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind had been very busy, oh very busy indeed, in sending word to all the little meadow folks. You see, Peter Rabbit had been boasting of how fast he could run. Reddy Fox was quite sure that he could run faster than Peter Rabbit. Billy Mink, who can move so quickly you hardly can see him, was quite sure that neither Peter Rabbit nor Reddy Fox could run as fast as he could. They all met one day beside the Smiling Pool and agreed that old Grandfather Frog should decide who was the swiftest.

Now Grandfather Frog was considered very wise. You see he had lived a long time, oh, very much longer than all of the others, and therefore, because of the wisdom of age, Grandfather Frog was always called on to decide all disputes. He sat on his green lily-pad while Billy Mink sat on the Big Rock, and Peter Rabbit and Reddy Fox sat on the bank. Each in turn told why he thought he was the fastest. Old Grandfather Frog listened and listened and said never a word until they were all through. When they had finished, he stopped to catch a silly green fly and then he said: “The best way to decide who is the swiftest is to have a race.”

So it was agreed that Peter Rabbit and Reddy Fox and Billy Mink should start together from the old butternut tree on one edge of the Green Meadows, race away across the Green Meadows to the little hill on the other side and each bring back a nut from the big hickory which grew there. The one who first reached the old butternut tree with a hickory nut would be declared the winner. The Merry Little Breezes flew about over the Green Meadows telling everyone about the race and everyone planned to be there.

It was a beautiful summer day. Mr. Sun smiled and smiled, and the more he smiled the warmer it grew. Everyone was there to see the race—Striped Chipmunk, Happy Jack Squirrel, Sammy Jay, Blacky the Crow, Hooty the Owl and Bobby all sat up in the old butternut tree where it was cool and shady. Johnny Chuck, Jerry Muskrat, Jimmy Skunk, Little Joe Otter, Grandfather Frog and even old Mr. Toad, were there. Last of all came Spotty the Turtle. Now Spotty the Turtle is a very slow walker, and he cannot run at all. When Peter Rabbit saw him coming up towards the old butternut tree he shouted: “Come, Spotty, don’t you want to race with us?”
Everybody laughed because you know Spotty is so very, very slow but Spotty didn’t laugh and he didn’t get angry because everyone else laughed.
“There is a wise old saying, Peter Rabbit,” said Spotty the Turtle, “which shows that those who run fastest do not always reach a place first. I think I WILL enter this race.”
Everyone thought that that was the best joke they had heard for a long time, and all laughed harder than ever. They all agreed that Spotty the Turtle should start in the race too.

So they all stood in a row, Peter Rabbit first, then Billy Mink, then Reddy Fox, and at the right side of Reddy Fox, Spotty the Turtle.
“Are you ready?” asked Grandfather Frog. “Go!”
Away went Peter Rabbit with great big jumps. After him went Billy Mink so fast that there was just a little brown streak going through the tall grass, and side by side with him ran Reddy Fox. Now just as they started Spotty the Turtle reached up and grabbed the long hair on the end of Reddy’s big tail. Of course Reddy couldn’t have stopped to shake him off, because Peter Rabbit and Billy Mink were running so fast that he had to run his very best to keep up with them. But he didn’t even know that Spotty the Turtle was there. You see Spotty is not very heavy and Reddy Fox was so excited that he did not notice that his big tail was heavier than usual.

The Merry Little Breezes flew along, too, to see that the race was fair. Peter Rabbit went with great big jumps. Whenever he came to a little bush he jumped right over it, for Peter Rabbit’s legs are long and meant for jumping. Billy Mink is so slim that he slipped between the bushes and through the long grass like a little brown streak. Reddy Fox, who is bigger than either Peter Rabbit or Billy Mink, had no trouble in keeping up with them. Not one of them noticed that Spotty the Turtle was hanging fast to the end of Reddy’s tail.

Now just at the foot of the little hill on which the big hickory tree grew was a little pond. It wasn’t very wide but it was quite long. Billy Mink remembered this pond and he chuckled to himself as he raced along, for he knew that Peter Rabbit couldn’t swim and he knew that Reddy Fox doesn’t like the water, so therefore both would have to run around it. He himself can swim even faster than he can run. The more he thought of this, the more silly it seemed that he should hurry so on such a warm day. “For,” said Billy Mink to himself, “even if they reach the pond first, they will have to run around it, while I can swim across it and cool off while I am swimming. I will surely get there first.” So Billy Mink ran slower and slower, and pretty soon he had dropped behind.

Mr. Sun, round and red, looking down, smiled and smiled to see the race. The more he smiled the warmer it grew. Now, Peter Rabbit had a thick gray coat and Reddy Fox had a thick red coat, and they both began to get very, very warm. Peter Rabbit did not make such long jumps as when he first started. Reddy Fox began to feel very thirsty, and his tongue hung out. Now that Billy Mink was behind them they thought they did not need to hurry so much.

Peter Rabbit reached the little pond first. He had not thought of the pond when he agreed to enter the race. He stopped right on the edge of it and sat up on his hind legs. Right across he could see the big hickory tree, so near and yet so far, for he knew that he must run around the pond then back again, and it was a long, long way. In just a moment Reddy Fox ran out of the bushes and Reddy felt much as Peter Rabbit did. Way, way behind them was Billy Mink, trotting along comfortably and chuckling to himself. Peter Rabbit looked at Reddy Fox in dismay, and Reddy Fox looked at Peter Rabbit in dismay. Then they both looked at Billy Mink and remembered that Billy Mink could swim right across.
Then off Peter Rabbit started as fast as he could go around the pond one way, and Reddy Fox started around the pond the other way. They were so excited that neither noticed a little splash in the pond. That was Spotty the Turtle who had let go of Reddy’s tail and now was swimming across the pond, for you know that Spotty is a splendid swimmer. Only once or twice he stuck his little black nose up to get some air. The rest of the time he swam underwater and no one but the Merry Little Breezes saw him. Right across he swam, and climbed up the bank right under the big hickory tree.
Now there were just three nuts left under the hickory trees. Two of these Spotty took down to the edge of the pond and buried in the mud. The other he took in his mouth and started back across the pond. Just as he reached the other shore up trotted Billy Mink, but Billy Mink didn’t see Spotty. He was too intent on watching Reddy Fox and Peter Rabbit, who were now halfway around the pond. In he jumped with a splash. My! How good that cool water did feel! He didn’t have to hurry now, because he felt sure that the race was his. So he swam round and round and chased some fish and had a beautiful time in the water. By and by he looked up and saw that Peter Rabbit was almost around the pond one way and Reddy Fox was almost around the pond the other way. They both looked tired and hot and discouraged.
Then Billy Mink swam slowly across and climbed out on the bank under the big hickory tree. But where were the nuts?

Look as he would, he could not see a nut anywhere, yet the Merry Little Breezes had said there were three nuts lying under the hickory tree. Billy Mink ran this way and ran that way. He was still running around, poking over the leaves and looking under the twigs and pieces of bark when Peter Rabbit and Reddy Fox came up.
Then they, too, began to look under the leaves and under the bark. They pawed around in the grass, they hunted in every nook and cranny, but not a nut could they find. They were tired and angry and hot and they accused Billy Mink of having hidden the nuts. Billy Mink insisted that he had not hidden the nuts, that he had not found the nuts, and when they saw how hard he was hunting they believed him.

All the afternoon they hunted and hunted and hunted, and all the afternoon Spotty the Turtle, with the nut in his mouth, was slowly, oh, so slowly, crawling straight back across the Green Meadows towards the old butternut tree. Round, red Mr. Sun was getting very close to the Purple Hills, where he goes to bed every night, and all the little meadow folks were getting ready to go to their homes. They were wondering and wondering what could have happened to the racers, when Sammy Jay spied the Merry Little Breezes dancing across the Green Meadows.
“Here come the Merry Little Breezes; they’ll tell us who wins the race,” cried Sammy Jay.
When the Merry Little Breezes reached the old butternut tree, all the little meadow folks crowded around them, but the Merry Little Breezes just laughed and laughed and wouldn’t say a word. Then all of a sudden, out of the tall meadow grass crept Spotty the Turtle and laid the hickory nut at the feet of old Grandfather Frog. Old Grandfather Frog was so surprised that he actually let a great green fly buzz right past his nose.

“Where did you get that hickory nut?” asked Grandfather Frog.
“Under the big hickory tree on the hill on the other side of the Green Meadows,” said Spotty.
Then all the Merry Little Breezes clapped their hands and said: “He did! He did! Spotty wins the race!”
Then they told how Spotty reached the pond by clinging to the tip of Reddy Fox’s tail, and had hidden the other two nuts, and then how he had patiently crawled home while Billy Mink and Reddy Fox and Peter Rabbit were hunting and hunting and hunting for the nuts they could not find.
And so Spotty the Turtle was awarded the race, and to this day Peter Rabbit and Reddy Fox and Billy Mink cannot bear the sight of a hickory nut.

Written by Clara D. Pierson.

Now that spring had come and all the green things were growing, the Cut-Worms crawled out of their winter sleeping-places in the ground, and began to eat the tenderest and best things that they could find. They felt rested and hungry after their quiet winter, for they had slept without awakening ever since the first really cold days of fall.
There were many different kinds of Cut-Worms, brothers and sisters, cousins and second cousins, so, of course, they did not all look alike. They had hatched the summer before from eggs laid by the Owlet Moths, their mothers, and had spent the time from then until cold weather in eating and sleeping and eating some more. Of course they grew a great deal, but then, you know, one can grow without taking time especially for it. It is well that this is so. If people had to say, “I can do nothing else now. I must sit down and grow awhile,” there would not be so many grown up people in the world as there are. They would become so interested in doing other things that they would not take the time to grow as they should.

Now the Cut-Worms were fine and fat and just as heedless as Cut-Worms have been since the world began. They had never seen their parents, and had hatched without any one to look after them. They did not look like their parents, for they were only worms as yet, but they had the same habit of sleeping all day and going out at night, and never thought of eating breakfast until the sun had gone down. They were quite popular in underground society, and were very much liked by the Earthworms and June Bug larvæ, who enjoyed hearing stories of what the Cut-Worms saw above ground. The June Bug larvæ did not go out at all, because they were too young, and the Earthworms never knew what was going on outside unless somebody told them. They often put their heads up into the air, but they had no eyes and could not see for themselves.
The Cut-Worms were bold, saucy, selfish, and wasteful. They were not good children, although when they tried they could be very entertaining, and one always hoped that they would improve before they became Moths. Sometimes they even told the Earthworms and June Bug larvæ stories that were not so, and that shows what sort of children they were. It was dreadful to tell such things to people who could never find out the difference. One Spotted Cut-Worm heard a couple of Earthworms talking about Ground Moles, and told them that Ground Moles were large birds with four wings apiece and legs like a Caterpillar’s. They did not try to be entertaining because they wanted to make the underground people happy, but because they enjoyed hearing them say: “What bright fellows those Cut-Worms are! Really exceedingly clever!” And doing it for that reason took all the goodness out of it.

One bright moonlight night the Cut-Worms awakened and crawled out on top of the ground to feed. They lived in the farmer’s vegetable garden, so there were many things to choose from: young beets just showing their red-veined leaves above their shining red stems; turnips; clean-looking onions holding their slender leaves very stiff and straight; radishes with just a bit of their rosy roots peeping out of the earth; and crisp, pale green lettuce, crinkled and shaking in every passing breeze. It was a lovely growing time, and all the vegetables were making the most of the fine nights, for, you know, that is the time when everything grows best. Sunshiny days are the best for coloring leaves and blossoms, but the time for sinking roots deeper and sending shoots higher and unfolding new leaves is at night in the beautiful stillness.
Some Cut-Worms chose beets and some chose radishes. Two or three liked lettuce best, and a couple crawled off to nibble on the sweet peas which the farmer’s wife had planted. They never ate all of a plant. Oh, no! And that was one way in which they were wasteful. They nibbled through the stalk where it came out of the ground, and then the plant tumbled down and withered, while the Cut-Worm went on to treat another in the same way.
“Well!” exclaimed one Spotted Cut-Worm, as he crawled out from his hole.
“I must have overslept! Guess I stayed up too late this morning.”
“You’d better look out,” said one of his friends, “or the Ground Mole will get you. He likes to find nice fat little Cut-Worms who sleep too late in the evening.”
“You needn’t tell me,” answered the Spotted Cut-Worm. “It’s the early Mole that catches the Cut-Worm. I don’t know when I have overslept myself, so. Have you fellows been up ever since sunset?”
“Yes,” they answered; and one saucy fellow added: “I got up too early. I woke up and felt hungry, and thought I’d just come out for a lunch. I supposed the birds had finished their supper, but the first thing I saw was a Robin out hunting. She was not more than the length of a bean-pole from me, and when I saw her turn her head on one side and look toward me, I was sure she saw me. But she didn’t, after all. Lucky for me that I am green and came up beside the lettuce. I kept still and she took me for a leaf.”

“Sh!” said somebody else. “There comes the Ground Mole.” They all kept still while the Mole scampered to and fro on the dewy grass near them, going faster than one would think he could with such very, very short legs. His pink digging hands flashed in the moonlight, and his pink snout showed also, but the dark, soft fur of the rest of his body could hardly be seen against the brown earth of the garden. It may have been because he was not hungry, or it may have been because his fur covered his eyes so, but he went back to his underground run-way without having caught a single Cut-Worm.
Then the Cut-Worms felt very, very relieved. They crawled toward the hole into his home and made faces at it, as though he were standing in the doorway. They called names after him and pretended to say them very loudly, yet really spoke quite softly.
Then they began to boast that they were not afraid of anybody, and while they were boasting they ate and ate and ate and ate. Here and there the young plants drooped and fell over, and as soon as one did that, the Cut-Worm who had eaten on it crawled off to another.
“Guess the farmer will know that we’ve been here,” they said. “Ah! We don’t care. He doesn’t need all these vegetables. What if he did plant them? Let him plant some more if he wants to. What business does he have to have so many, anyhow, if he won’t share with other people?” You would have thought, to hear them, that they were exceedingly kind to leave any vegetables at all for the farmer.
In among the sweet peas were many little tufts of purslane, and purslane is very good to eat, as anybody knows who has tried it. But do you think the Cut-Worms ate that? Not a bit of it. “We can have purslane any day,” they said, “and now we shall eat sweet peas.”
One little fellow added: “You won’t catch me eating purslane. It’s a weed.” Now, Cut-Worms do eat weeds, but they always seem to like the best things which have been carefully planted and tended. If the purslane had been set out in straight rows, and the sweet peas had just come up by themselves everywhere, it is quite likely that this young Cut-Worm would have said: “You won’t catch me eating sweet peas. They are weeds.”
As the moon rose higher and higher in the sky, the Cut-Worms boasted more and more. They said there were no Robins clever enough to find them, and that the Ground Mole dared not touch them when they were together, and that it was only when he found one alone underground that he was brave enough to do so. They talked very loudly now and bragged dreadfully, until they noticed that the moon was setting and a faint yellow light showed over the tree-tops in the east.
“Time to go to bed for the day,” called the Spotted Cut-Worm. “Where are you going to crawl in?” They had no regular homes, you know, but crawled into the earth wherever they wanted to and slept until the next night.
“Here are some fine holes already made,” said a Green Cut-Worm, “and big enough for a Garter Snake. They are smooth and deep, and a lot of us can cuddle down into each. I’m going into one of them.”
“Who made these holes?” asked the Spotted Cut-Worm; “and why are they here?”
“Oh, who cares who made them?” answered the Green Cut-Worm. “Guess they’re ours if we want to use them.”
“Perhaps the farmer made them,” said the Spotted Cut-Worm, “and if he did I don’t want to go into them.”
“Oh, who’s afraid of him?” cried the other Cut-Worms. “Come along!”
“No,” answered the Spotted Cut-Worm. “I won’t. I don’t want to and I won’t do it. The hole I make to sleep in will not be so large, nor will it have such smooth sides, but I’ll know all about it and feel safe. Good-morning.” Then he crawled into the earth and went to sleep. The others went into the smooth, deep holes made by the farmer with his hoe handle.
The next night there was only one Cut-Worm in the garden, and that was the Spotted Cut-Worm. Nobody has ever seen the lazy ones who chose to use the smooth, deep holes which were ready made. The Spotted Cut-Worm lived quite alone until he was full-grown and then he made a little oval room for himself in the ground and slept in it while he changed into a Black Owlet Moth. He always told other worms when he saw them to not be very lazy but make sure that they took time to make their own sleeping holes and not rely on anyone else to help them or they might never be able to become an Owlet Moth.

Written by Beatrix Potter.

ONCE upon a time there was a little girl named Lucie, who lived at a farm called Little-town. She was a good little girl—only she was always losing her handkerchiefs!
One day little Lucie came into the farm-yard crying—oh, did she cry! “I’ve lost my handkerchief! Three handkerchiefs and an apron! Have YOU seen them, Tabby Kitten?”
The Kitten went on washing her white paws; so Lucie asked a speckled hen—
“Sally Henny-penny, have YOU seen three handkerchiefs?”
But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking—
“I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!”

And then Lucie asked Mr. Robin sitting on a twig.
Mr. Robin looked sideways at Lucie with his bright black eye, and he flew over a step and away.
Lucie climbed upon the steps and looked up at the hill behind Little-town—a hill that goes up—up—into the clouds as though it had no top!
And a great way up the hillside she thought she saw some white things spread upon the grass.

Lucie scrambled up the hill as fast as her little legs would carry her; she ran along a steep path-way—up and up—until Little-town was right away down below—she could have dropped a pebble down the chimney!
Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hill-side.
Someone had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water—but the water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg-cup! And where the sand upon the path was wet—there were foot-marks of a VERY small person.
Lucie ran on, and on.

The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes-lines cut from bracken stems and a heap of tiny clothes pins—but no handkerchiefs!
But there was something else—a door! straight into the hill; and inside it someone was singing—
“Lily-white and clean, oh!
With little frills between, oh!
Smooth and hot—red rusty spot
Never here be seen, oh!”
Lucie, knocked—once—twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened voice called out “Who’s that?”
Lucie opened the door: and what do you think there was inside the hill?—a nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams—just like any other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucie’s head nearly touched it; and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything there.
There was a nice hot singey smell; and at the table, with an iron in her hand stood a very stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie.

Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and underneath her cap—where Lucie had yellow curls—this little person had PRICKLES!
“Who are you?” said Lucie. “Have you seen my handkerchiefs?”
The little person made a curtsey—”Oh, yes, if you please ma’am; my name is Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle; oh, yes if you please ma’am, I am an excellent starcher!” And she took something out of a clothes-basket, and spread it on the ironing-board.
“What’s that thing?” said Lucie—”that’s not my handkerchief?”
“Oh no, that’s a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to
Mr. Robin!” And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.
Then she took something else off a clothes-horse—”That isn’t my apron.” said Lucie.
“Oh no, if you please ma’am; that’s a table-cloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it’s stained with currant juice! It’s very bad to wash!” said Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.
“There’s one of my handkerchiefs!” cried Lucie—”and there’s my apron!”
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle ironed it and shook out the frills.
“Oh that IS lovely!” said Lucie.
“And what are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves?”
“Oh, that’s a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Henny-Penny—look how she’s worn the heels out with scratching in the yard! She’ll very soon go barefoot!” said Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.

“Why, there’s another handkerchief—but it isn’t mine; it’s red?”
“Oh no, if you please ma’am; that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it DID so smell of onions! I’ve had to wash it separately, I just can’t get out the smell.”
“There’s another one of mine,” said Lucie.
“What are those funny little white things?”
“That’s a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron them; she washes them herself.”
“There’s my last handkerchief!” said Lucie.
“And what are you dipping into the basin of starch?”
“They’re little shirt-fronts belonging to Tom Titmouse—he’s most terribly particular!” said Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. “Now I’ve finished my ironing; I’m going to air some clothes.”

“What are these dear soft fluffy things?” said Lucie.
“Oh those are wooly coats belonging to the little lambs.”
“Their jackets come off?” asked Lucy.
“Oh yes; look at the sheep-mark on the shoulder. Here’s one marked for Gatesgarth, and three that come from Little-town. They’re ALWAYS marked at washing!” said Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
And she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes—small brown coats of mice; and one velvety black mole-skin waist-coat; and a red tail-coat with no tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin; and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging to Peter Rabbit; and a petticoat, not marked, that had gone lost in the washing—and at last the basket was empty!

Then Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle made tea—a cup for herself and a cup for Lucie. They sat before the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s hand, holding the tea-cup, was very, very brown, and very, very wrinkly with the soap-suds; and all through her gown and her cap, there were hair-pins sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie didn’t like to sit too near her.
When they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes in bundles; and Lucie’s handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean apron, and fastened with a silver safety-pin.
And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the door, and hid the key under the door-sill.

Then away down the hill trotted Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle with the bundles of clothes!
All the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to meet them; the very first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny!
And she gave them their nice clean clothes; and all the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
So that at the bottom of the hill when they came to the steps, there was nothing left to carry except Lucie’s one little bundle.

Lucie scrambled up the steps with the bundle in her hand; and then she turned to say “Good-night,” and to thank the washer-woman—But what a VERY odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bill!

She was running, running, running up the hill—and where was her white frilled cap? and her shawl? and her gown—and her petticoat?
And how small she had grown—and how brown—and covered with PRICKLES!
Why! Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle was nothing but a HEDGEHOG.

Written by Thornton W. Burgess.

Peter Rabbit never had seen Howler the Wolf, but he had heard his voice in the distance, and the mere sound had given him cold shivers. It just went all through him. It was very different from the voice of Old Man Coyote. The latter is bad enough, sounding as it does like many voices, but there is not in it that terrible fierceness which the voice of his big cousin contained. Peter had no desire to hear it any closer. The first time he met his cousin, Jumper the Hare, he asked him about Howler, for Jumper had come down to the Green Forest from the Great Woods where Howler lives.

“Did you hear him?” exclaimed Jumper. “I hope he won’t get it into his mind to come down here. I don’t believe he will, because it is too near the homes of men. If the sound of his voice way off there gave you cold shivers, I’m afraid you would shake all to pieces if you heard him close by. He’s just as fierce as his voice sounds. There is one thing about him that I like, though, and that is that he gives fair warning when he is out and about. He doesn’t come sneaking about without a sound, like Tuffy the Lynx. He goes like Bowser the Hound and lets you know that he is out and around. Did you ever hear how he got his name?”
“No. How did he get his name?” asked Peter eagerly.
“Well, of course it’s a family name now and is handed down and has been for years and years, ever since the first Wolf began hunting way back when the world was young,” explained Jumper. “For a long time the first Wolf had no name. Most of the other animals and birds had names, but nothing seemed to just fit the big gray Wolf. He looked a great deal like his cousin, Mr. Dog, and still more like his other cousin, Mr. Coyote. But he was stronger than either, could run farther and faster than either, and had a more wonderful nose than either.

“With Mr. Wolf, as with all the other animals, life was an easy matter at first. There was plenty to eat, and everybody was on good terms with everybody else. But there came a time, as you know, when food became scarce. It was then that the big learned to hunt the small, and fear was born into the world. Mr. Wolf was swift of leg and keen of nose. His teeth were long, and he was so strong that there were few he was afraid to fight with. In fact, he didn’t know fear at all, for he simply kept out of the way of those who were too big and strong for him to fight.
“Most people like to do the things they know they can do well. Mr. Wolf early learned the joy of hunting. I can’t understand it myself. Can you?”
Peter shook his head.

“Perhaps it was because he was so strong of wind and leg that he enjoyed running, and because he was so keen of nose that he enjoyed following a trail. Anyway, he scorned to spend his time sneaking about as did his cousin, Mr. Coyote, but chose to follow the swiftest runners and to match his nose and speed and skill against their speed and wits. He didn’t bother to chase little people like us when there were big people like Mr. Deer. The longer and harder the chase, the more Mr. Wolf seemed to enjoy it.
“At first he went silently, running swiftly with his nose to the ground. But this gave the ones he chased very little chance; he caught them before they even suspected that he was on their trail. That always made Mr. Wolf feel mean. He never could hold his head and his tail up after that kind of a chase. He felt so much like a sneak that he just had to put his tail between his legs for shame. There was nothing to be proud about in such a chase.

“One night he sat thinking about it. Gentle Miss Moon looked down at him through the tree-tops, and something inside him urged him to tell her his troubles. He pointed his sharp nose up at her, opened his mouth and, because she was so far away, did his best to make her hear. That was the very first Wolf howl ever heard. There was something very lonely and shivery in the sound, and all who heard it shook with fear. Mr. Wolf didn’t know this, but he did know that he felt better for howling. So every night he pointed his nose up at Miss Moon and howled.

“It happened that once as he did this, a Deer jumped at the first sound and rushed away. This gave Mr. Wolf an idea. The next day when he went out he threw up his head and howled at the very first smell of fresh tracks. That day he had the longest chase he ever had known, for the Deer had had fair warning. Mr. Wolf didn’t catch the Deer, because the deer swam across a lake and so got away, but he returned home in high spirits in spite of an empty stomach. You see, he felt that it had been a fair chase. After that he always gave fair warning. As he ran, he howled for joy. No longer did he carry his bushy tail between his legs, for no longer did he feel like a sneak. Instead, he carried it proudly. Of all the animals who gave chase, he was the only one who gave fair warning, and he felt that he had a right to be proud. All the others chased sneakily. He alone chased openly and boldly.

“Now this earned for him first the dislike and then the hatred of the others. You see, when he was out, he spoiled the luck of those who stole soft-footed through the Green Forest and caught their prey by surprise. The little people heard his voice and either hid away or were on guard, so that it was hard work for the silent animals to surprise them. At the sound of his howling cry, old King Bear, who was king no longer, would growl a deep, rumbly-grumbly growl, though he didn’t mind so much as some, because he did very little chasing. He wouldn’t have done any if food had not been so scarce, because he would have been entirely satisfied with berries and roots, if he could have found enough. Mr. Lynx and Mr. Panther would snarl angrily. Mr. Coyote and Mr. Fox would show their teeth and mutter about what they would do to Mr. Wolf if only they were big enough and strong enough and brave enough.

“Of course, it wasn’t long before Mr. Wolf discovered that he had no friends. The little people were afraid of him, and the big people didn’t like him because he spoiled their chase. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he looked down on Mr. Lynx and Mr. Panther and Mr. Coyote and Mr. Fox, and when he met them, he lifted his tail a little more proudly than ever. Sometimes he would howl out of pure mischief just to spoil the chase for the others. So, little by little, he began to be spoken of as Howler the Wolf, and after a while everybody called him Howler.

“Of course, Howler taught his children how to chase and that the only honorable and fair way was to give those they chased fair warning. So it grew to be a fixed habit of the Wolf family to give fair warning that they were abroad and then trust to their wind and wits and speed and noses to catch those they were after. The result was that they grew strong, able to travel long distances, keen of nose, and sharp of wit. Because the big people didn’t like them, and the little people feared them, they lived by themselves and so formed the habit of running together for company.

“It has been so ever since, and the name Howler has been handed down to this day. No sound in all the Green Woods carries with it more fear than does the voice of Howler the Wolf, and no one goes out so openly, boldly, and honorably. Be thankful, Peter, that Howler never comes down to the Green Forest, but stays far from the homes of men.”
“I am,” replied Peter. “Just the same, I think he deserves a better name for the fair way in which he chases, though his name certainly does fit him. I would a lot rather be caught by some one who had given me fair warning than by some one who came sneaking after me and gave me no warning at all. But, really, I don’t want to be caught at all, so I think I’ll hurry back to the dear Old Briar-patch.” And Peter did.

Written by Thornton Burgess.

Did something move among the dead leaves along that old log, or was it the wind that stirred them? Peter Rabbit stared very hard trying to find out. Not that it made the least bit of difference to Peter. It didn’t. If something alive had moved those leaves, that something was too small for Peter to fear it. Probably it was a worm or a bug. It might have been a beetle. That looked like a good place for beetles. There was Jimmy Skunk ambling down the Lone Little Path this very minute, and Jimmy always appeared to be looking for beetles. Peter stared harder than ever. A leaf moved. Another turned fairly over. There wasn’t any wind just then. Dead leaves don’t turn over by themselves, so there must be something alive there.

“What has Peter on his mind this morning to make him stare so?” asked Jimmy Skunk as he ambled up.
Peter grinned. “I was just wondering,” said he, “if there are any fat beetles under that log over there. Those dead leaves along the side of it have a way of moving once in a while without cause that I can see. There! What did I tell you?”

Sure enough, a couple of leaves had moved. Jimmy Skunk’s eyes brightened. He actually almost hurried over to that old log, and began to rake away the leaves. Suddenly he stopped and sniffed. At the same time Peter thought he saw something dart in at the hollow end of that log. It might have been a shadow, but Peter had a feeling that it wasn’t. Jimmy Skunk sniffed once more and then deliberately turned his back on that old log, and with his nose turned up, his face the very picture of disgust and disappointment, he rejoined Peter.

“Teeny Weeny, clever and spry,
Disappears while you wink an eye.’ said Jimmy.

“Oh!” exclaimed Peter. “Is that who it was? I suppose he was hunting beetles himself. He’s such a little mite of a fellow that I should think a good sized beetle could almost carry him away. I declare to goodness, I don’t see how any one so small manages to live! Danny Meadow Mouse and Whitefoot the Wood Mouse are small enough, but they are giants compared with Teeny Weeny the Shrew. They have a hard enough time keeping alive, and I should think that anyone smaller would stand no chance at all.”

“Do you know Teeny Weeny very well?” asked Jimmy.
“No,” confessed Peter. “I’ve seen him only a few times and then had no more than a glimpse of him.”
“And yet he lives right around here where you come and go every day,” said Jimmy.
“I know it,” replied Peter. “I suppose it is because he is so small. He can hide under next to nothing.” Jimmy grinned. “I don’t see but what you’ve answered yourself,” he chuckled. “It’s because he is so small that Teeny Weeny manages to keep out of harm. He isn’t very good eating, anyway, so I have heard say.”

“Why? Because there isn’t enough of him to make a bite?” asked Peter.
“No,” replied Jimmy. “Of course I don’t know anything about it, but I’ve heard those who do say that a Shrew doesn’t taste good, and that no one who is at all particular about his food will touch one. I am told that Hooty the Owl hunts Teeny Weeny, but Hooty isn’t at all particular, you know. If Teeny Weeny tastes the way he smells, I for one don’t want to try him.”

Peter laughed right out loud. He couldn’t help it. The idea of Jimmy Skunk being fussy about smells was too funny.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Jimmy, suspiciously.
“At the idea that any one so small can smell bad enough to make any difference,” replied Peter. “I wonder how he comes to have that bad smell.”
“It’s a reward,” replied Jimmy. “It’s a reward handed down to him from the days when the world was young, and his great-great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather, the first Shrew, you know, who was also called Teeny Weeny, was given it by Old Mother Nature, because he had sense enough to be grateful and to tell her that he was.”

“It’s a story!” cried Peter. “It’s a story, and you’ve just got to tell it to me, Jimmy Skunk.”
“Say please,” grinned Jimmy.
“Please, please, please, please,” replied Peter. “If that isn’t enough, I’ll say it as many times more.”
“I guess that will do, because after all it isn’t so very much of a story,” returned Jimmy, scratching his head as if he were trying to stir up his memory.

“It happened way back in the beginning of things that when Old Mother Nature had about finished making the birds and the animals, she had just a teeny weeny pinch of the stuff they were made of left over. Because she couldn’t then and can’t now bear to be wasteful, she started to make something. First she started to make it into a very tiny mouse. Then she changed her mind and started to make it into a tiny mole. Finally she changed her mind again and made it into something like each but not just like either, blew the breath of life into it, and set it free in the great world. That was Teeny Weeny, the first Shrew, and the smallest of all animals.

“For a while Teeny Weeny wished that he hadn’t been made at all. He wished that Old Mother Nature hadn’t been so thrifty and saving. What was the good of being an animal at all if he wasn’t big enough to be recognized as such? That’s the way he felt about it for a while. It hurt his feelings to have old King Bear say, after just missing him with his great foot. ‘I beg your pardon, You are so tiny I thought you were a bug of some kind. Of course, I don’t mind stepping on bugs, but I wouldn’t step on you for the world. Why don’t you grow so that we can see you?’

“’Yes, why don’t you?’ asked old Mr. Wolf. ‘If you get stepped on, don’t blame us.’ Even Mr. Meadow Mouse laughed at him because he was so small. Teeny Weeny was quite furious at that. So for a while he was very unhappy because he was so small. He ate and ate and ate, hoping that this would make him grow bigger. But it didn’t. He remained as small as ever, the smallest of all the four-footed people. And his temper did not improve. Not a bit. He was fretful and snappish. He said all sorts of things about Old Mother Nature because she had made him so small. He almost hated her. He couldn’t see a single advantage in being so small.

“Time went on, and at length came the hard times of which you have heard, the times when food was so scarce and most of the little people were always hungry. Then it was that the big and strong began to hunt the small and weak, as you know. At first Teeny Weeny was in a regular panic of fear. He felt that because he was so small he hadn’t any chance at all. But after a while he made a discovery, a most amazing discovery. It quite took his breath away when he first realized it. It was that because he was so small he had more chance than some of those of whom he had been jealous. Because he was so small, he could slip out of sight in a twinkling. He could slip into holes that no one else could get into. A leaf on the ground would hide him.

“Then he discovered that because he was so very small, it didn’t take much food to fill his stomach, and he had no trouble in finding all he needed to eat. While his neighbors were going hungry, he was fat and comfortable. Bugs there were and worms there were in plenty, and on those he lived. One day he saw Old Mother Nature, and she looked worried. She was worried. It was in the very middle of the hard times and wherever she went, the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows crowded about her to complain and ask for help. Teeny Weeny remembered all the bad things he had said and all the bitter thoughts he had had because she had made him so small, and he was ashamed. Yes, Sir, he was ashamed. You see, he realized by this time that his small size was his greatest blessing.

“What did Teeny Weeny do but march right straight up to Old Mother Nature the first chance he got and tell her how grateful he was for what she had done for him. He was quite honest. He told her how he had felt, and how he had said bitter things, and how sorry he was now that he understood how well off he was. Then he thanked her once more and turned to leave. Old Mother Nature called him back. She was wonderfully pleased to have these few words of thanks amid so many complaints.

“’Teeny Weeny,’ she said, ‘because you have been smart enough to see, and honest enough to admit a blessing in what you had thought a hardship, and because you have been grateful instead of complaining, I will now give you this musky odor, which will be distasteful to even the hungriest of your enemies. It is a further protection to you and your children and your children’s children for ever and ever.’
“And so it was, and so it has been, and so it is, and that’s all,” said Jimmy Skunk.

Told by Katherine Pyle.

A little brother and sister were playing one day on the edge of a well that belonged to a water-sprite. The little girl held her brother’s hand, and leaned far over to look down into it.
“It seems to me that down below there I can see green meadows and flocks of sheep moving over them,” she said.
“It is only a reflection of the clouds,” said the little boy. “But be careful. I’m afraid you will fall in.”
Even as he spoke the little girl slipped and fell into the well, and as she had hold of her brother’s hand she pulled him in after her.
The two children went down—down—down—through the waters, and when they came to the bottom they found themselves in a country of green meadows and trees and streams, and before them stood a shining castle with domes and towers.
This castle belonged to the water-sprite who owned the well.

The little brother and sister went up to the castle and knocked at the door, and at once the water-sprite opened it to them.
“Come in, come in,” she said. “I saw you playing on the edge of the well, and it was I who made you fall in. I am lonely here, so you shall stay with me and be my helpers, and whatever I ask you to do, you must do.”
The water-sprite would have been beautiful if only she had not been so green. Her face was green and her hair was green, and her eyes were green. Only her teeth were white.
The sprite led the children into the kitchen and there she gave the little girl a bucket that had no bottom. “Go,” she said, “and fetch me some water to boil the dumplings for supper. And you,” she said to the little boy, “must cut me some wood,” and she gave him an ax that had no edge. It was as blunt as a hammer.
The little sister went out to the spring that the water-sprite showed her, and tried to bring up some water, but as fast as she dipped it up it ran out again, for the bucket had no bottom.
The brother began to chop at a tree nearby. He chopped and he chopped and he chopped, but he could scarcely make a dent, the ax was so dull.
When the children came back to the castle without either wood or water, the sprite was very angry with them. “I can easily see that you are both very silly,” she said. “But sit down; sit down at the table. Even if you are silly I suppose you must eat.”
The children sat down at the table, and the water-sprite set before them a dish of dumplings, but as the dumplings had not been cooked and were only dough the children could not eat them. They slipped them into their pockets, and then, when the sprite was not looking, they gave the dumplings to the water-cat that rubbed about their chairs.
After that the children went to bed and slept.

The next day it was the same thing over again. The water-sprite gave them tasks that they could not possibly do, and gave them only dough to eat, so the children made up their minds to run away. They waited, however, until afternoon, when the water-sprite went up to the top of the well to look around her.
When they were about to set out, the water-cat said to them, “You will do well to run away. You would not be happy here. But do not think my master will allow you to escape if she can help it. When she comes home and finds you gone, she will at once set out and chase you. She can go much faster than you, and she will certainly catch you unless you take with you her comb, her brush, and her mirror. These are magic things. Each time you see that she is about to catch you, throw one or other of these things over your shoulder. By this means, and by this means only, can you hope to escape.”
The children thanked the little cat, and did as it had advised them. They took the water-sprite’s brush and comb and mirror, and carried them off with them, and ran as fast as they could along the road that led to the upper world.
Soon after they had left, the water-sprite came home. When she found them gone she only stopped long enough to scold the cat, and then she put on her shoes of swiftness and started after them.
Soon the children looked behind them and saw her coming. She came so fast with her shoes of swiftness, that it seemed as though they could not possibly escape her.
However, the children remembered what the water-cat had told them. They threw the comb behind them, and at once it spread and grew into a wall of spikes, really stiff and high. It took the water-sprite a long time to climb over this wall, and the children were well on their way before they heard her behind them again.
Then the little girl threw the brush over her shoulder. At once the brush became a great thick forest, through which the water-sprite could hardly find her way.
But she got through it at last, and then it did not take her long to be at their heels again.
“And now we have only one more thing left,” said the brother, and he threw the mirror behind him.
At once the mirror became a hill of glass so steep and smooth that no one could possibly climb it. The sprite tried to run up it, but no sooner had she gone a step or so than she slipped back again. At last, with a shriek of rage, she turned and fled back to her castle, and that was the last of her.

The children continued on their way, and the road led them straight to the upper world and the door of their home. After that they were always careful to keep away from the edge of the water-sprite’s well.

Written by Richard Barnum

Lightfoot and Dido stood looking at one another for a few seconds. It was the first time the goat had ever seen a bear, for though there were wild animals in the park where Mike used to drive him, Lightfoot had never been taken near the bear dens. But it was not the first time Dido had seen a goat.
“Do you like raspberries?” asked Dido, pulling a branch toward him with his big paw and stripping them off into his big red mouth.
“I don’t know,” answered the goat. “I never ate any.”
“Help yourself,” invited Dido. “Just reach out your paw and with your long claw-nails strip off the berries into your mouth.”
“But I haven’t any paw,” said Lightfoot.
“That’s right, you haven’t,” observed Dido reflectively, scratching his black nose. “Well, you have a mouth, anyhow, that’s one good thing. You’ll have to pick off the berries one by one in your lips. You can do that.”
“Yes, I think I can do that,” answered Lightfoot, and he did. At first the briars on the berry bush stuck him, but he soon found a way to keep clear of them. Dido did not seem to mind them in the least.
“Did you say you were a dancing bear?” asked Lightfoot of his new friend, when they had eaten as many berries as they wanted.
“Yes, I can dance. Wait, I’ll show you,” and in a little glade in the woods Dido began to dance slowly about.
“That’s fine!” said Lightfoot. “I wish I could dance.”
“Can you do any tricks?” asked Dido. “I can play soldier, turn somersaults and things like that.”
“I can draw children about the park in a little cart,” said the goat, “and I am a good jumper, I’ll show you,” and he gave a big jump from a log to a large, flat rock.
“You are a good jumper,” said Dido. “That is much farther than I could jump. Some of the men in the circus could jump farther than that, though.”
“What do you know about a circus?” asked Lightfoot.

“I used to be in one,” answered Dido. “In fact I may go back again. I am out now, traveling around with my owner who blows a brass horn to gather together the boys and girls. And when they stand in a circle around me I do my tricks and my owner takes up the pennies in his hat. It’s lots of fun.”
“Where is your owner now?” asked Lightfoot.
“He is asleep, not far away, under a tree. He lets me wander off by myself, for he knows I would not run away. I like him too much and I like the circus. I want to go back to it.”
“I met someone who was in a circus,” said Lightfoot.
“Who?” the dancing bear asked.
“Tinkle, a pony,” answered the goat.
“Why, I know him!” cried Dido. “He is a jolly pony chap. He draws a little boy and girl about in a cart.”
“That’s right,” said Lightfoot. “I did the same thing for the children in the park. Oh, how I wish I were back with my owner, Mike,” and he told him about his adventures.

“Do you think you could tell me the way back to the shanty at the foot of the rocks, where I made my first big jump?” asked Lightfoot of Dido, after a while.
The bear thought for a minute.
“Hmmm! No,” he answered slowly, in animal talk, “I don’t believe I could, I’m sorry to say. I have traveled about in many places, but if I have gone past the shanty where the Widow Malony lives, I do not remember it.”
Just then came through the woods a sound like:
“Ta-ra! Ta-ra! Ta-rattie tara!”
“What’s that?” asked Lightfoot, in surprise.
“That’s my owner, blowing the brass horn to tell me to come back,” answered Dido. “I must go. Well, I’m glad to have met you. And if you ever get to the circus, give my regards to Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, and Mappo, the merry monkey.”
“I will,” promised Lightfoot. “I have heard Tinkle, the trick pony, speak of both of them. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” called Dido, and, with a wave of his big paw, stained from the berries he had pulled off to eat, he lumbered away through the woods to his owner who was blowing the horn for him.
“Well, I had a nice visit,” said Lightfoot to himself as he ate a few more berries. “Dido would be good company, but I can not travel with him, as I can do no tricks. I wonder if I shall ever find my own home again.”

On and on through the woods wandered Lightfoot. Now and then he would stop to nibble some grass or leaves, and again to get a drink from some spring or brook. When he was tired he would stretch out under a bush or a tree and go to sleep. Then he would wander on again.
The second night in the woods found him far from the canal, and much farther from the park and his home near the big rocks. He was completely lost now, and did not know where he was. But it was not so bad as if a boy or a girl were lost. For Lightfoot could find plenty to eat all around him. He had but to stop and nibble it. And, as it was Summer, it was warm enough to sleep out of doors without any shelter, such as a barn or a shed.
One day as Lightfoot was eating some blackberries in the way Dido, the dancing bear, had taught him, he heard a noise in the bushes as though someone were coming through.
“Oh, maybe that is the dancing bear!” exclaimed the lonely goat. “I hope it is.”
An animal presently jumped through the bushes out on the path and stood looking at Lightfoot; but at first glance the leaping goat saw that it was not Dido. It was a small white animal, with very large ears, one of which drooped over, giving the animal a comical look.
“Hello!” exclaimed Lightfoot in a friendly voice. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“Maybe not,” was the answer. “But I’ve seen you, or someone like you. A boy, in whose woodshed I once lived, had a goat like you.“
“Was his name Mike?” asked Lightfoot eagerly. And then he knew it could not be, for he knew his Mike had no such animal as this.
“No, his name was not Mike,” was the answer. “But what is your name?”
“Lightfoot.”
“Mine’s Flop Ear, and I’m a rabbit. A funny rabbit some folks call me. I’m in a book.”
“This is strange,” said Lightfoot. “You speak about being in a book. So did Dido, the dancing bear.”
“Oh, did you meet Dido?” cried Flop Ear, looking at Lightfoot in a funny way. “Isn’t he the dearest old bear that ever was?”
“I liked him,” said Lightfoot.
“And he’s almost as jolly as Tum Tum, the jolly elephant. Tum Tum is in a book, too.”
“What’s all this about being in a book?” asked Lightfoot.
“Well, I don’t exactly understand it myself,” answered Flop Ear. “But I know children like to read books about us. Tell me, have you had any adventures?”
“I should say I had!” cried Lightfoot. “I ran away, and I was on a canal boat, and I climbed a hill of coal and—”
“That’s enough!” cried Flop Ear, raising one paw. “You’ll find yourself in a book before you know it. Then you’ll understand without my telling you. Would you like to have a bit of cabbage?”
“Oh, I should say I would,” cried Lightfoot. “I’ve been living on grass, berries and leaves—”
“Well, I brought some cabbage leaves with me when I came for a walk this morning,” said Flop Ear, “and there’s more than I want, and you are welcome to them.” From the ground where he had dropped it Flop Ear picked up a cabbage leaf and hopped with it over to Lightfoot. The goat was glad to get it, and while he was chewing it he told the rabbit of running away from the park. In his turn Flop Ear told how he had been caught by a boy and how he had gnawed his way out with the mice, meeting Grandma Munch in the woods.
“And so I’ve lived in the woods ever since,” said Flop Ear.
“Could you tell me how to get out of the woods and back to my home with Mike, near the rocks?” asked Lightfoot.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” answered the rabbit.
The rabbit and the goat talked in animal language for some little time longer, then Flop Ear said he must go back to his burrow, or underground home.
“And I’ll travel on and see if I can find my home,” said Lightfoot. “I’ve been lost long enough.”

For two or three days more Lightfoot wandered about in the woods. He looked everywhere, but he could not find his home near the rocks. One afternoon, as he was asleep under a tree, he was suddenly awakened by feeling something hit him on the nose.
“I wonder if it’s going to rain?” said Lightfoot, suddenly jumping up. Then something hit him on his left horn and bounded off. Lightfoot saw that it was an acorn, many of which he had seen in the woods.
“I guess it fell off a tree,” he said.
“No, it didn’t. I dropped it,” said a chattering voice in the air. “I am lonesome and I wanted someone to talk to. So I awakened you by dropping an acorn on your pretty black nose. Excuse me.”
“But who are you and where are you?” asked Lightfoot.
“I am Slicko, the jumping squirrel,” was the answer, “and I’m perched on a limb right over your head.”
Lightfoot looked up, and there, surely enough, was a little gray animal with a very big tail, much larger than Lightfoot’s small one.

Leaving Lightfoot and Slicko talking together in the woods, we will go back a little while and see what is happening in the shanty near the rocks, where Mike Malony lived with his widowed mother. Mike came in one day, after a long search through the park. Though it had been several weeks since Lightfoot had run away the boy never gave up hope that, some day, he would find his pet.
“Well, Mike me lad, did you hear anything of your goat?” asked Mrs. Malony.
“No, Mother,” was the answer, “and I don’t believe I ever shall. Lightfoot is gone forever.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Mike! He may come back. And if he doesn’t, can’t you take one of the other goats and train it to pull a cart?”
“No,” said Mike, with a shake of his head, “I couldn’t do that. The other goats are for giving milk, and the like, but they wouldn’t be like Lightfoot for drawing the children. No goat will be like Lightfoot to me. I’ll have to get work at something else, I guess, Mother.”
“I’m afraid you will Mike,” said his mother, and now as she was a bit sad, she was not smiling at her freckle-faced and red-haired son. “Our money is almost gone, and we need more to buy something to eat. Luckily we have no rent to pay. You had better look for a job, Mike.”

Mike did, but work was hard to find. Meanwhile the money which the Widow Malony had put away was getting less and less. Mike came in one day, tired, and feeling very unhappy, for he had walked far looking for work without finding it. He had even tried training one of the other goats to pull the cart, but they did not seem able to learn, being too old, I suppose. Blackie had been sold to bring in a little money.
“Well, maybe better luck will come to-morrow, boy. Don’t give up. What!” she cried. “There’s the post man’s whistle. Sure he can’t be comin’ here!”
“But he is, Mother!” cried Mike. “Maybe it’s some of the men I gave my name to, sendin’ for me to give me work.”
With trembling hands Mrs. Malony opened the letter. When she had read it she cried:
“Saints be praised, Mikey me lad. Our troubles are over now! Our troubles are over now!”
“How?” asked Mike.
“I’ve been left a farm, Mike! A farm with green grass and a house, and cows and a place to raise hay and a horse to haul it to market. Read!”
Mike read the letter. It was true. A cousin of his mother, who had known her in Ireland, had passed away and left her his farm, as she was his nearest relative. The letter was from the lawyers saying she could claim the farm and live on it as soon as she pleased.

The troubles of the Widow Malony and her son were indeed over as far as money was concerned. They sold what few things they had, even the goats, for it would be hard to carry them along, and then, bidding good-bye to the other neighbors, they moved to the farm that had been left them. It was many miles from the big city, out in the country.
“Sure ’tis a grand farm!” cried Mike as he saw the snug house in which he and his mother were to live. “’Tis a grand farm entirely. And would you look at the river right next door! I can go swimming in that and sail a boat.”
“’That’s not a river, Mike, my boy,” said his mother. “That’s a canal, same as the one that runs near the big city where we came from, though I guess you were never over that far.”
“No,” said Mike, “I was not. A canal,huh?
Sure it’s a funny thing. A river made by men,” and he sat down to look at it.
But there were many things to do on the Malony farm, and Mike and his mother were happy in doing them, for now they saw better times ahead of them.
“Sure this would be a fine place for Lightfoot,” said Mike as he sat on the steps one day and looked across the green fields. “He’d be fair wild with the delight of it here,” and his face was a bit sad as he thought of his lost pet.

It was about the time that the farm had been left to the widow and her son that Lightfoot met Slicko the jumping squirrel in the woods as I have told you.
“And so you were lonesome! And that’s the reason you woke me by dropping a nut on my nose?” asked Lightfoot of Slicko.
“Yes,” was the answer. “And I guess you are glad it wasn’t Mappo, the merry monkey, who tried to wake you up that way.”
“Why?” asked Lightfoot.
“Because Mappo would likely have dropped a coconut on your nose, and that’s bigger and heavier than an acorn.”
“Well, I guess it is,” laughed Lightfoot. “I’m glad you didn’t do that. But why are you lonesome?”
“I am looking for a rabbit named Flop Ear to play with,” answered Slicko. “He and I used to have jolly times together. We were both caught, but we were both let go again, and since then we have lived in these woods. But I haven’t seen him for some days.”
“I met him, not long ago,” said Lightfoot. “Did he have one ear that drooped over in a funny way?”
“Yes, that was Flop Ear,” answered the squirrel. “Please tell me where to find him. I want to have some fun.”
“I left him over that way,” and Lightfoot pointed with his horns.
“Thank you. I’ll see you again, I hope,” and Slicko was scampering away with a nut in her mouth when Lightfoot called after her:
“Can you tell me where to find a canal? I was carried away on a canal boat, and I think now, if I can find the canal, I can walk along the path beside it and get to my own home. I am tired of wandering in the woods.”
“There is a large brook of water over that way,” said Slicko, pointing with her front paw from the tree. “I have heard them call it a canal. Maybe that’s what you are looking for.”
“Oh, thank you. Maybe it is,” said Lightfoot. “I’ll know it as soon as I see it again.”

Leaving the jumping squirrel to frisk her way among the tree branches, Lightfoot set off to find the “brook” as Slicko had called the canal. It did not take him long to find it, for it curved around in a half circle to meet the very woods in which the leaping goat then was.
“Yes, it’s the same canal,” said Lightfoot, as he saw coming along it a boat drawn by two big-eared mules. “Now all I have to do is to follow the towpath, and I’ll soon be at the big city again, and I can then find my way back to the shanty on the rocks, and Mike.”

Lightfoot might have reached the city had he walked the right way along the canal bank, but he hurried along away from the big city instead of toward it. Day after day he wandered on, and whenever he saw any men or boys he hid in the trees or bushes along the towpath.
“I wonder when I shall come to the city,” thought Lightfoot, who was getting tired.
On and on he went. He did not stop to speak to any of the canal horses or mules. When he was hungry he ate grass or leaves, and when he was thirsty he drank from brooks or from the canal, where the banks were not too steep.
One day Lightfoot came to a place where the canal passed through a little village. The goat could see people moving about, some on the banks of the canal.
“This does not look like the big city,” said the goat. “I think I will ask one of the canal horses.”
He stepped from the bushes out on the path, and was just going to speak to a horse, one of a team that was hauling a boat loaded with sweet-smelling hay in bales, when a boy, who was driving the team, saw the goat and cried:
“Ha! There is a Billie! I’m going to get him!” and he raced after Lightfoot. But the goat was not going to be caught. Along the towpath he ran, the boy after him. Lightfoot knew he could easily get away, but then, right in front of him, came another boy. This boy, too, was driving a team of horses hitched to another canal boat.
“Stop that goat!” cried the first boy.
“I will,” said the other.
Lightfoot did not know what to do. He did not want to run into the woods on one side of the path, for fear he would be lost again. Nor could he swim if he jumped into the canal. And then he saw, right in front of him, a bridge over the water.
“That’s my chance,” thought the goat, and lightly he leaped to one side, getting away from both boys, and over the bridge he ran. The boys did not dare leave their horses long enough to follow.

Over the bridge and down a country road on the other side of the canal ran Lightfoot. He saw some cows and sheep in the fields on either side of the road. Then he saw a little white house with green shutters. In the front yard, picking some flowers, was a woman. Lightfoot looked at her.
“I wonder—I wonder,” said Lightfoot slowly to himself, “where I have seen that woman before, for I am sure I have.”
The woman kept on picking flowers. Lightfoot stood near the gate watching her, but she did not see him. Pretty soon she called:
“Mike, bring me the watering can. The flower beds are dry.”
“All right, Mother, I will. Sure if I had Lightfoot back again I’d make a little sprinkling cart and have him draw it. It’s a good place for goats—the country farm.”
Lightfoot pricked up his ears. He could not understand it. But that name Mike—that voice—
He walked into the yard. The woman picking flowers looked up. Mike came along with the sprinkling can, and when he saw the goat he nearly dropped it.
“Mother, Mother!” he cried. “Look! Look! It—it’s Lightfoot—come back to us!”
“Lightfoot?”
“Sure! Look at the likes of him as fine as ever—finer! Oh, Lightfoot, I’m so glad!” And this time Mike did drop the watering pot, splashing the water all about as he ran forward to throw his arms around the goat’s neck while Mrs. Malony patted him.
And so Lightfoot came to his new home. By mistake he had gone the wrong way, but it turned out just right. He could not tell how glad he was to see Mike and his mother again, for he could not speak their language. But when Lightfoot met the horses, the cows and the pigs on the farm the widow and her son owned, the goat told them all his adventures.

“Lightfoot has come back to me! Lightfoot has come back!” sang Mike. “I wonder how he found this place?”
But Lightfoot could not tell. All he knew was that he was with his friends again, and on a farm, which he thought much nicer than the park, pretty as that was.
The leaping goat soon made himself at home. He was given a little stall to himself in the stable with the horses, who grew to like him very much.
Mike had brought with him from the city the goat wagon, and many a fine ride he had in it, pulled along the country road by Lightfoot, who was bigger and stronger than before.
“I wonder what Blackie, Grandpa Bumper and the other goats would think of me now?” said Lightfoot one day as he rolled over and over in a green meadow where daisies and buttercups grew.
But as the other goats were not there they could say nothing. And so Lightfoot had his many adventures, and he was put in a book, just as he hoped to be, so I suppose he is happy now.

Lightfoot, down in the hold of the canal boat, felt the craft slipping through the water easily. He was being carried with it.
“Well, this is not so bad, for a start,” thought the goat. “It is much easier than riding in a wagon, as I once did.”
When Lightfoot was a small goat, before he had come to live with Mike and his mother, he remembered being taken from one place to another, shut up in a box and carried in a wagon. The wagon jolted over the rough road, tossing Lightfoot from side to side. The motion of the canal boat was much easier, for there were no waves in the canal, except at times when a steam canal boat might pass, and even then the waves were not large enough to make the Sallie Jane bob about. Sallie Jane was the name of the boat on which Lightfoot was riding.

“This is a nicer ride than I had in the wagon,” thought Lightfoot, “only I don’t know where I am going. But then,” he thought, “I didn’t know where I was going the other time. However, I came to a nice place—the shanty where Mike and his mother lived, and maybe I’ll go to a nice place now. Anything is better than being chased with a stick and chased by boys with lumps of coal.”
Then Lightfoot began to feel more hungry. From somewhere, though the exact place he did not know, he could smell hay and oats.
“I guess it must be from the stable where the horses are that I was talking to,” he said to himself. “I’m going to ask them if they can’t hand me out something to eat. It isn’t any fun to be hungry, even if you are on a canal boat voyage.”
So Lightfoot went to the end of the boat where the stable was, and, tapping on the wall with his horns, waited for an answer:
“What is it, Lightfoot?” asked one of the horses, for he had told them his name.
“If you please,” said the goat, “I am very hungry. Could you not pass me out some of the hay or oats that I smell?”
“We would be glad to do so,” said a kind horse, “only we can not. There is no opening from our stable into the hold where you are. If you could jump out you could get right in where we are.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Lightfoot. “It is pretty high to jump. But I’ll try.”
Lightfoot did try to jump up, but he could not. It is easy to jump down, but not easy, even for a goat, to jump up.
“I can’t do it!” sighed the goat. “And the smell of your hay and oats makes me very hungry! Why is it I can smell it so plainly if there is no opening from your stable to where I am?”
“I don’t know,” answered one horse.
“Nor do I !” whinnied another. “Don’t you remember, Stamper,” he said to the horse in the stall next to him, “on the last voyage this boat was loaded with hay and grain? Some of that must be left around in the corners of the hold. That is what Lightfoot smells so plainly.”
“So it is,” said the first horse. Then he called: “Lightfoot, look and smell all around you. Maybe you will find some wisps of hay or some little piles of grain in the dark corners of the hold where you are. If you do find them, eat them.”
“Thank you, I will!” called Lightfoot.

Then he began to walk around in the big hollow part of the canal boat, sniffing here and there in corners and cracks for something to eat. He could smell hay very plainly, and as he went toward a corner, in which some boards were piled, the smell was very much stronger. Then, all of a sudden, Lightfoot found what he was looking for.
“Oh, here’s a nice pile of hay!” he called, and the horses in their stalls heard him.
“That’s good,” one of them said. “Now you will not be hungry any more, Lightfoot.”
“No, I guess I won’t,” said the goat. “At last, after I have had some bad luck, I am going to have some good.”
Then he began to eat the wisps of hay which had lodged in the corner of the canal boat when the cargo had been unloaded a few days before. There was enough hay for more goats than Lightfoot, but the men who unloaded the canal boat did not bother to sweep up the odds and ends, so the goat traveler had all he wanted.
After Lightfoot had eaten he felt sleepy, and, lulled by the pleasant and easy motion of the canal boat, he cuddled up in a corner near the horse-cabin, and, after telling his unseen friends what had happened to him, he went to sleep.

How long he slept Lightfoot did not know, but he was suddenly awakened by hearing a rumbling sound, like thunder.
“Hello! What’s this?” cried the goat, jumping up. “If it’s going to rain I had better look for some shelter.”
“Oh, it isn’t going to rain,” said a voice from the horse stable. “Those who have been pulling the boat are tired and are coming down the plank into their stalls. We are going out to take their places. It is our turn now.”
“Oh, I see,” returned Lightfoot. “But how do you horses get on shore? Do you swim across the canal?”
“No, though we could do that,” said Cruncher, a horse who was called that because he crushed his oats so finely. “You see,” he went on, “when the captain wants to change the teams on the towpath he steers the boat close to the shore. Then he puts a plank, with cross-pieces, or cleats, nailed on it, so we won’t slip down to our stable, and we walk up, go ashore, and take our places at the end of the towline. The tired horses come in to rest and eat.”
“Then is the boat close to the shore now?” asked Lightfoot.
“Yes, right close up against the bank,” answered Cruncher as he made ready to go out on the towpath.
“Oh, I wish I could get ashore,” said Lightfoot. “I like you horses, and I like this boat, because it saved me from the boys who were chasing me, but still I would rather be out where I can see the sun.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Nibbler, who was called that because he used to nibble the edge of his manger. “Sometimes I get tired of this dark stable. But then, twice a day, we go out in the air to pull the boat.”
“Do you think I could get on shore?” asked Lightfoot.
“Well, if you could jump up out of the hold, where you are, you could,” said Cruncher, his hooves making a noise like thunder on the planks as he walked up. “If you can do that you can go ashore.”
“I’m going to try,” said Lightfoot, and he began jumping up as high as he could to get out of the deep hole into which he had leaped.
But, jump as he did, Lightfoot could not get out of the hold. It was like being down in a deep well. If he had been a cat, with sharp claws to stick in the wooden sides of the boat, or a bear, like Dido, the dancing chap, Lightfoot might have got out. But as he was neither of these, he could not.
Again and again he tried, but it was of no use. Then he felt the boat moving again, and he knew it was being pulled along the canal by the horses.
“There is no use jumping any more,” thought Lightfoot. “If I did jump out now I would only land in the water. I must stay here until I can find some other way to get out.”

Lightfoot found more hay and a mouthful of grain in one of the corners of the boat, and after he had eaten he felt better. But still he was lonesome and homesick.
Pretty soon it grew dark, and Lightfoot could see the stars shining overhead. He cuddled up in a corner, among some old bags, and went to sleep.

For three days Lightfoot traveled on in the canal boat. All he could see were the dark sides of the hole in which he was. He could talk to the horses through the wooden walls of their stable, but he could not see them.
Now and then the boat would pull up to shore, and the tired horses would come aboard while the others would take their turn at the towrope. All this while Lightfoot lived on the hay and grain he found in the cracks and corners of the canal boat. Had it not been for this the goat would have starved, for neither the captain nor his wife knew Lightfoot was on board, and the horses, much as they wished, could not pass the goat any of their food.
One day the boat was kept along the shore towpath for a long while. Lightfoot tried again to jump out but could not. Then, all at once he heard a very loud noise. It was louder than that made by the hoofs of the horses, and the goat cried:
“Surely that is thunder!”
He saw something black tumble down into the hold at the end farthest from him.
“No, it is not thunder,” said Cruncher. “The captain is loading the boat with coal. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Lightfoot. “Only coal is very black and dirty stuff.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Nibbler. “But it may be a good thing for you, Lightfoot.”
“How?” asked the goat.
“In this way,” said Nibbler. “I have seen this boat loaded with coal before. They fill the hold as full as they can, and they don’t put the covers on.”
“But if they fill it full,” said Lightfoot, “they will cover me with the coal, and then how can I get out?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Nibbler. “They will not fill all of the boat at once. It takes about two days. And when half the boat is full the coal is in a pile in the middle, like a hill. You can climb up the side of the coal-hill, Lightfoot, and then you will be able to get out of the hold. You can scramble up on top of our stable-cabin and from there you can easily jump to shore.”
“Oh, that will be fine!” cried the goat.
“Do you think you can walk up the hill of coal in this boat?” asked Cruncher.
“Surely I can,” Lightfoot said. “I could climb up the rocky, rocky path back of the cabin, and surely I can climb up the coal hill.”

All that day men with wheelbarrows dumped coal into the hold of the canal boat. It made a black dust, and Lightfoot kept as far away from it as he could.
“It’s a good thing I am going to get out,” he said. “For the coal will soon cover up all my hay and grain and I would have nothing to eat.”
Lightfoot waited until after dark, so no one would see him. Then he scrambled up the sloping sides of the pile of coal in the middle of the canal boat until he could jump to the edge and so to the roof of the stable cabin.
“Good-by, kind horses,” he called to Cruncher and the others. “I am sorry I can’t stop to see you, but I had better go ashore.”
“Yes, while you have the chance,” said Nibbler.
Then, with a nimble leap, Lightfoot jumped from the canal boat to the towpath. He had gone ashore.
“I wonder what adventures I’ll have next,” he said to himself as he wiggled his way into the bushes at the edge of the path.

Without stopping to look back at the canal boat from which he had escaped, Lightfoot ran on through the bushes, and soon found himself in some woods. He was afraid someone from the boat might run after him, and take him back there.
“Not that it was such a bad place,” thought the goat, as he went in and out among the trees; “but it is no fun to be in a place from which you can’t get away when you want to. If it had not been that they made a little hill of coal in the boat maybe I’d never have gotten away.
“I liked those horses, though I never saw them, and the hay and grain in the cracks was good eating. Still I would rather be out here and free.”
No one except the canal horses knew Lightfoot had been on the boat. The captain and his wife had not seen him jump down into the hold, nor had the boys picking coal. They only imagined the goat might be somewhere near the boat when they asked about him, but they really had not seen him get aboard.
Lightfoot ran on a little farther and then, thinking he was safe, hidden behind a bush, turned and looked back. He was on a side hill that ran along the canal, and he could look down on the towpath. He saw a team of horses hitched to a long rope, which, in turn, was tied to the canal boat.
“There are my kind friends, the horses,” thought Lightfoot. “But I don’t know which ones they are. I wish I could stop and speak to them, but it would not be safe. Anyhow I said good-bye to them, and thanked them.”
As Lightfoot looked, the team pulling the canal boat turned around a curve in the towpath and were soon out of sight. Then, once more, the goat turned and went on into the woods.
“Well, I shall not be hungry here, anyhow,” thought Lightfoot. “There are more bushes and trees here than in the park where Mike used to drive me about, hitched to the little wagon. I wonder if I am allowed to eat these leaves.”
Lightfoot looked around. He saw no policemen or park guards, such as he had seen when he was in the other place, and, as he felt a bit hungry after his run, he nibbled some of the green leaves. They had a good taste and he ate many of them. No one called to him to stop, and no one chased him with a stick.
“This is a good place,” thought Lightfoot.

As with most animals, when he had eaten well, the goat felt sleepy, and picking out a smooth grassy place beneath some trees he cuddled up, and was soon asleep.
How long he slept Lightfoot did not know, but when he awakened he had a feeling that he wished he was back with Mike again, drawing children around the park. Whether Lightfoot had dreamed about his home amid the rocks I do not know. I do not know whether or not animals dream, but I think they do.
At any rate Lightfoot felt lonesome. He missed the cheerful whistle of the boy, and he missed, too, the nice combing and rubbing-down that Mike used to give him every morning in order to keep his coat in good condition.
Some of the goats that lived on the rocks had coats very rough with tangled hairs, to say nothing of the burrs and thistles that clung to them. But Mike kept Lightfoot slick and neat, brushing him as a groom brushes his horses.
“But I don’t look very slick now,” thought Lightfoot, as he turned his head and saw a lot of burrs on one side, while the other side carried a tangle of a piece of a briar bush. “I must clean myself up a bit,” thought the goat.

By twisting and turning about, using first one hind foot and then the other, as a cat scratches her ears, Lightfoot managed to get rid of most of the things that had clung to him as he tore his way through the bushes. Then he walked on again, until, feeling thirsty, he began to sniff the air for water. For goats and other animals can smell water before they can see it, though to us clean water has no smell at all.
Lightfoot soon found a little spring in the woods, and from it ran a brook of water, sparkling over the green, mossy stones.
As Lightfoot leaned over to get a drink from the spring he startled back in surprise.
“Why!” he exclaimed to himself. “Why! There’s another goat down there under the water. He’s a black goat. I’m white.”
Lightfoot thought for a moment as he drew back from the edge of the spring. Then he said to himself:
“Well, if there’s only another goat I needn’t be afraid, for we will be friends.”
He went to the spring again and looked down into the clear water. Again he saw the black goat, and he was just going to speak, asking him how he felt, what his name was, where he came from and so on, when Lightfoot happened to notice that the black goat moved in exactly the same way, and did the same things that he, himself, did. Then he understood.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Lightfoot to himself. “How silly I am! That is only my reflection in the spring, just as if it were a looking glass. But what makes me so black on my face, I wonder?”
Then he remembered.
“It’s the black coal dust, of course!” he cried. “It must have stuck to me all over, but I brushed some of it off when I went to sleep in the grass. Now I must wash my face.”
He glanced once more into the spring looking glass, and saw that indeed he was quite dirty from the coal dust. Taking a long drink of the cool water he went below the spring to the brook, and there he waded in and splashed around in the water until he was quite clean. This made him feel hungry again, and he ate more leaves and grass.
“And now,” said Lightfoot, as he noticed the sun going down in the west, and knew that it would soon be night, “it’s time for me to think of what I’m going to do.”
Lightfoot was not afraid to stay out alone in the woods all night. He had spent many a night on the rocks, though of course the other goats had been with him then. But he was a bigger and older goat now, and he was not afraid of being alone. Of course a little kid might have been, but Lightfoot was a kid no longer.
“I’ll stay here to-night, I think,” said the goat after a while. “It is good to be near water so you can drink when thirsty. I’ll stay here to-night and in the morning I’ll try to find my way back to Mike.”

Lightfoot slept well that night, for it was not cold, and in the morning, after he had eaten some leaves and grass and had drunk some water he started out to find the Malony shanty near the rocks.
But a goat is not like a dog or a cat, some of which can find their way home after having been taken many miles from it. So, after wandering about in the woods, and finding no place that looked like his former home, Lightfoot gave up.
“It’s of no use,” he said. “I guess I am lost. I must have come farther in that canal boat then I knew. Well, the woods are a good place to stay. I shall not be hungry here.”
Lightfoot wandered on and on for several days. Once some boys, who were in the woods gathering flowers, saw the goat behind some bushes.
“Oh, let’s chase after him!” called one, and they ran toward Lightfoot.
But the goat leaped away and soon left the boys far behind. If one of them had been Mike, Lightfoot would have gone to him, but Mike was not there.
One day as Lightfoot was wandering through the woods, wishing he were back in his home again, for he was lonely, having no one to talk to but the birds, he heard a noise in the bushes.
It was a smashing, crashing sort of noise, as though made by some big animal.
“Maybe it is one of the canal horses,” thought Lightfoot. “I hope it is. They’ll be company for me. Maybe one of them ran away.”
He looked through the underbrush and saw a big, shaggy, brown animal, standing on its hind feet. With its front paws it was pulling berries from a bush and eating them.
“Excuse me,” said Lightfoot in animal language. “But could you tell me the way to the Widow Malony’s shanty?”
The big animal stopped eating berries, looked up at the goat in surprise and asked, in a sort of growly voice:
“Who are you?”
“I am Lightfoot, the leaping goat,” was the answer. “Who are you?”
“I am Dido, the dancing bear, I am glad to meet you. Come over and have some berries,” and Lightfoot went.

There was once an honest gentleman who took for his second wife a beautiful lady, the proudest and most disagreeable in the whole country. She had two daughters exactly like herself in every way. He also had one little girl, who was like her mother in every way, she had been the best woman in all the world. Not long after the second marriage had taken place, did the stepmother become jealous of the good qualities of the little girl, who was so, so different from her own two daughters. She gave her all the menial jobs of the house; getting her to wash the floors and staircases, to dust the bedrooms, and clean the grates; and while her sisters had carpeted bedrooms that had mirrors, where they could see themselves from head to toe, this poor little girl was sent to sleep in an attic, on an old straw mattress, with only one chair and not a looking-glass in the room.
She suffered all of this in silence, not daring to complain to her father, who was completely ruled by his new wife. When her daily work was done she used to sit down in the chimney-corner among the ashes; from which the two sisters gave her the nick-name of Cinderella. But Cinderella, however shabbily clad, was more beautiful than they were with all their fine clothes.

It so happened that the king’s son gave a series of balls, to which were invited all the rank and fashion of the city, and among the rest the two older sisters. They were very proud and happy, and spent all of their time trying to decide what they should wear; a source of new trouble to Cinderella, whose job it was to get up their fine linen and laces, and who never could please them however much she tried. They talked of nothing but their clothes.
“I,” said the eldest, “shall wear my velvet gown and my trimmings of English lace.”
“And I,” added the younger, “will have but my ordinary silk petticoat, but I shall decorate it with an upper skirt of flowered brocade, and I shall put on my diamond tiara, which is a great deal finer than anything of yours.”

Here the older sister grew angry, and the argument began to run so high, that Cinderella, who was known to have excellent taste, was called upon to decide between them. She gave them the best advice she could, and gently and modestly offered to dress them herself, and especially to arrange their hair, an accomplishment in which she did better than most well-known hair stylists. The important evening came, and she exercised all her skill to beautify the two young ladies. While she was combing out the older girl’s hair, this mean girl said sharply, “Cinderella, do you not wish you were going to the ball?”
“Ah, madam” (they made her always say madam), “you are only teasing me; it is not my luck to have such chances.”
“You are right; people would only laugh to see a little cinder-girl at a ball.”
Any other than Cinderella would have dressed the hair all a mess, but Cinderella was good, and dressed it perfectly even and smooth, and as prettily as she could.

The sisters had scarcely eaten for two days, and had broken a dozen stay-laces a day, in trying to make themselves appear more slender; but to-night they broke a dozen more, and lost their tempers over and over again before they had finished getting dressed. When at last the happy moment arrived, Cinderella followed them to the coach; after it had whirled them away, she sat down by the kitchen fire and cried.
Immediately her godmother, who was a fairy, appeared beside her. “What are you crying for, my little girl?”
“Oh, I wish—I wish—” Her sobs stopped her.
“You wish to go to the ball; isn’t it so?”
Cinderella nodded.
“Well, then, be a good girl, and you shall go. First run into the garden and fetch me the largest pumpkin you can find.”
Cinderella did not understand what this had to do with her going to the ball, but being obedient and obliging, she went. Her godmother took the pumpkin, and having scooped out all its inside, struck it with her wand; it became a splendid gold-covered coach, lined with rose-coloured satin.

“Now fetch me the mouse-trap out of the pantry, my dear.”
Cinderella brought it; it contained six of the fattest, sleekest mice. The fairy lifted up the wire door, and as each mouse ran out she touched it and changed it into a beautiful black horse.
“But what shall I do for your coachman, Cinderella?”
Cinderella suggested that she had seen a large black rat in the rat-trap, and he might do in that role.
“You are right; go and look again for him.”

He was found, and the fairy made him into a most respectable coachman, with the finest whiskers imaginable. She afterwards took six lizards from behind the pumpkin frame, and changed them into six footmen, all in splendid clothes, who immediately jumped up behind the carriage, as if they had been footmen all their days. “Well, Cinderella, now you can go to the ball.”
“What, in these clothes?” said Cinderella sadly, looking down on her ragged dress.
Her godmother laughed, and touched her also with the wand; at which her awful thread-bare jacket became stiff with gold, and sparkling with jewels; her woollen, bare dress lengthened into a gown of sweeping satin, from underneath which peeped out her little feet, no longer bare, but covered with silk stockings, and the prettiest glass slippers in the world. “Now Cinderella, off you go; but remember, if you stay one second after midnight, your carriage will become a pumpkin, your coachman a rat, your horses mice, and your footmen lizards; while you yourself will be the little cinder-girl you were an hour ago.”
Cinderella promised her heart was so full of joy.

Arriving at the palace, the king’s son, whom someone, probably the fairy, had told to wait for the coming of an uninvited princess whom nobody knew, was standing at the entrance, ready to receive her. He offered her his hand, and led her with the utmost courtesy through the gathered guests, who stood aside to let her pass, whispering to one another, “Oh, how beautiful she is!” It might have turned the head of anyone else but poor Cinderella, who was so used to being treated poorly, took it all in stride as if it were something happening in a dream.

Her triumph was complete; even the old king said to the queen that never since her majesty’s young days had he seen such a charming and elegant person. All the court ladies looked her over eagerly, clothes and all, determined to have theirs made the next day of exactly the same pattern. The king’s son himself led her out to dance, and she danced so gracefully that he admired her more and more. Indeed, at supper, which was luckily very early, his admiration quite took away his appetite. Cinderella herself, with her normal shyness sought out her sisters; placed herself beside them and offered them all sorts of attention, which, coming as they had supposed from a stranger, and so magnificent a lady, almost overwhelmed them with delight.

While she was talking with them, she heard the clock strike a quarter to twelve, and saying a polite goodbye to the royal family, she re-entered her carriage, escorted tenderly by the king’s son, and arrived in safety at her own door. There she found her godmother, who smiled approval; and of whom she begged permission to go to a second ball, the following night, to which the queen had earnestly invited her.
While she was talking, the two sisters were heard knocking at the gate, and the fairy godmother vanished, leaving Cinderella sitting in the chimney-corner, rubbing her eyes and pretending to be very sleepy.
“Ah,” cried the oldest sister meanly, “it has been the most delightful ball, and there was present the most beautiful princess I ever saw, who was so exceedingly polite to us both.”
“Was she?” said Cinderella indifferently; “and who might she be?”
“Nobody knows, though everybody would give their eyes to know, especially the king’s son.”
“Indeed!” replied Cinderella, a little more interested; “I should like to see her. Miss Juliette”—that was the older sister’s name—”will you not let me go to-morrow, and lend me your yellow gown that you wear on Sundays?”
“What, lend my yellow gown to a cinder-girl! I am not so crazy as that;” at which refusal Cinderella did not complain, for if her sister really had lent her the gown she would have been considerably embarrassed.

The next night came, and the two young ladies, richly dressed in different outfits, went to the ball. Cinderella, more splendidly attired and beautiful than ever, followed them shortly after. “Now remember twelve o’clock,” was her godmother’s parting speech; and she thought she certainly should. But the prince’s attentions to her were greater even than the first evening, and in the delight of listening to his pleasant conversation, time slipped by unnoticed. While she was sitting beside him on a lovely bench, and looking at the moon from under a branch of orange blossoms, she heard a clock strike the first stroke of twelve. She jumped up, and ran away as lightly as a deer.
Amazed, the prince followed, but could not catch her. Indeed he missed his lovely princess altogether, and only saw running out of the palace doors a cinder-dressed girl whom he had never seen before, and of whom he certainly would never have taken the least notice of. Cinderella arrived at home breathless and weary, tired and cold, without carriage, or footmen, or coachman; the only reminder of her evenings being one of her little glass slippers;—the other she had dropped in the ball-room as she ran away.
When the two sisters returned they were full of this strange story, how the beautiful lady had appeared at the ball more beautiful than ever, and enchanted everyone who looked at her; and how as the clock was striking twelve she had suddenly risen up and ran through the ball-room, disappearing no one knew how or where, and dropping one of her glass slippers behind her in her flight. How the king’s son had remained heartbroken until he chanced to pick up the little glass slipper, which he carried away in his pocket, and was seen to take it out continually, and look at it affectionately, with the air of a man very much in love; in fact, from his behaviour during the remainder of the evening, all the court and royal family were convinced that he was deeply in love with the wearer of the little glass slipper.
Cinderella listened in silence, turning her face to the kitchen fire, and perhaps it was that which made her look so rosy, but nobody ever noticed or admired her at home, so it did not matter, and next morning she went to her weary work again just as before.

A few days after, the whole city was attracted by the sight of a man going round with a little glass slipper in his hand, publishing, with a flourish of trumpets, that the king’s son ordered this to be fitted on the foot of every lady in the kingdom, and that he wished to marry the lady whom it fit best, or to whom it and the other slipper belonged. Princesses, duchesses, countesses, and simple gentlewomen all tried it on, but being a fairy slipper, it fit nobody and beside, nobody could produce its other slipper, which lay all the time safely in the pocket of Cinderella’s old work gown.

At last the man came to the house of the two sisters, and though they well knew neither of them was the beautiful lady, they made every attempt to get their clumsy, big feet into the glass slipper, but with no luck.

“Let me try it on,” said Cinderella from the chimney corner.
“What, you?” cried the others, bursting into shouts of laughter; but Cinderella only smiled, and held out her hand.
Her sisters could not stop her, since the command was that every young maiden in the city should try on the slipper, in order that no chance might be left untried, for the prince’s heart was nearly broken; and his father and mother were afraid that though a prince, he would actually fade away from his love of the beautiful unknown lady.

So the man told Cinderella to sit down on a three-legged stool in the kitchen, and himself put the slipper on her pretty little foot, which it fit exactly; she then drew from her pocket the fellow slipper, which she also put on, and stood up—for with the touch of the magic shoes all her dress was changed likewise—no longer the poor despised cinder-girl, but the beautiful lady whom the king’s son loved.

Her sisters recognized her at once. Filled with astonishment, mingled with no little alarm, they threw themselves at her feet, begging her forgiveness for all their former unkindness. She rose up and hugged them: told them she forgave them with all her heart, and only hoped they would always love her. Then she left with the man to the king’s palace, and told her whole story to his majesty and the royal family, who were not in the least surprised, for everybody believed in fairies, and everybody longed to have a fairy godmother.

For the young prince, he found her even more lovely and loveable than ever, and insisted upon marrying her immediately. Cinderella said “YES!” and never went home again, but she sent for her two sisters to come to the palace, and with her the agreement of all parties helped them to marry, shortly after, to two rich gentlemen of the court.

Written by Alto Tabor.

Willie Mouse had often heard his Ma and Pa say that the moon was made of green cheese, and one evening he thought he would see if he could find it.
He packed up a piece of cheese and a crust of bread, and, taking his lantern, set out on his travels.
He had not gone far when he met his friend, Mr. Woodmouse, who asked him where he was going.
“Oh!” said Willie, “I’m going to find the moon; it’s made of green cheese, you know.”
“I don’t believe it’s made of green cheese at all,” said Mr. Woodmouse, but Willie wouldn’t listen to him and went on his way.
Coming round by Clover Green whom should he meet but Miss Jenny Wren, looking very lovely in her yellow bonnet.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“I’m on my way to find the moon.”
“The moon!” cried Miss Wren, “you’ll never reach it.”
“I flew ever so high one evening and it didn’t seem to get any nearer.”
“Well,” said Willie, “why should it be made of green cheese if you can’t reach it?” And on he went.

Presently he came up to a wood, and looking up he saw Mr. Squirrel jumping from branch to branch.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“You do seem high up. Surely you can tell me the way to the moon. It’s made of green cheese, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s made of green cheese; why shouldn’t it be made of nuts?”
“How strange everybody is,” said Willie Mouse to himself.
So on he went once more until he came to a little hole in the ground, and being very curious he peeped inside. There sat Mrs. Mole, who came out when she saw him.
“Do you live down there?” asked Willie politely.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mole.
“Then I’m afraid you can’t tell me how to get to the moon. It’s made of green cheese, you know; Ma says so.”
“Nonsense, my child. Don’t waste your time looking for the moon; keep your eyes open for worms.”
Willie said “Good-bye” to Mrs. Mole. Then he sat down and opened his pack because it was getting late and he thought he had better have some dinner.
“I may not reach the moon for awhile,” he thought, “so I had better save a little piece of cheese for supper.”
After dinner he fell asleep, and on waking he found that it was quite dark. He looked up and there was the moon right high up in the sky.
“Oh, Mr. Moon!” he cried, “You do seem a long way away. I think it would be much easier for you to come down here than for me to get up there.” But Mr. Moon stayed where he was.

Looking up Willie Mouse saw two big eyes gleaming in the dark. They belonged to Mrs. Owl, and as Willie was only a little mouse he didn’t know that Mrs. Owl had a special liking for little mice.“Please, Mrs. Owl,” he said, “how can I get to the moon?”

Down flew Mrs. Owl. “This is the way to the moon,” she said, and she caught him up in her beak and carried him back to the owl house where she lived.
When Willie Mouse saw all the owlets with their beaks gaping open he began to be frightened, for he feared that Mrs. Owl was going to give him to the owlets. But he didn’t know that a good green elf, who lived in the trunk of the tree, was near at hand, and just as Mrs. Owl opened her beak the leaves rustled and there stood Mr. Elf, who grabbed Willie and jumped to the ground with him on his back.

When the good green elf had shown him the way home he thought he would ask him if the moon were really made of green cheese, but all of a sudden Mr. Elf disappeared, and Willie Mouse still thinks that one day he will find the moon and have enough cheese to last him all his life.

But he will wait until he is a little older and bigger before he tries to jump to the moon. And perhaps by that time he may be wiser, too.

Written by Richard Barnum.

It was morning when Lightfoot woke up. He found he was in a strange place. It was a place with many streets and big cars running back and forth on shining rails. But they did not run as old trolley cars did. Instead a big engine pushed them and pulled them. Though Lightfoot did not know it, he was near a railroad yard.
He came out from under the bush to look for something to eat. He saw an empty can with a piece of paper on it that he knew was covered with paste. He wanted that paper very much. But as he crept out to get it a boy picking up coal from the tracks saw him and cried:
“Oh, fellers! Look at that goat! Let’s chase him!”
And chase after Lightfoot they did, shouting and trying to catch him. Lightfoot had no intention of being caught, so he ran across the tracks. The boys shouted at him, the men in the railroad yard yelled at him, but when he crossed the tracks the engines tooted their whistles at him. Altogether Lightfoot was very, very frightened.
On and on he ran. Some of the boys were getting closer now, for Lightfoot could not run over the shining rails as easily as they.
“I’m going to get that goat!” cried the boy who had first seen Lightfoot.
Lightfoot heard the boy’s shout, though he did not understand the words. The goat knew he must run faster and faster, and he did. He came to a place near the line of the railroad tracks where he could see some water. He knew what water was, for he drank it, and also, when it rained hard, there was a little pond and a stream that formed on top of the big rocks, so he was used to seeing large puddles.
Lightfoot ran close to the water. The boys, racing after him, saw, and one cried:
“Oh, the goat’s going for a swim!”
But Lightfoot was not going to do that. He was only looking for a good place to hide. Pretty soon he saw it. Floating on the water was something that looked like a little house. Smoke was coming from a stovepipe in the roof, and beyond the house, and seeming to be a part of it, were two big, long black holes.
“Those holes would make a good place to hide,” thought Lightfoot.

He ran up alongside them and looked down.
There was nothing in them, and no one was in sight. The boys chasing after him were behind some freight cars just then and could not see him.
“I’ll hide down there,” said Lightfoot to himself. “It isn’t as far to jump as it was from the top of the rocks to the roof of the shanty. I’ll hide there.”
Down into the dark hole, near the funny little house, leaped Lightfoot. And where do you suppose he was now?
He was down in the bottom of a canal boat, down in the big hole, in the hold, as it is called, next to the cabin, or little house. In the hold, though it was empty now, is located the cargo the boat carries—hay, grain or coal.
For the first time in his life Lightfoot was on a boat.

With a heart that beat hard and fast after his long run, Lightfoot, the goat, crouched down in a dark corner of the hold in the canal boat.
“My!” thought poor Lightfoot as he curled up in a space as small as he could. “I got away from them just in time. I hope they don’t find me.”
He listened with his ears pointed forward, just as a horse does when he hears or sees something strange. There was a sort of thumping noise somewhere in the canal boat, near the wooden wall or partition against which Lightfoot was resting himself.
There was a rattling of dishes and pans, and then Lightfoot heard the noise of coal being put in the stove. He knew that sound, for in the shanty of Widow Malony he often heard it before, when Mike or his mother would make a fire to cook a meal.

And pretty soon Lightfoot smelled something cooking. He sniffed the air in the dark hold of the canal boat. It was not the smell of such food as Lightfoot cared to eat, for it was meat and potatoes being cooked. And though he did like a cold boiled potato once in a while, he did not want meat.
“I wonder what is going on here?” thought the goat.
If he had known, it was the noises in the cabin-kitchen of the canal boat—the captain’s wife was getting dinner. For on these canal boats, of which there are not so many now as there used to be, the captain and his family live in a little house, or cabin, where they eat and sleep just as if the house were on land. Instead it is on a boat, and the boat is pulled by horses and mules from one city to another, bringing to port coal, grain or whatever else they are loaded with.
Lightfoot remained hiding in the dark hold, listening to the noises in the kitchen cabin, and smelling the good smells. Then Lightfoot heard voices in the cabin. It was the captain of the boat speaking to his wife.
“We’ll soon pull out of here,” he said.
“Where are you going to voyage to now?” asked the captain’s wife.
“To Buffalo,” he answered. “I’m going there to get a load of grain and bring it back here.”
“Are you going to take the boat out empty?” asked the woman, as she set a dish of potatoes and meat on the little table in the cabin.
“No,” he answered, “we are going to travel a little way in the boat, then we will take on a load of coal. We will carry that a hundred miles or so, and then when we take that out and the boat will be empty again, and, after it is cleaned, we will go on to Buffalo and get the grain. We will start soon.”

Lightfoot heard all this through the wooden wall, but he did not know what it meant. He looked around the hold as well as he could. He could see no one in it. It was like being in a big, empty barn.
Then Lightfoot heard the sound of some boys’ voices calling, and as he remembered the boys, with the lumps of coal, who had chased him, he shrank farther into a dark corner.
Lightfoot could hear the patter of running feet. He did not want the boys to find him. He heard them calling again.
“Say, Mister, did you see a goat around here?” asked one of the boys.
“Goat? No, I didn’t see a goat.” It was the canal boat captain talking. “Get away from here now! I’m going to start the boat soon, and if you don’t want to be taken away on her you’d better go ashore.”
“Come on, fellas!” cried the boy who had first seen Lightfoot. “That goat isn’t here. He must have run up along the canal,” and away ran the boys, which was just what Lightfoot wanted.

Up above him Lightfoot could see the glimmer of daylight, for the hatches, or covers of the hold, were off, now that it was empty. When the boat was loaded with grain the covers would be put on, but they were not needed for coal, since water does not harm that.
“Well, I seem to be down in a sort of big hole,” thought Lightfoot, as he looked up. “It was easy enough to jump down, but I don’t know if I can jump out again. However, I don’t want to do that now. I want to stay where I am so those boys can’t get me. But I do wish Mike were here with me.”
Lightfoot was beginning to feel a little lonesome, but there was so much that was new and strange all about him that he did not feel homesick long. He kept on walking to the other end of the canal boat.
Then he sniffed the air. He heard noises which he knew were made by horses, and then he caught the smell of hay, oats and straw.
“I must be near a stable,” said Lightfoot. “But I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

He walked on a little farther and soon he came to another wooden wall. Behind it he could hear horses, or mules, he did not know which, chewing their food and stamping about in their stalls. Lightfoot thought this was strange.
But those of you who have seen canal boats know what it is. Each boat has to carry on it several teams of horses or mules to pull the boat along, since one pair of horses would get tired if they pulled all the while.
A canal, you know, is a long ditch, or stream of water, going from one city to another. Men cut the ditch through the earth and then let the water flow in so boats would float.
Along the side of the ditch of water is a little road, called a “towpath,” and this is where the horses walk, pulling, or towing, the canal boat by a rope that is fastened to the boat at one end and to the collars of the horses at the other end. In fact the horses pull the canal boat along the water much as Lightfoot pulled the goat wagon in which the children rode.
Years ago there were many canal boats, but now, since there are so many railroads, the canals are not so often used, for it is slower traveling on them than on the railroad trains, which go very fast.
“Well, I certainly am in a strange place,” thought Lightfoot. “I don’t know whether I am going to like it or not. Still it is better than being teased with a stick, or having boys chase after you with lumps of coal.”

He listened to the horses stamping about in their stalls, and chewing their food. Then there were more noises, and the sound of men calling: “Gid-dap there!” Next came the pounding of horses’ hoofs on wooden planks, and the voices of men shouting.
“What in the world is going on?” thought Lightfoot.
“Hello, in there, you horses. What is going on, if you please?” he called.
He could hear that the horses stopped chewing their oats; and one said to another:
“What is that?”
“I don’t know,” was the answer. “It sounded as if somebody were in the hold.”
“That’s just where I am,” said Lightfoot.
“Who are you?” asked a horse.
“Lightfoot, the leaping goat,” was the answer. And then Lightfoot told something of himself and the adventures he had had so far—of why he ran away from the park, and, to get away from the boys, of having jumped down into the boat.
“Well, if you’re there,” said a horse on the other side of the wall, “you’re likely to stay for some time. It is too high for you to jump out.”
“I see it is,” answered Lightfoot, “even though I am called the leaping goat. But what will happen to me?”
“You are going on a voyage now,” was the answer of the horse. “That noise you heard was the captain leading some of the horses out of our stable, here on the boat, over a board, called a gangway, to the canal towpath. Very soon they will begin to pull the boat along the canal, and, after a while, it will be our turn. You are going on a voyage, Lightfoot.”
“Is a voyage nice?” asked the goat.
“You had better wait and see,” was the answer.
“I wish I could come into your stable,” said Lightfoot. “I would not take up much room.”
“You would be welcome,” said a horse, “but there is no way for you to get in unless you can get out of the hold, onto the towpath and come down the plank. Someday maybe you can do that.”
“I hope so,” said Lightfoot, who was now getting very hungry.
Just then the captain called:
“All aboard! Cast off the lines!”
And the next thing Lightfoot knew was that the boat began slowly to move. It had started up the canal. Lightfoot was on a voyage, though where he was going he did not know.

There was once a great war, and the King had a great many soldiers, but he gave them so little pay that they could not live upon it. Then three of them had a meeting together and decided to desert.
One of them said to the other, ‘If we are caught, we shall be thrown in the cells; how shall we set about it?’ The other said, ‘Do you see that large cornfield there? If we were to hide ourselves in that, no one could find us. The army cannot come into it, and to-morrow they are set to march on.’
They crept into the corn, but the army did not march on, but remained camped close around them. They sat for two days and two nights in the corn, and grew so hungry that they nearly passed out; but if they were to venture out of the corn field, they would certainly be caught.
They said at last, ‘What use was it for us to leave the army? We are suffering here miserably.’

While they were speaking a fiery dragon came flying through the air. It hovered near them, and asked why they were hidden there.
They answered, ‘We are three soldiers, and have left the army because our pay was so little. Now if we remain here we shall pass out from hunger, and if we move out we shall be thrown into the cells.’
‘If you will work for me for seven years,’ said the dragon, ‘ I will lead you through the middle of the army so that no one shall catch you.’ “We have no choice, and must take your offer,’ they said. Then the dragon picked them up in his claws, took them through the air over the army, and set them down on the earth a long way from it.

The dragon gave them a little whip, saying, ‘Whip and slash with this, and as much money as you want will jump up before you. You can then live as great lords, keep horses, and drive about in carriages. But after seven years you are mine.’ Then he put a book before them, which he made all three of them sign. ‘At the end of the seven years I will give you a riddle,’ he said; ‘if you can guess it, you shall be free and out of my power.’ The dragon then flew away, and the men journeyed on with their little whip. They had as much money as they wanted, wore grand clothes, and made their way into the world. Wherever they went they lived in merrymaking and splendour, drove about with horses and carriages, ate and laughed, but did nothing wrong.

The time passed quickly, and when the seven years were nearly over two of them grew terribly anxious and frightened, but the third made light of it, saying, ‘Don’t be afraid, brothers, I wasn’t born yesterday; I will guess the riddle.’
They went into a field, sat down, and the two pulled long faces. An old woman passed by, and asked them why they were so sad. ‘Alas! We feel that since you do not know you cannot help us.’ ‘Who knows?’ she answered. ‘Tell me all about your troubles.’

Then they told her that they had become the servants of the Dragon for seven long years, and how he had given them money as plentiful as blackberries; but as they had signed their names they were his, unless when the seven years had passed they could guess a riddle. The old woman said, ‘If you would help yourselves, one of you must go into the woods, and there he will come upon a tumble-down building of rocks which looks like a little house. He must go in, and there he will find help.’
The two sad ones thought, ‘That won’t save us!’ and they stayed where they were. But the third and merry one jumped up and went into the woods till he found the rock hut. In the hut sat a very old woman, who was the Dragon’s grandmother. She asked him how he came, and what his business was there. He told her all that happened, and because she was pleased with him she took pity on him, and said she would help him.
She lifted up a large stone which lay over the cellar, saying, ‘Hide yourself there; you can hear all that is said in this room. Only sit still and don’t stir. When the Dragon comes, I will ask him what the riddle is, for he tells me everything; then listen carefully to what he answers.’

At midnight the Dragon flew in, and asked for his supper. His grandmother set the table, and brought out food and drink till he was satisfied, and they ate and drank together. Then in the course of the conversation she asked him what he had done in the day, and how many souls he had conquered.
‘Oh, I haven’t had much luck to-day,’ he said, ‘but I have a tight hold on three soldiers.’
‘Indeed! three soldiers!’ said she. ‘Who cannot escape you?’
‘They are mine,’ answered the Dragon scornfully, ‘for I shall only give them one riddle which they will never be able to guess.’
‘What sort of a riddle is it?’ she asked.
‘I will tell you this. In the North Sea lies a sea-cat—that shall be their roast meat; and the rib of a whale—that shall be their silver spoon; and the hollow foot of a horse—that shall be their wine glass.’
When the Dragon had gone to bed, his old grandmother pulled up the stone and let out the soldier.
‘Did you pay attention to everything?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I know enough, and can help myself splendidly.’
Then he went by another way through the window secretly, and in all haste back to his friends. He told them how the Dragon had been outwitted by his grandmother, and how he had heard from his own lips the answer to the riddle.

Then they were all delighted and in high spirits, took out their whip, and cracked so much money that it came jumping up from the ground. When the seven years had quite gone, the Dragon came with his book, and, pointing at the signatures, said, ‘I will take you underground with me; you shall have a meal there. If you can tell me what you will get for your roast meat, you shall be free, and shall also keep the whip.’
Then the first soldier said, ‘In the North Sea lies a sea-cat; that shall be the roast meat.’
The Dragon was very annoyed, and hummed and hawed a good deal, and asked the second, ‘But what shall be your spoon?’
‘The rib of a whale shall be our silver spoon.’
The Dragon-made a face, and growled again three times, ‘Hum, hum, hum,’ and said to the third, ‘Do you know what your wine glass shall be?’
‘An old horse’s hoof shall be our wineglass.’
Then the Dragon flew away with a loud shriek, and had no more power over them. But the three soldiers took the little whip, whipped as much money as they wanted, and lived happily for the rest of their lives

Written by Katharine Pyle.

There was once a poor widow who had only one daughter, a child who was so good and gentle that everyone who knew her, loved her.
One day the child went into the forest to gather firewood, and she was very sad because there was nothing left in the house to eat, and because she and her mother were so often made to go hungry.
She had already gathered a bundle of sticks, and was about to go home, when she saw a poor old woman who had also come to the forest for wood. The woman was so bent and stiff that it was sad to see her. The child felt sorry for her and wished to help her.

“Good morning,” she said, “let me gather the wood for you; it must be hard for you to bend.”
She put down her own load, and gathered for the old woman as much as she was able to carry. “I would take it home for you,” said the little girl, “but my mother is waiting for me, and I must go quickly, for I am already late.”
“Child,” said the old woman, “you have a good heart, and you deserve to be rewarded.” She then drew out from under her cloak a little iron pot. “Take this,” she said. “It is a magic pot. Whenever you are hungry you have only to say—
“‘Boil little pot
Till the porridge is hot,’
and it will begin to boil and fill up with sweet porridge. When you have had enough say—
“‘Cease little pot,
The porridge is hot,’
and it will stop boiling.”
She made the child repeat the words after her several times, and she then gave her the pot and hobbled away through the forest.

The child was filled with joy at the thought that now she and her mother need never be hungry again. She ran home as fast as she could, carrying the pot with both hands.
When she came in her mother asked her where the wood was.
“I have brought home something better than wood,” cried the child. “The wood only warms us, but here is something that will feed us as well.” She set the pot upon the table and said:
“Boil little pot
Till the porridge is hot.”
The pot at once began to bubble and boil, and soon it was full and brimming over with sweet porridge. The widow picked up a spoon and spooned some of the porridge out into a bowl, but the more she dipped out the more there was in it. When all the bowls in the house were full, the child said:
“Cease little pot,
The porridge is hot,”
and at once the pot stopped boiling.
The widow was overjoyed at the treasure the little girl had brought home. “Come,” she cried, “let us sit down and eat.”
“Yes, dear mother,” said the child, “but first I will carry some of the porridge to the neighbors who were so kind to us when we had nothing.”

The little girl filled a large kettle with porridge and started out with it, but no sooner had she gone than the widow began to wonder whether they had kept enough for themselves. She did not feel satisfied, so she said to the pot:
“Boil little pot
Till the porridge is hot.”
Immediately the pot began to bubble and boil. Soon it was full and the porridge began to run over. The widow wished to stop it, but she had forgotten what to say. “Enough!” she cried. “Stop! Stop!” but the porridge still boiled up and over the edge of the pot. The widow picked up the spoon and again began spooning out the porridge; she dipped as fast as she could. Soon all the pots and pans in the house were full and still the pot continued to boil out porridge. In despair the widow grabbed the pot and threw it outside the door, but the porridge flowed out from it in a stream, and ran down the road.

The little girl was coming home when she met the stream of porridge, and at once she guessed what had happened. She ran as fast as she could and when she came to the place where the pot lay she cried:
“Cease little pot,
The porridge is hot.”
At once the pot stopped boiling, but already enough porridge had been wasted to have fed the whole countryside.
After that the widow never again dared to tell the pot to boil. When they wished for porridge it was the child who spoke to it. But from then on she and her mother never lacked for anything, for the porridge was so delicious that people came from far and near to buy it from them.

Written by Richard Barnum.

The next day, bright and early, Mike drove his goat and wagon to the big park which was in the upper part of the city, not far from where the people had built their shanties on the rocks.
“Well, I see you are on time,” said the man who had the privilege of managing the goat wagons in the park. No wagons other than those he permitted could come in to give the children rides, so if Mike had not accepted his offer the boy could not have done a park business on his own.
“Yes, Lightfoot and I are ready,” said Mike.
In a little while the other goats were brought from the stable in the park where they were kept, and harnessed to small wagons. The wagons were better painted than Mike’s, but no cleaner nor larger. And as a friend of his mother’s had given her a strip of bright red carpet, Mike put this in the bottom of his goat cart, so that it looked bright and cheerful.
“Huh! Got a new boy, it seems,” said one of the small drivers, as he noticed Lightfoot and Mike.
“Yes, and if he tries to take away any of my customers he’ll get in trouble,” said another, shaking his fist at Mike.
“Here, you boys! No quarreling!” said the manager of the goat wagons, a Mr. Marshall. “You’ll all do as I say, and I won’t have any picking on this boy. Business isn’t all that good anyways, and I want you all to do your best.”
Mike said nothing to the other boys, but he was not afraid to take his own part.

The other goats looked at Lightfoot, and one, hitched to the wagon driven by the boy who had spoken a bit angrily to Mike, said to Lightfoot:
“Where did you come from?”
“From the high rocks,” answered Lightfoot.
“Do you mean the mountains?” asked another goat.
“I don’t know, but it’s over that way,” said Lightfoot, and he pointed with his horns in the direction of Mike’s home.
“Oh, he means the rocks by the shanties!” exclaimed the goat who had first spoken. “Why, we can’t have anything to do with goats like that! We give rides to well born children. This goat comes from a very poor home indeed.
“Who said you could come here and give rides with us?” he asked Lightfoot.
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Lightfoot. “I was driven here, and I’ll do my best to give good rides to the children. I may not have come from the mountains, but the rocks where I live are very high and sweet grass grows on top. Can any of you jump from the high rocks down on top of the widow’s shanty?”
“Thank you, we don’t live near shanties,” said another goat. “We live in the park stable.”
“Just the same, that was a good jump,” remarked a quiet goat, with short horns. “I was over that way once. I think I know the place you mean,” he went on to Lightfoot, and Mike’s goat was glad to know he had one friend.
“Well, he may be a good jumper but I don’t believe he can butt hard with his horns and head,” said the ill-tempered goat, who was called Snipper from the habit he had of snipping off leaves and flowers in the park.
“I once nearly butted a trolley car off the tracks,” said Lightfoot, “and I did shove a little girl out of the way of the car.”
“Pooh! That’s nothing,” sneered Snipper. “Let’s see how hard you can butt,” and he rose up on his hind legs and aimed his head and horns at Lightfoot.
“Look out, Lightfoot!” cried Mike. But the new goat was ready for Snipper. Rising on his own hind legs, Lightfoot butted the other goat so hard that he nearly fell over backward into the cart.
“Good! Well butted!” cried the kindly, short-horned goat. “That was fine!”
“You wouldn’t say so if you felt it,” bleated Snipper.
“Well, it was your own fault. You started the quarrel,” went on the friendly goat.
“I can butt better than he can, and I’ll show him too, next time,” grumbled Snipper, rubbing his head against a tree.

“Say!” cried the boy who had spoken roughly to Mike, “if your goat doesn’t leave mine alone I—I’ll do something to you!”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Mike. “I’m not afraid of the likes of you.”
“Here, boys, stop your quarreling,” said the man. “Get ready now, some children and their mothers are coming. Perhaps they may want rides.”

Along the path that led to the goat stand came a number of boys and girls. Seeing them, the boys in charge of the goats called:
“Here you are for a ride! This way for a ride! We’ve got the best goats in the park! Only five cents a ride!”
The children stopped. Some begged their fathers or mothers to let them have a ride. One man, with a boy and a girl, said yes.
“Which wagon and goat do you want?” asked the father.
For a moment the children were undecided.
“Here, take mine! It’s the best!” cried the boy whose goat had been butted by Lightfoot. For a moment the children seemed about to get into the wagon, then the little girl cried:
“Oh, see what a pretty red carpet is in this wagon!” and she ran over to Mike’s. “I want to ride in this!”
“So do I,” said her brother, and they got in.
Mike was pleased and happy, but the other boy, whose name was Henry, scowled.
“I’ll get you for that,” he muttered to Mike, but Mike did not care. He started Lightfoot down the park road and the goat drew the delighted children swiftly and carefully.
Thus it was that Mike and Lightfoot began their work in the park. From then on, for several weeks, Mike would take his goat and cart to the stand every morning, and all day long he would drive parties of children up and down. Lightfoot was growing stronger and more used to harness and cart, and he could soon pull as well as the best goat in the park.
Every Saturday night Mike took home ten dollars to his mother, and this was the best of all. Of course Mike took in more than this from the children who paid him for their rides, but everything over ten dollars went to Mr. Marshall. Out of the ten dollars Mike paid for hay and oats for Lightfoot, for now that he had work to do, the goat could not live on grass alone.

The other goats accepted Lightfoot for a friend now, and even Snipper was on good terms with him, for they all saw that Lightfoot was as strong as any of them and could take his own part. But Henry, the boy who drove Snipper, did not make friends with Mike.
“I’ll get even with him some day,” he said.
And this is how he did it—not a very fair way, I should say. One noon Mike took the harness off Lightfoot, and, putting a rope around the goat’s neck, tied the other end to a tree, so Lightfoot would not stray away, as he had once or twice, meaning nothing wrong. Mike’s mother had not had time to make his lunch that morning, so Mike went down to a little restaurant in the park, intending to get a glass of milk and some sandwiches.
“Now behave yourself, Lightfoot, while I’m gone. I’ll soon be back,” said Mike.
Lightfoot wiggled his little stubby tail. Whether he understood or not I can not say. He went on cropping grass, after he had eaten his hay and other food.
In a little while Henry came along. He saw Lightfoot tethered all by himself, the other goats having been taken to the stable. Henry looked about, and, seeing no signs of Mike, took up a stick, and, going toward Lightfoot, said:
“I’ll teach you to butt my goat! You won’t do it after I am through with you!”
Then, with the stick, he started chasing Lightfoot. At first Mike’s goat did not know what to make of this. He looked up and seeing that it was one of the goat-boys, but not Mike, thought maybe it was a new kind of game. But as the stick got closer and closer Lightfoot knew that it was no game.
Swish! Swish! Swish! Henry swung the stick around Lightfoot’s back.
Lightfoot tried to get away, but the rope held him. Then, suddenly the goat became angry, and you can not blame him. He knew he had strong horns and a strong head, given him by nature to butt with and defend himself.
“And I’m going to butt that boy who is chasing me with that stick!” thought Lightfoot. Before Henry knew what was happening Lightfoot rushed straight at him with lowered head, and the next thing Henry knew he found himself falling backward head over heels in the grass. The goat had butted him down good and hard.

For a moment Henry lay dazed, hardly knowing what had happened. Then, all of a sudden, Lightfoot felt sorry.
“Mike would not want me to do this,” he said to himself. “Maybe he will be angry with me when he comes back. I know what I’ll do; I’ll run away.”
With a strong jump, and a leap, Lightfoot broke off, close to his neck, the rope that held him. And then, before Henry could get up, off through the bushes in the park ran Lightfoot. He had run away.

The park where Lightfoot worked was quite a large one. There were many paths in it, and driveways. There were also patches of wood, and places where the bushes grew in tangled clumps, making many hiding places.
“I’d better hide myself for a while,” thought Lightfoot, for, though he was a tame goat, he still had in him some of the wildness that is in all animals and this wildness made him want to hide when he thought himself in trouble. And the trouble Lightfoot feared was that he would be spoken harshly to for knocking over the boy who had teased him.
“I’ll hide under these thick bushes,” said the goat to himself, when he had run quite a distance from the stand in the park where the small wagons were kept.

The bushes were thick, but with his strong head and horns Lightfoot soon poked a way for himself into the very middle of them, and there he lay down upon the ground to rest. For he had run fast and was tired. His heart was beating very hard.
Though he did not know it, Lightfoot had done just as a wild goat would have done—one that lived in a far-off country who had never seen a wagon, a harness or a shanty. He had hidden himself away from trouble.
And, with a beating heart, as he crouched under the bush, Lightfoot wondered what he would do next.
“I can’t go back to the park and help Mike with the wagon, giving the children rides,” thought Lightfoot. “If I do that, the boy with the stick will be waiting for me. He’ll be angry at me for knocking him down. That little girl wasn’t mad at me for knocking her off the trolley tracks; but then that was different, I guess. And maybe Mike will be angry with me too. I’ll be sorry for that.
“He won’t give me any more lumps of salt, nor sweet carrots. I won’t see Blackie again, nor Grandpa Bumper. I’ll never jump around on the rocks any more and see the Sharp-horns. Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. I must do the best I can. I’ll stay here for a while and see what happens.”

So Lightfoot remained in hiding, and when Mike had finished getting his little lunch in the restaurant he came back to re harness his goat to the wagon, ready to give the children rides in the afternoon.
“What? Where’s Lightfoot?” asked Mike in surprise, as he came back and saw the broken rope where he had tied his pet. “Where’s my goat?”
“How should I know?” asked Henry in an angry sort of voice. “He butted me over on my back a little while ago.”
“You must have done something to make him do that,” quickly cried Mike. He looked at the end of the broken rope. At first he thought Henry might have cut it on purpose to let Lightfoot get away, but the ends of the rope, frayed and rough, showed that it had not been cut, but broken.
“Have any of you seen Lightfoot?” asked Mike of the other boys. But they had all been to dinner themselves and had not seen what had happened. The other goats, too, had been taken to the stable for the noon meal.
Only Henry had seen Lightfoot run away, and he felt so unkindly toward the goat and Mike that he would not tell Mike where he had gone. Mike ran here and there, asking the park policemen and other helpers if they had seen his goat, but none had. Lightfoot had taken just the best possible time to run away—noon, when everyone was at dinner. And now the goat was safely hidden in the bushes.
“Well, I’ve just got to find him,” said Mike to himself, as he looked at the goat’s harness hanging on a tree, and at the wagon with its strip of bright red carpet. “I’ve just got to find Lightfoot!”

Telling Mr. Marshall what had happened, and promising to come back with Lightfoot as soon as he could find him, and take up again the work of giving children rides in the park, Mike set off to find his pet.
Along the paths, cutting across the grassy lawns, looking under clumps of bushes, asking those he met, Mike went on and on looking for Lightfoot. Now and then he stopped, to call the goat’s name. But though once Lightfoot, from where he was hiding, heard Mike’s voice he did not bleat in answer, as he had always done before.
“He is looking for me to scold me,” thought Lightfoot, “and I am not going to be scolded!”
Poor Lightfoot! If he had known that Mike would not scold him, but would have pet him, and given him something nice to eat, the goat might have come out from the bush where he was hiding and have trotted up to Mike. Had Lightfoot done this he would have saved himself much trouble. But then, of course, he would not have had so many adventures about which I will tell you.

After calling and looking for Lightfoot, even very near the bush under which the goat was hidden, but never suspecting his pet was there, Mike walked farther on. He had not given up the search, but now he was far from the place where Lightfoot was hiding.
Lightfoot stayed under the bushes and listened. He did not hear anyone coming toward him, and he began to think he was now safe. He was beginning to feel a bit hungry again, so he reached out and nibbled some of the leaves.
“My! That tastes good!” he said to himself. “It’s better even than the grass that grows on top of the rocks at home.”
Then, all of a sudden, Lightfoot felt homesick. He thought of the fun he had had with Blackie and the other goats, and he wanted to go back to them.
“I think I’ll do that,” he said. “Maybe, after all, Mike will not let that other boy chase me. But I will wait until after dark.”
The sun sank down in the west. The children and their nurses went home from the park. The goats and wagons were taken to the stable. Mike came back from his search.
“Well, did you find your goat?” asked Mr. Marshall.
Mike shook his head sadly.
“No, I didn’t,” he answered. “But I’ll look again tomorrow.”
“If you don’t find him pretty soon,” went on the man, “I’ll have to get another goat and wagon.”
Mike felt sadder than ever at this for he knew the money he had been able to earn with Lightfoot was much needed at home. And it was with a sad heart that Mike told his mother what had happened.
“Never mind, Mike my darling,” said the good Irish woman. “Maybe Lightfoot will come back to us some day.”

At dark Lightfoot crept out from under the bush. The lights were sparkling in the park, and he thought he could easily find his way back to Shanty-town. Mike had driven him from there to the park and back many times.
But the darkness, even though there were lights here and there, bothered Lightfoot. He soon became lost. He did not know which way he was going. Once, as he crossed a green lawn in the park he saw, standing under a lamp, a policeman with a club. Lightfoot did not know what a policeman was but he knew what a club was used for—to chase goats.
“But he won’t chase me,” thought Lightfoot, so he kept in the shadows and got safely past. On and on he wandered, trying to find his way back to the rocks where he had spent so many happy months. But he could not find them, and at last he became so tired that he crawled under some bushes and went to sleep.

Jimmy Skunk and Peter Rabbit were having a dispute. It was a good-natured dispute, but both Jimmy and Peter are very decided in their opinions, and neither would give in to the other. Finally they decided that as neither could convince the other, they should leave it for Grandfather Frog to decide which was right. So they started straight away for the Smiling Pool, where on his big green lily-pad Grandfather Frog was enjoying the twilight and leading the great Frog chorus. Both agreed that they would accept Grandfather Frog’s decision.
You see, each was sure that he was right.
When they reached the Smiling Pool, they found Grandfather Frog looking very comfortable and old and wise. “Good evening, Grandfather Frog. I hope you are feeling just as fine as you look,” said Jimmy Skunk, who never forgets to be polite.
“Ribbit! Ribbit! I’m feeling very well, thank you,” replied Grandfather Frog. “What brings you to the Smiling Pool this fine evening?” He looked very hard at Peter Rabbit, for he suspected that Peter had come for a story.
“To get the wisest person of whom we know to decide a matter on which Peter and I cannot agree; and who is there so wise as Grandfather Frog?” replied Jimmy.
Grandfather Frog looked immensely pleased. It always pleases him to be considered wise. “Ribbit! Ribbit!” he said gruffly. “You have a very smooth tongue, Jimmy Skunk. But what is this matter on which you cannot agree?”
“How many animals can fly?” returned Jimmy, by way of answer.
“One,” replied Grandfather Frog. “I thought everybody knew that. Flitter the Bat is the only animal who can fly.”
“You forget Timmy, the Flying Squirrel!” cried Peter excitedly. “That makes two.”
Grandfather Frog shook his head. “Peter, Peter, whatever is the matter with those eyes of yours?” he exclaimed. “They certainly are big enough. I wonder if you ever will learn to use them. Half-seeing is sometimes worse than not seeing at all.
Timmy cannot fly any more than I can.”
“What did I tell you?” cried Jimmy Skunk triumphantly.
“But I’ve seen him fly lots of times!” persisted Peter. “I guess that anyone who has envied him as often as I have ought to know.”
“Hump!” grunted Grandfather Frog. “I guess that’s the trouble. There was so much envy that it got into your eyes, and you couldn’t see straight. Envy is a bad thing.”
Jimmy Skunk chuckled.
“Did you ever see him away from trees?” continued Grandfather Frog.
“No,” said Peter.
“Did you ever see him cut circles in the air like Flitter the Bat?”
“No-o,” replied Peter slowly.
“Of course not,” retorted Grandfather Frog. “The reason is because he doesn’t fly. He hasn’t any wings. What he does do is to coast on the air. He is the greatest jumper and coaster in the Green Forest.”
“Coast on the air!” exclaimed Peter. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“There are many things you have never heard of,” replied Grandfather Frog. “Sit down, Peter, and stop fidgeting, and I’ll tell you a story.”
The very word story was enough to make Peter forget everything else, and he promptly sat down with his big eyes fixed on Grandfather Frog.

“It happened,” began Grandfather Frog, “that way back in the beginning of things, there lived a very timid member of the Squirrel family, own cousin to Mr. Red Squirrel and Mr. Gray Squirrel, but not at all like them, for he was very gentle and very shy. Perhaps this was partly because he was very small and was not big enough or strong enough to fight his way as the others did. In fact, this little Mr. Squirrel was so timid that he preferred to stay out of sight during the day, when so many were about. He felt safer in the dusk of evening, and so he used to wait until jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had gone to bed behind the Purple Hills before he ventured out to hunt for his food. Then his quarrelsome cousins had gone to bed, and there was no one to drive him away when he found a feast of good things.
“But even at night there was plenty of danger. There was Mr. Owl to be watched out for, and other night prowlers. In fact, little Mr. Squirrel didn’t feel safe on the ground for a minute, and so he kept to the trees as much as possible. Of course, when the branches of one tree reached to the branches of another tree, it was an easy matter to travel through the tree-tops, but every once in a while there would be open places to cross, and many a fright did timid little Mr. Squirrel have as he scampered across these open places. He used to sit and watch old Mr. Bat flying about and wish that he had wings. Then he thought how foolish it was to wish for something he hadn’t got and couldn’t have.
“‘The thing to do,’ said little Mr. Squirrel to himself, ‘is to make the most of what I have got. Now I am a pretty good jumper, but if I keep jumping, perhaps I can learn to jump better than I do now.’
“So every night Mr. Squirrel used to go off by himself, where he was sure no one would see him, and practice jumping. He would climb an old stump and then jump as far as he could. Then he would do it all over again ever so many times, and after a little he found that he went farther, quite a little farther, than when he began. Then one night he made a discovery. He found that by spreading his arms and legs out just as far as possible and making himself as flat as he could, he could go almost twice as far as he had been able to go before, and he landed a great deal easier. It was like sliding down on the air. It was great fun, and pretty soon he was spending all his spare time doing it.

“One moonlight night, Old Mother Nature happened along and sat down on a log to watch him. Little Mr. Squirrel didn’t see her, and when at last she asked him what he was doing, he was so surprised and confused that he could hardly find his tongue. At last he told her that he was trying to learn to jump better so that he might take better care of himself. The idea pleased Old Mother Nature. You know she is always pleased when she finds people trying to help themselves.
“‘That’s a splendid idea,’ said she. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll make you the greatest jumper in the Green Forest.’
“Then she gave to little Mr. Squirrel something almost but not quite like wings. Between his front legs and hind legs on each side she stretched a piece of skin that folded right down against his body when he was walking or running so as to hardly show and wasn’t in the way at all.

“‘Now,’ she said, ‘climb that tall tree over yonder clear to the top and then jump with all your might for that tree over there across that open place.’
“It was ten times as far as little Mr. Squirrel ever had jumped before, and the tree was so tall that he felt sure that he would be hurt when he struck the ground. He was afraid, very much afraid. But Old Mother Nature had told him to do it. He knew that he ought to trust her. So he climbed the tall tree. It was a frightful distance down to the ground, and that other tree was so far away that it was silly to even think of reaching it.
“‘Jump!’ commanded Old Mother Nature.
“Little Mr. Squirrel gulped very hard, trying to swallow his fear. Then he jumped with all his might, and just as he had taught himself to do, spread himself out as flat as he could. Just imagine how surprised he was and how tickled when he just coasted down on the air clear across the open place and landed as lightly as a feather on the foot of that distant tree! You see, the skin between his legs when he spread them out had kept him from falling straight down. Of course if he hadn’t jumped with all his might, as Old Mother Nature had told him to, even though he thought it wouldn’t be of any use, he wouldn’t have reached that other tree.
“He was so delighted that he wanted to do it right over again, but he didn’t forget his manners. He first thanked Old Mother Nature.
“She smiled. ‘See that you keep out of danger, for that is why I have made you the greatest jumper in the Green Forest,’ she said.
“Little Mr. Squirrel did. People who, like Peter, did not use their eyes, thought that he could fly, and he was called the Flying Squirrel. He was the great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of Timmy whom you both know.”
“And Timmy doesn’t really fly at all, does he?” asked Jimmy Skunk.
“Certainly not. He jumps and slides on the air,” replied Grandfather Frog.
“What did I tell you?” cried Jimmy triumphantly to Peter.
“Well, anyway, it’s the next best thing to flying. I wish I could do it,” replied Peter.

Written by Richard Barnum.

Lightfoot, the leaping goat, who was cropping the sweet grass on top of the rocks from which he had once made his great jump, looked down in the yard near the shanty and saw his owner Mike busy over something new.
“I wonder what that is?” thought Lightfoot to himself, for goats and other animals wonder and are curious about things, as you can tell by holding out something in your hand to a dog or a cat. They will come up to it and smell it, to see if it is good to eat.
And so Lightfoot wondered. Mike was good to him, and often brought him some lumps of salt, or a bit of carrot or turnip, for though goats like to eat grass, and even bits of paper and other strange things, they like nice things too, like sweet vegetables.
“I guess I’ll go down and see what it is Mike has,” said Lightfoot to himself, and so he started down the rocky path. Though he was a good leaping goat he did not want again to try to jump on top of the widow’s shanty. That was too dangerous.
“Where are you going, Lightfoot?” asked Blackie, the girl-goat, who had been cropping grass near her friend, as she saw him start down the rocky path.
“The boy Mike is down there, and he may have something good to eat,” answered Lightfoot. “If he does, I’ll give you some.”
“You are very kind,” said Blackie, and she followed down after Lightfoot, only more slowly, for she was not as good a jumper or rock-climber as he was.

Down near his mother’s shanty, Mike was looking at the goat wagon and harness he had just brought home.
“It’s almost as good as new, Mother!” cried the boy. “Look at the wheels spin, would you!” and turning the wagon on one side he spun two wheels around until they went so fast he could not see the spokes.
“Be careful now and don’t break it,” cautioned his mother.
“Oh, sure ’tis a grand strong wagon!” cried Mike. “It would hold two baskets of clothes. And I can ride four boys or girls around in it at once, and get pennies.”
“Well, it is the pennies we need,” sighed Mrs. Malony, for she found it hard to get along on what she could earn. Mike was getting to be a bigger boy now, and he ate more, though his mother never told him this. She wanted him to grow strong.
“Give me a bit of salt, Mother,” said Mike. “I want to get Lightfoot friendly, so he’ll not be afraid of the harness or wagon, for I’m going to hitch him up soon.
“Here he comes now with Blackie,” went Mike, as he saw the two goats coming down the rocky path. “You’re just in time, Lightfoot, though I don’t need Blackie to learn to pull the wagon. She might not be strong enough. But I’ll give her some salt.”
The two goats licked the salt from Mike’s hands, and liked it very much. Mike turned the wagon right side up, and then took up part of the harness.
“I wonder how Lightfoot will act when I put it on him,” thought Mike. “He’s never been harnessed.”
While the goat was chewing some sweet chopped carrots which Mrs. Malony spread out in front of him, Mike gently slipped a part of the harness over the goat’s back. At first Lightfoot jumped a little to one side. But, as he saw that there were still more carrots left, and as he felt Mike patting him, Lightfoot thought it was all right.
“I guess it’s just a new game that boy Mike is playing,” said the goat to himself. “Well, he’s always kind to me, so I’m sure it will be all right. Anyhow, these carrots are good. Have some, Blackie.”
“I will,” said the other goat. “But what is that strange thing on your back, Lightfoot?”
“Oh, some game that boy is playing,” answered the goat. “It won’t hurt us, for Mike is always kind,” and he and Blackie went on eating the carrots.
“Well, so far so good,” said Mike to himself when he had most of the harness on his pet, and Lightfoot had stood still. “Now to get the bit in his mouth. That’s going to be harder.”
“Better get Jack Murphy to come over and help you,” said Mrs. Malony. “He’s used to keeping goats, and he knows a lot about ’em, though I don’t know if he ever harnessed ’em to a cart.”

But Mr. Murphy had, as it happened, and, being a neighbor of the Malonys, he soon came over when Mike called him and showed the boy how to put the iron bit in Lightfoot’s mouth, and run the reins back through rings fastened in a part of the harness that went around the middle of the goat’s back.
It was not an easy thing to do, and, several times, Lightfoot tried to break away. But Mike and Mr. Murphy held him until the harness was in place and tightly strapped on.
“Now see if you can drive him about,” said Mr. Murphy, when Mike had hold of the reins and the bit was in Lightfoot’s mouth. The goat was shaking his head about, trying to get rid of the piece of iron between his teeth. It did not hurt him. It just felt unusual. But it was firmly held by straps, and Lightfoot could not shake it loose.
“I can’t drive him without first hitching him to the wagon,” said Mike, for as yet the goat had not been put between the shafts of the little cart.
“Oh! Don’t hitch him to that yet,” advised Mr. Murphy. “Sure he might run away and break it. Just drive him about the yard by the reins and run after him.”
“He may run away with me,” laughed Mike.
“Well, that can’t be helped. Maybe he will. But he’ll soon get used to the harness and behave. Lightfoot is a wise goat.”
But even wise goats don’t like it the first time they are put in harness, and Lightfoot was no different in this way from others, though he was such a good jumper. When Mike took hold of the reins and called Lightfoot to “gid-dap,” the goat, who was now big and strong, started off with such force and suddenness that Mike was almost jerked from his feet.
“Run!” called Mr. Murphy. “Run with him, and along after him, Mike. Try to turn him to the right and the left so he’ll know how to mind the reins when he’s fastened to the wagon. Run after him!”

Mike, holding fast to the reins, ran, and the goat ran too. And, being a good runner, Lightfoot easily kept ahead of Mike. It was all Mike could do not to let go of the reins.
“Run!” called Mr. Murphy. “Run faster, Mike!”
Mike tried but he stumbled over a stone and fell. However, he kept hold of the reins, winding them around his wrists and as Lightfoot kept on going he pulled Mike about the yard.
“Bless and’ save us!” cried Mrs. Malony coming to the door of her house. “What’s happenin’?”
“He’s teaching Lightfoot to pull to a harness,” said Mr. Murphy.
“Hum! It looks more like Lightfoot was teachin’ Mike,” said the widow. “Won’t Mike get hurt?”
“Not a bit. Many a time in th’ old country I’ve been dragged by a goat. It’s good for one.”

Around and around the yard Lightfoot dragged Mike, the chickens and ducks scattering in all directions, the old rooster flying up to the fence and crowing with all his might.
At last Lightfoot, finding he could not get the iron bit out of his mouth, and could not shake off the harness, and looking back and seeing Mike being dragged about on the ground, thought:
“Well, I guess I’m tired. I seem to be held fast no matter what I do. I’ll quit.”
And that is just what Mike wanted, for he was tired of being pulled about in this fashion.
“Well, I guess he’s learned that part, anyhow,” said Mr. Murphy. “Now we’ll hitch him to the wagon.”
While Mr. Murphy was bringing up the wagon, and Mike was holding Lightfoot, Blackie came up and asked:
“What was all that for, Lightfoot?”
“Oh, I guess it was a new kind of game. I can’t say I like it though. I would rather jump on the rocks,” answered Lightfoot.
“No, it was not a game,” said Grandpa Bumper, coming up just then. “You are being taught to let yourself be harnessed up to draw a cart, Lightfoot, and here they come with the cart now.”
“What does that mean?” asked the leaping goat. “Will it hurt?”
“No, not if you behave yourself. Once I was a cart-drawing goat, and I worked in a nice park. I’ll tell you about it so you’ll know what to do.”

And when the cart was brought up, and the shafts, one on each side of Lightfoot, were being fastened with straps, the younger goat stood very still, listening to Grandpa Bumper tell, in goat language, just what it all meant.
“Why, he seems to like it,” said Mike as he fastened the last strap. “He didn’t try once to get away, Mr. Murphy.”
“I guess he’s getting used to it,” said the kind man.
But if he and Mike had known, it was what Grandpa Bumper had said to Lightfoot that made the young goat stand so still and allow himself to be hitched to the cart.
“Well,” said Lightfoot to the old goat when the harnessing was finished, “it may not be so bad after all. I guess I’ll be good and not run away. I’ll pull the cart nicely.”
“It will be best, I think,” said the old goat.

So, when Mike took his seat in the cart, and pulled on the reins, calling to Lightfoot to “Gid-dap!” the goat started off, pulling the little wagon as though he had done it all his life.
“Oh, this is great!” cried Mike. “I never thought he would learn as easily as this.”
“He is a smart and sensible goat,” Mr. Murphy said. “Now look out if he gets going too fast.”
But Lightfoot did not seem to want to run away. He trotted along up and down the street, soon learning to turn to the right or the left as Mike pulled the reins.
Once or twice Lightfoot started to run swiftly, but Mike pulled back on the reins, and the iron bit in his mouth, pressing on his tongue and teeth, told Lightfoot that he must go more slowly.

In a few days he had become used to the cart and harness and Mike could drive him anywhere. The other goats came to the top of the pile of rocks and looked down at Lightfoot. Many of them wished they could be harnessed up, for Lightfoot got many extra good things to eat from Mike, who liked his driving goat very much. Lightfoot was now a driving goat as well as a leaping one.
“And now it’s time, I guess,” said Mike one day, “to see if I can earn money with my goat and wagon.” He had taken a number of baskets of clean clothes home to his mother’s employers, and, no matter how heavy the basket was, Lightfoot had no trouble in pulling it, with Mike sitting on the front seat of the cart.
Mike made his wagon nice and clean, put a strip of old carpet in the bottom, and started one day for a part of the city where rich folks lived. Along the streets there, on pleasant afternoons, nurse maids would be out walking with the children of whom they took care. When he got to this place Mike drove his goat wagon slowly up and down.
It was not long before a little boy, well dressed, who was walking along with his nurse, cried:
“Oh, Marie! See the wonderful goat wagon! May I have a ride in it?”
“No, no, Peter. It is not to ride in.”
“Yes, it is! I want a ride! Will you give me a ride, young boy?” he called to Mike.
“You must not ask for rides,” said Marie, the maid. “The boy sells rides—that is, I think he does,” and she looked at Mike and smiled.
“Yes,” answered Mike, “my goat wagon is for hire.”
“Then I want a ride!” cried little Peter. “I want a ride, Marie!”
“But we must ask your mom,” said the maid. “Come, she is just going out in the car. We will ask her.”

Mike saw a nicely dressed lady getting into a big automobile in front of a fine house. Peter ran to her and said something. The lady beckoned to Mike, who drove his wagon toward her.
“Do you hire out your goat wagon for rides?” asked the lady.
“Yes ma’am,” said Mike.
“And is he perfectly safe?”
“Yes ma’am. I drive him myself. I won’t let him run away.”
“Then I think you may have a ride up and down the block, Peter. Marie, here is money to pay the boy. But be careful, won’t you?” she cautioned Mike.
“Oh, yes ma’am,” he promised. He helped Peter into the goat wagon, on to one of the three rear seats, Marie getting in also. Then Mike started Lightfoot off down the street at a gentle trot.
“Oh, I love this!” cried Peter. “When I grow up I’m going to drive a goat wagon!”
“Oh, Peter!” cried Marie.
“Well, I am,” he said. “It’s ever so much more fun than making an automobile go. Anybody can do that.”

Up and down the block Mike drove Lightfoot, giving the little boy and his nurse a fine ride. Then the other children wanted rides, and their parents or nurses, seeing how gentle the goat was, and how well Mike managed him, let their boys and girls get in the cart. Mike was kept busy all afternoon giving rides to the little tots, and when he had finished he had nearly two dollars, in ten- and five-cent pieces, for some children took more than one ride.
“Talk about your luck!” cried Mike as he drove toward his shanty, a happy smile on his freckled face. “I’ll soon be rich.”
“Look at that, Mother!” he cried, as he poured the money from his pocket onto the table. “That’s what Lightfoot earned for us to-day!”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mrs. Malony. “The money will come in handy, for I have the grocer to pay to-night. Tell me about it, Mike.”
And Mike told, while Lightfoot, unharnessed, ate a good supper, and then told the other goats of his new adventures.

For several weeks Mike went about the different streets of the city giving rides to children, and hardly a day passed that he did not make a dollar or a little more. Of course when it rained he could not do this. And then one day Mike came home with bright eyes and a laughing face.
“What do you think, Mother dear!” he cried. “I have a regular job with Lightfoot!”
“What is it, Mike?”
“I’m to drive him and the goat wagon in the park, and the man is to give me ten dollars a week. That’ll be better than going about the streets. I’ll get paid regular money. Hurray!” and Mike hugged and kissed his mother.

When Mike had quieted his joy and happiness down a bit, he explained to his mother how it had come about. It seemed that as he was driving Lightfoot about, hitched to the cart, and giving a number of children a ride on a quiet street, a man had come up to Mike.
“I have a goat stand in the park,” the man explained. “I own a number of goats and wagons, and hire boys to drive them. Would you like to sell me your goat and wagon? I need another.”
“But I told him I wouldn’t sell Lightfoot,” Mike explained. “Then he wanted me to rent my outfit to him for a week, but I wouldn’t do that, for I wouldn’t let anybody but myself drive my goat.”
“That’s right,” agreed Mrs. Malony, who was almost as fond of Lightfoot as was Mike himself. “What did the man say then?”
“Well, he wanted to know if I’d come to the park and drive the goat myself. He said he’d give me eight dollars a week, but I said I could earn more than that working for myself. Then he raised it up to ten dollars and I took him up on it.”
“But how does he make any money out of it?” asked Mrs. Malony.
“Oh, he keeps all I take in over ten dollars, and I guess it will be more than that lots of times, for big crowds of children go to the park these Summer days. Then, too, we don’t give such long rides as I’ve been giving. They charge only five cents a ride in the park, and I charge ten sometimes, but then I go all around a big block.
“But I think it’ll be a good thing for us, Mother. Ten dollars a week is a lot of money. Of course I’ll have to buy the feed for Lightfoot out of that, and a bit of lunch for myself.”
“Sure, I can put that up for you in the morning,” said the widow with a smile. “It’s great, Mike my boy! Sure we’ve had good luck ever since we got Lightfoot.”

Written by Clara Dillingham Pierson

A RAINY DAY ON THE LAWN
When the sun rose, that morning late in April, he tried and tried to look at the big house and see what was happening. All he could see was a thick gray cloud veil stretched between him and the earth, and, shine as hard as he might, not a single sunbeam went through that veil.

When the Blackbirds awakened, they found a drizzling rain falling, and hurried on their waterproofs to get ready for a wet time. Blackbirds are always handsome, yet they never look better than when it rains. They coat their feathers with oil from the pockets under their tails, as indeed all birds do, and then they fly to the high branches of some tall and swaying trees and talk and talk and talk and talk. They do not get into little groups and face each other, but scatter themselves around and face the wind. This is most sensible, for if one of them were to turn his back to the wind, it would rumple up his feathers and give the raindrops a chance to get down to his skin. When they speak, or at least when they have anything really important to say, they ruffle their own feathers and stand on tip-toe, but they ruffle them carefully and face the wind all the time.
When the Robins opened their round eyes, they chirped cheerfully to each other and put on their waterproofs. “Good weather for us,” they said. “It will make fine mud for plastering our new nests, and it will bring out the worms.”
The English Sparrows, Goldfinches, and other seed-eaters were not made happy by the rain. With them it was only something to be borne patiently and without complaining. The Hummingbirds found fewer fresh blossoms open on cloudy days, and so had to fly farther and work harder for their food. The Pewees and other fly-catchers oiled their feathers and kept steadily at work.
The birds had not awakened so early as usual, because it was darker. They had hardly gotten a good start on their breakfast before a sleepy little face appeared at the window of the big house and a sleepy little voice called out: “O Mother, it is raining! I didn’t want it to rain.”
“Foolish! Foolish! Foolish!” chirped the Robins on the lawn. “Boys would know better than to say such things if they were birds.”
“Boys are a bother, anyway,” said an English Sparrow, as he spattered in the edge of a puddle. “I wish they had never been hatched.”
“Ker-eeeee!” said a Blackbird above his head. “I suppose they may be of some use in the world. I notice that the Gentleman and the Lady seem to think a great deal of this one, and they are a very good sort of people.”
“I’d like them better if they didn’t keep a Cat,” said his brother. “Their Cat is the greatest climber I ever saw. He almost made it to the top of this maple tree after me yesterday, and I have seen him go clear to the eaves of the big house on the woodbine.”
“That is because the Sparrows live there,” said Mr. Wren. “He went to see their children. Silvertip says that he is very fond of children—they are so much more tender than their parents.” Mr. Wren could laugh about this because his own children were always safely housed. Besides, you know, he had reason to dislike Sparrows.
“I would not stay here,” said a Sparrow who had just come up, “if the people here were not of the right sort. They have mountain ash trees and sweetbrier bushes where birds find good feeding. And in the winter that Boy throws out bread crumbs and wheat for us.”
“Humph!” said the Oldest Blackbird. “There is no need to talk so much about it. You can always tell what sort of people live in a place by seeing if they have a bird-house. If they have, and it is a sensible one, where a bird could live comfortably, they are all right.”

After that the birds worked more and talked less, for the Oldest Blackbird, while he was often grumpy and sometimes angry, was really a very sensible bird, and what he had said was true. The Robins went here and there over the lawn in quick, short runs, pausing once in a while with their heads bent forward and then pulling up choice worms to eat. Some of their mouthfuls were half as long as they, but that was not rude in Robins. What they insist on in bringing up their children is that mouthfuls should not be too broad, and that they should not stop swallowing until all the Worm is out of sight.
The Blackbirds hunted in a more dignified way. They never ran after food, or indeed after anything else. “If walking is not fast enough,” the Blackbird mothers say, “then fly, but do not run.” They walked in parties over the lawn and waggled their heads at each step. When they found Grubs they did not appear greedy, yet never a Grub escaped.
“There are two ways of hurrying,” they often said. “One is the jerky way and the other is our way of being sure and steady. Of course our way is the best. You will see that we do just as much and make less fuss.”

Silvertip came to the edge of the porch and looked around. He was licking his lips, and every bird on the lawn was happy to see that, for it meant that he had just finished his breakfast. His eyes gleamed and his tail waved stiffly as he saw the fat Robins so near. He even crouched down and took four short steps, quivering his body and trying his muscles. Then he remembered how wet the grass was and turned back with a long sigh. After all, his stomach was full and he could afford to wait until the grass was dry. The Robins would be there then, and if they kept on eating worms at this rate, they would be growing plump and juicy all the time. He began to lick himself all over, as every truly tidy Cat does after eating. By the time he had finished the tip of his tail he was sleepy, so he went into the kitchen and dozed by the fire.
The front door opened with a bang, and the Little Boy stood there, shouting and waving a piece of red paper with a string tied to it. “See my kite!” he cried. “Whee-ee-ee!”
Five birds who had been feeding near flew off in wild alarm. “Now why did he do that?” asked one, after they had settled down elsewhere. Nobody answered. None but Little Boys understand these things, and even they do not always tell.
The Lady came to the door behind him and helped him start away. He proudly carried a small new umbrella, and the precious kite fluttered out behind him. When he was outside the gate, he peeped through it and called back: “Good-by, Mother! I’m going to school to learn everything. I’ll be a good Boy. Good-by!” Then he ran down the walk with the umbrella held back over his shoulder and the rain falling squarely in his face. All that the birds could see of the Little Boy then was his fat legs bobbing along below the umbrella.
“Ah!There!” said all the birds together. “There! Silvertip is asleep and the Little Boy has gone to school. Now we can take comfort.”

When the morning was nearly past, and the birds felt so safe that they had grown almost careless, Silvertip woke up and felt hungry. He walked slowly out of the kitchen door and looked at the grass. The sun was now shining, and it was no longer sparkling with tiny drops. He crept down the steps and around to a place under a big spruce tree, the lower branches of which lay along the ground. A fat Robin was hunting nearby.
Silvertip watched her hungrily, and if you were a Cat you might have done exactly the same thing. So you must not blame Silvertip. He was creeping, creeping, creeping nearer, and never looking away from her, when the Little Boy came tramping across the grass. He had come in by the gate of the driveway, and was walking straight toward Silvertip, who neither saw nor heard him.
Then the Little Boy saw what was happening, and dropped his bright paper chain on the grass beside him. “Go way!” he cried, waving his umbrella. “Go way! Don’t you try to catch any birds ’round here. My father doesn’t ’low it. Go way! Go way! Else I’ll tell my mother that you are a bad Cat.”
Silvertip fled under the porch, the Robin flew up onto the snowball bush, and all around the birds sang the praises of the good Little Boy with the umbrella. But the Little Boy didn’t know this. He stood by the porch and dangled his pretty paper chain until Silvertip forgave him and came out to play. Then they ran together into the house, and the birds heard him shouting, “Mother! Mother! Where are you? I want to give Silvertip some cream. He is so very hungry that he almost gobbled up a Robin, only I wouldn’t let him do that, let’s get him some cream.”

Written by Richard Barnum.

In a few days Lightfoot felt better, though his bruises and cuts still hurt a little. But, with Blackie, he managed to get to the top of the rocks, and there, eating the sweet grass and lying stretched out in the sun, he was soon himself again and could jump as well as ever. He told the other goats about his adventure with the trolley car, and they all said he was brave.
It was more than a month after he had been butted into the ditch by the trolley car that Lightfoot once more wandered down that same street. He felt hungry for some pasty paper from a tomato can, and he wanted to see if any had fallen from a trash wagon.
Lightfoot looked up and down the street. He did not see a can but he did see a little girl, and she was standing in the middle of the trolley track, almost in the spot where Lightfoot had stood when he was hurt.
“I wonder if she is going to try to knock a car off the track,” thought Lightfoot. And just then, the little girl, who was about four years old, turned her back and stooped to pick up her doll, which had dropped from her arms to the ground.
As she did so, around the corner of the street, came a trolley car, just like the one that had hit Lightfoot. The motorman happened to be looking the other way, and did not see the little girl. She was so focused on her doll that she did not hear the rumble of the car, and the motorman, still looking the other way, did not ring his bell.
“That little girl will be hurt!” cried Lightfoot “She can never knock the car off the track if I couldn’t. I must save her! I must push her off the rails.”
Then, with a loud “Baa-a-a-a!” Lightfoot trotted on to the tracks in front of the car, and, as the little girl straightened up he gently put his head against her back and slowly pushed her from the tracks, leaping away himself just in time, as the car rolled right over the place where the little girl had been standing.
With a clang of the bell the trolley car came to a stop, the motorman putting the brakes on hard. Then he jumped off the front platform and ran to where the little girl had sat down in the grass at the side of the tracks. She had sat down rather hard, for Lightfoot had pushed her with more force than he intended. He was so anxious to get her out of the way of one of those charging cars that once upon a time had hurt him so.

“What is it?”
“What’s the matter?”
“What happened?”
The passengers in the trolley car, surprised by the sudden way it stopped, called to one another as they hurried out. They saw the little girl sitting in the grass, holding her doll by one leg. They saw Lightfoot, the goat, standing nearby as though keeping guard over the little girl, and they saw the motorman holding the shiny handle, by which he had turned on and off the electricity that made the car go.
“Oh, what’s the matter?” asked a small boy who had gotten off the car with his mother. “Did the goat bite the little girl?”
“No, my dear. Goats don’t bite. They butt you with their horns.”
“I don’t want any goat to butt me!” and the little boy hid behind his mother’s skirt.

Then the little girl, sitting on the grass, made up her mind to cry. Up to now she had not quite known whether to laugh or to cry, but suddenly she felt that she had been hurt, or scared, or something, and the next thing, of course, was to cry.
Tears came into her pretty blue eyes, she wiped them away with the dress of her doll and then she sobbed:
“Get away you bad goat you! Go ’way! I don’t like you! You—you tried to bite me!”
She had heard the little boy say that. But the little boy, getting brave as he saw that Lightfoot did not seem to want to bite, or butt either, anyone, came from behind his mother’s skirt and said:
“Goats don’t bite, little girl; they butt. My mamma says so, and if you are hurt she’ll kiss you and make it all better.”
Some of the passengers laughed on hearing this, and the lady with the little boy went to where the little girl was sitting on the grass, picked her up in her arms and wiped away her tears.
“There, my dear,” she said. “You’re not hurt. See the pretty goat. He won’t hurt you.”
“You’re right there!” exclaimed the motorman. “He saved her from being hurt by my car, that’s what he did.”
“What do you mean?” asked the conductor.
“I mean the goat butted the little girl off the tracks, just as the lady said goats do. She was standing on the tracks, picking up her doll, when my car came along. I wasn’t paying much attention, and I was almost on her when the goat saw what the trouble was and pushed her off the tracks with his head. He didn’t really butt her, but he got her out of the way just in time.”
“He’s a smart goat,” said one of the men who had been riding in the trolley car.
“He is that!” exclaimed the motorman. “And now that I look at him I remember him. He’s the goat we knocked off the track about two months ago. Don’t you remember?” he asked, turning to the conductor.
“Sure enough he is,” agreed the conductor, and he explained to the passengers the accident, or adventure, that had happened to Lightfoot, as I told it to you before.

“He must have remembered how the car hurt him,” said the lady with the little boy, “and he didn’t want the child to be hurt. He is a smart goat!
“Does anyone know where the little girl lives?” asked the lady. “She should not be allowed to stay here near the tracks.”
None of the passengers knew the child, nor did the motorman or conductor. As they were wondering what to do along came Mike Malony.

“Hello, Lightfoot!” called Mike as he saw his goat. And then, as he noticed the crowd, the stopped trolley car and the little girl, he asked:
“What’s the matter? Is Tessie hurt?”
“No one is hurt, I’m thankful to say,” replied the motorman; “but the little girl might have been only for the goat. Do you know her?”
“Sure, she’s Tessie Rooney. She lives near me,” explained Mike. “I’ll take her home if you like.”
“I wish you would,” said the lady who had given Tessie a five cent piece, which to Tessie was almost as much as a dollar. The child forgot all about her tears and what had happened to her.
“Sure I’ll take her home,” said Mike, kindly.
“Do you know whose goat that is?” asked the lady, as her little boy whispered something to her.
“That’s mine,” said Mike proudly. “And there is no better jumping goat in these parts.”
“Nor smarter goat either,” said the motorman, and Mike, to his surprise, learned what his pet had done.

“Do you want to sell the goat?” asked the lady. “My little boy would like him. I have an idea that I could hitch him to a cart and have him pull my boy around. One of our neighbor’s children has a little pony named Tinkle, and they have great fun riding him around. My boy is too small for a pony, but a goat might be good for him. Will you sell him to me—Lightfoot I think you said his name was?”
“Well, ma’am, I don’t wish to be impolite to you, but I can’t sell Lightfoot,” said Mike slowly, and he put his hand on the goat’s head. “You see I’ve had him ever since he was a little kid, and I like him too much to sell him.”
The lady saw how Mike felt about it, so she said kindly:
“Well, never mind, my boy. I wouldn’t want to take your pet away from you, any more than I’d want my little boy to lose his, if he had one. It’s all right. But you are lucky to have such a good goat.”
Yes ma’am; I think so myself. Come on now, Tessie. I’ll take you home, and if ever you come by yourself on the trolley tracks again I’ll never give you another piggyback ride.”
“Oh, then I won’t ever come,” said Tessie, her hand in Mike’s. “And will you give me a piggyback ride now?”
“Yes,” promised Mike; and amid the laughter of the trolley car passengers Mike took the little girl up on his back and trotted off, making believe he was a horse. Lightfoot ran alongside, and, seeing him, Tessie said:
“Lightfoot pushed me so hard I sat down in the grass, Mike.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he did, Tessie, else you might have been harder hit by the car. Now, now you take my advice and keep away from the tracks or, remember, no more piggyback rides!”

A day or so after that Mike, going up to the top of the rocks to take some salt to his mother’s goats, saw Lightfoot leaping about, kicking up his heels and shaking his horns.
“Sure it’s a fine goat you are entirely, as my dear mother would say,” said Mike softly. “And I wish I could do it.”
Lightfoot, coming up to get some of the salt, which he licked from Mike’s hand, did not know what the boy was saying. Even if he had understood the words he would not have known what they referred to.
Mike went on, talking to himself.
“If only I could do it,” he said, “it would be great! I could drive home with the washings, and then, maybe, I could earn money with you. I wonder if I could make it myself? I could get the wheels, and a big soap box—
“Hmmm. No,” went on Mike, after a moment of thought, “that wouldn’t do. It would be all right for taking home the washings, but not to give rides for money. I’ve got to get a regular goat harness and a wagon. How can I do it?”
Now you know what Mike was thinking of. He had heard the lady speak of a pony cart, and he wanted a goat wagon for Lightfoot. If he had that he could, as he said, drive home with the big baskets of clean clothes to his mother’s customers. Then Mike had an idea he could give rides to children in the goat wagon, and so earn money.
“But where can I get the wagon and harness?” he asked himself over and over again.

At last, when he had talked the matter over with his friend Timothy Muldoon, the railroad gate-tender, in his little shanty at the foot of the street, Mike got the idea.
“Sure, why don’t you advertise in the papers?” asked Tim, as Mike called him. “That’s what everybody does that has anything to sell or wants to buy. Advertise for a goat wagon and harness. Sometimes goats can’t use them anymore, and the folks that own them sell them.”
“But it costs money to advertise,” objected Mike.
“Sure and won’t the paper you work for trust you?” asked Tim.
“The paper I work for?” repeated Mike, wonderingly.
“I mean the one you deliver for at night,” for Mike had a paper route for an evening paper, the Journal.
“They ought to know you there,” went on Tim. “Tell the advertising man what you want, and that you’ll pay him when you can.”
“I’ll do it!” cried Mike, and he did. When, rather timidly, he explained to the man at the desk in the office what he wanted, and told him that he had delivered the Journal for several years, a bargain was made.
The man would put the advertisement in the paper for Mike, saying he wanted to buy a second-hand goat wagon and harness. He was to pay for the advertisement at the rate of two cents each day, for the Widow Malony and her son were so poor that even two cents counted.
“And you can easily make up that two cents by getting two new customers for the paper,” said Tim, when Mike told him what had happened.
“Yes. But how am I going to pay for the goat wagon and harness in case someone has it to sell?” Mike questioned.
“Well, maybe I have a bit of a nest egg laid away,” said Tim, with a smile. “I might lend you the money, and when you get rich you can pay me. Or whoever sells the outfit might let your mother make up the amount by washing. We’ll see about that.”

To Mike’s delight he had two answers to his advertisement. One was for a very fine goat wagon and harness, but the price asked was more than even Tim would advise paying.
“You can get that, or one like it, when you’ve made a hundred dollars on the goat rides,” said Tim to Mike.
The other outfit was just about right, Tim and Mike thought, and the man who had the wagon and harness for sale said Mrs. Malony could pay for it by doing washing and ironing. So, after Mike had paid for the advertisement, no more money needed to be paid out.
“Sure, Lightfoot, now there’ll be grand times for you!” cried Mike as he came home one day with the wagon and harness.

Written by Johnny Gruelle.

When housecleaning time came around, Marcella’s mamma decided that she would have the nursery repainted and new paper put upon the walls. That was why all the dolls happened to be laid every which way upon one of the high shelves.
Marcella had been in to look at them and wished to put them to bed, but as the painters were coming again in the early morning, Mamma thought it best that their beds were piled in the closet.
So the dolls’ beds were piled into the closet, one on top of another and the dolls were placed upon the high shelf.
When all was quiet that night, Raggedy Ann who was at the bottom of the pile of dolls spoke softly and asked the others if they would mind moving along the shelf.
“The cotton in my body is getting squished as flat as a pancake!” said Raggedy Ann. And although the tin soldier was piled so that his foot was pressed into Raggedy’s face, she still wore her customary smile.

So the dolls began moving off to one side until Raggedy Ann was free to sit up.
“Ah, that’s a great deal better!” she said, stretching her arms and legs to get the kinks out of them, and patting her dress into shape.
“Well, I’ll be glad when morning comes!” she said finally, “for I know Marcella will take us out in the yard and play with us under the trees.”

So the dolls sat and talked until daylight, when the painters came to work.
One of the painters, a young fellow, seeing the dolls, reached up and took Raggedy Ann down from the shelf.
“Look at this rag doll, Jim,” he said to one of the other painters, “She’s a beauty,” and he took Raggedy Ann by the hands and danced with her while he whistled a lively tune. Raggedy Ann’s heels hit the floor thumpity-thump and she enjoyed it immensely.
The other dolls sat upon the shelf and looked straight ahead, for it would never do to let grown-up men know that dolls were really alive.
“Better put her back upon the shelf,” said one of the other men. “You’ll have the little girl after you! The chances are that she likes that old rag doll better than any of the others!”

But the young painter twisted Raggedy Ann into funny positions and laughed and laughed as she looped about. Finally he got to tossing her up in the air and catching her. This was great fun for Raggedy and as she sailed up by the shelf the dolls all smiled at her, for it pleased them whenever Raggedy Ann was happy.
But the young fellow threw Raggedy Ann up into the air once too often and when she came down he failed to catch her and she came down splash, head first into a bucket of oily paint.
“I told you!” said the older painter, “and now you are in for it!”
“My goodness! I didn’t mean to do it!” said the young fellow, “What had I better do with her?”
“Better put her back on the shelf!” replied the other.
So Raggedy was placed back upon the shelf and the paint ran from her head and trickled down upon her dress.

After breakfast, Marcella came into the nursery and saw Raggedy Ann all covered with paint and she began crying.
The young painter felt sorry and told her how it had happened.
“If you will let me,” he said, “I will take her home with me and will clean her up tonight and will bring her back the day after tomorrow.”
So Raggedy was wrapped in a newspaper that evening and carried away.
All the dolls felt sad that night without Raggedy Ann near them.
“Poor Raggedy! I could have cried when I saw her all covered with paint!” said the French doll.
“She didn’t look like our dear old Raggedy Ann at all!” said the tin soldier, who wiped the tears from his eyes so that they would not run down on his arms and rust them.
“The paint covered her lovely smile and nose and you could not see the laughter in her shoe-button eyes!” said another doll.
And so the dolls talked that night and the next. But in the daytime when the painters were there, they kept very quiet.

The second day Raggedy was brought home and the dolls were all anxious for night to come so that they could see and talk with Raggedy Ann.
At last the painters left and the house was quiet, for Marcella had been in and placed Raggedy Ann on the shelf with the other dolls.
“Tell us all about it, Raggedy dear!” the dolls cried.
“Oh I am so glad I fell in the paint!” cried Raggedy Ann, after she had hugged all the dolls, “For I have had the happiest time. The painter took me home and told his Mamma how I happened to be covered with paint and she was very sorry. She took a rag and wiped off my shoe-button eyes and then I saw that she was a very pretty, sweet-faced lady and she got some cleaner and wiped off most of the paint on my face.

“But you know,” Raggedy Ann continued, “the paint had soaked through my rag head and had made the cotton inside all sticky and soggy and I could not think clearly. And my yarn hair was all matted with paint.
“So the kind lady took off my yarn hair and opened my stitches, and took out all the painty cotton.
“It was a great relief, although it felt strange at first and my thoughts seemed scattered.

“She left me in her work-basket that night and hung me out upon the clothes-line the next morning when she had washed the last of the paint off.
“And while I hung out on the clothes-line, what do you think happened?”
“We could never guess!” all the dolls cried.
“Why a dear little Jenny Wren came and picked enough cotton out of me to make a cute little cuddly nest in the grape arbor!”
“Wasn’t that sweet!” cried all the dolls.
“Yes indeed it was!” replied Raggedy Ann, “It made me very happy. Then when the lady took me in the house again she stuffed me with lovely nice new cotton, all the way from my knees up and sewed me up and put new yarn on my head for hair and—and—and it’s a secret!” said Raggedy Ann.
“Oh tell us the secret!” cried all the dolls, as they pressed closer to Raggedy. “Well, I know you will not tell anyone who would not be glad to know about it, so I will tell you the secret and why I am wearing my smile a bit larger!” said Raggedy Ann.
The dolls all said that Raggedy Ann’s smile was indeed a quarter of an inch wider on each side.
“When the dear lady put the new white cotton in my body,” said Raggedy Ann, “she went to the cupboard and came back with a paper bag. And she took from the bag ten or fifteen little candy hearts with words on them and she hunted through the candy hearts until she found a beautiful red one which she sewed up in me with the cotton! So that is the secret, and that is why I am so happy! Feel here,” said Raggedy Ann. All the dolls could feel Raggedy Ann’s beautiful new candy heart and they were very happy for her.
After all had hugged each other good night and had cuddled up for the night, the tin soldier asked, “Did you have a chance to see what the words on your new candy heart were, Raggedy Ann?”
“Oh yes,” replied Raggedy Ann, “I was so happy I forgot to tell you. It had printed upon it in nice blue letters, ‘I LOVE YOU.'”

Written by Richard Barnum.

Mr. Sharp-horn was so surprised at what Lightfoot had done in leaping over the edge of the cliff that, for a second, he did not know what to do. Indeed Sharp-horn, who was running very fast, could hardly stop in time to save himself from sliding over.
“Look out there, Lightfoot!” he called. “I didn’t mean to make you do that. I wouldn’t have hurt you very much. Why did you jump?”
But Lightfoot could not answer now. He was falling down through the air. Indeed he, himself, hardly knew why he had jumped. He almost wished he had not.
Far down below he saw the shanty of the Widow Malony, and he saw the hard rocks and ground all around it. Somewhere down there Lightfoot would land, and he might get hurt. For he was not one of the kind of goats that are said to turn somersaults in the air, when they leap, and land on their big, curved horns.
“What’s the matter?” called Grandpa Bumper, as he heard Mr. Sharp-horn shouting in his bleating voice.
“Lightfoot has jumped over the edge!” called the other goat.
“Oh, my! He’ll be hurt!” cried Mrs. Sharp-horn. “You shouldn’t have chased him, Sharpy,” for sometimes she called her goat-husband that.
“I—I didn’t mean to make him jump,” went on Mr. Sharp-horn. “I was only trying to scare him away from our feeding place. He is too young to come up here. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, what a big jump he made!” cried Grandpa Bumper, for he knew it was about twenty-five feet from the rocky edge down to the ground below. “If he isn’t hurt it will be a wonder.”

Of course all this took place much more quickly than I can tell it. It was only a few seconds. Lightfoot was falling down and down, or, rather, he had jumped down.
And as he left the edge of the rocks, and looked below, he wished he had taken the butting from Mr. Sharp-horn. But it was too late now. And then, all of a sudden, Lightfoot did that which gained him the name of being a very wise young goat.

Below he saw the tin and board roof of the Malony shanty. It stood about fifteen feet high, and Lightfoot thought if he could land on that it would shorten his big jump. He would not have to go so far, and then he could leap down that much more easily.
So he gave himself a shake and a twist in the air, as some acrobats do in the circus, and as cats and goats do when they jump, and, instead of heading straight for the hard ground, Lightfoot aimed his four feet at the roof of the shanty.
Just then Mrs. Malony came out of the door to watch her son going down the street with the basket of clothes on his wagon.
“Look! Look, Mike!” called the widow. “Sure it’s a flyin’ goat Lightfoot is now. He’s falling’ down out of the sky!”
And indeed it did look so. But before Mike could answer, Lightfoot had landed on the roof of the shanty amid a great clattering of the boards and tin that kept out the rain. The roof was flat, and the boards were springy, so the goat sort of bounced up and down, like the man when he falls into the circus net.

And it was this that saved the goat from being hurt. He was shaken up a bit and jarred, but he had safely jumped from the top of the rocks to the roof of the shanty. From there it was easy to get down, for at one side was a shed, with a little lower roof, and when Lightfoot had leaped to this he had no trouble in jumping to a soft place on the ground just outside the kitchen door.
“Well, of all things!” exclaimed the Widow Malony. “You’re th’ jumpinest goat I ever had! You’re that light on your feet a clog-dancer would admire you. Sure it’s a fine goat you are!”
“We never had any goat to jump the likes of Lightfoot!” cried Mike, running back to see if his pet was hurt, for he loved Lightfoot better than any of the others. He patted the shaggy coat of the animal, and, looking at him, saw that he was not in the least harmed. Lightfoot felt a little pain, but he could not tell Mike about it.

“Oh, how did you ever dare do it?” asked Blackie, running up to Lightfoot with a piece of paste-paper in her mouth. “Weren’t you afraid?”
“I—I guess I didn’t have time to be,” answered Lightfoot. “I didn’t think they’d drive me away from up there.”
Mike went on with the washing when he found Lightfoot was not hurt, and Mrs. Malony went back to the shanty. From the edge of the rocks above the other goats looked down.

“Say, youngster,” called Mr. Sharp-horn to Lightfoot, “I didn’t mean to make you do that. Are you hurt?”
“Not a bit,” answered Lightfoot, who was beginning to feel a bit proud of himself now.
“That was a wonderful leap,” said Mrs. Sharp-horn.
“Indeed it was!” added Grandpa Bumper. “Of course I have made such leaps as that when I was younger, but I can’t any more. For a kid that was very good, Lightfoot.”
“He won’t be a kid much longer,” said Mrs. Sharp-horn. Then she said something in a low baa-a to her goat-husband.
“Why, yes,” answered Mr. Sharp-horn, “I guess, after this big leap he did to-day, Lightfoot can come up among us other goats now. You may come up to the top of the rocks whenever you like,” he went on to Lightfoot. “We won’t chase you away any more.”
“And may Blackie come up with me and eat the sweet grass?” asked Lightfoot, having a kind thought for his little friend.
“Can she climb that far?” asked Grandpa Bumper.
“I’ll help her,” offered Lightfoot.
“Then you may both come,” went on the old grandfather goat who ruled over the rest. “Your grass down there is getting pretty dry,” he went on. “Come up whenever you want to. And, Lightfoot, don’t try any more such risky jumps as that. You might break a leg.”

So, after all, you see, Lightfoot’s big jump turned out to be a good thing for him and Blackie. After Lightfoot had rested a bit he and Blackie went up to the top of the rocks, Lightfoot helping Blackie over the rough places, and soon all the Widow Malony’s animals were cropping the sweet grass on top of the high rocks.
Lightfoot’s leap was talked about among the goats for many a day after that. The goat grew bigger and stronger, and every chance he found he practiced jumping until he could do almost as well as Mr. Sharp-horn, who was the best leaper of all the goats in Shanty-town.

Day after day Lightfoot would practice jumping and climbing among the rocks, sometimes alone and sometimes with Blackie. One day, when he had made a very hard jump from one rock to another, he heard some boy-and-girl-talk in the road in front of the widow’s shanty. Looking down, Lightfoot saw a small cart drawn by a pony, and seated in the cart was a man, and with him were two children.
“Oh, look, George!” called the little girl, “there’s that nice goat we saw when we were going to the circus, the day we got back Tinkle, our pony.”
“So it is, Mabel,” answered the boy. “Could we ever have a goat, Daddy?” he asked his father as the pony cart stopped.
“Oh, I guess not,” said the man. “Tinkle is enough for you.” Then to Mrs. Malony, who came to the front gate, he said: “That’s a fine goat you have.”
“Sure an’ you may well say that. You’re the gentleman who went past here a few days ago, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I was on my way to the circus, and it was there we got back my children’s pony which had been stolen.”
“Well, I’m glad you have him back,” said the Widow Malony, with a twinkle in her kind, Irish-blue eyes. “You should have seen Lightfoot leap from the top of the rocks to the roof of my shanty one day.”
“Did he really do that?” asked George.
“He did,” and Mrs. Malony told them about it.
Meanwhile Tinkle, the trick pony, of whom I have told you about, was having a little talk with Lightfoot.
“Were you really stolen?” asked Lightfoot, when Tinkle told some of his adventures.
“Indeed I was. And did you really jump from the top of those rocks?”
“I did,” answered the leaping goat, holding his head high and feeling very proud.
“That’s more than I could do, though I can do circus tricks,” said Tinkle. “There’s been a book written about me and my tricks and adventures.”
“You don’t tell me!” cried Lightfoot. “But what’s a book?”
Before Tinkle could answer Mr. Farley, the father of George and Mabel, called good-by to the Widow Malony and drove on with the children in the pony cart.
“Good-bye!” called Tinkle to Lightfoot. “If ever you get to the circus ask Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, or Mappo, the merry monkey, about me.”
“I will,” promised Lightfoot, “though I never expect to go to a circus.”
“Sure they were nice little children,” said Mrs. Malony, “and it was a fine pony cart they had. How would you like to pull a stylish cart like that, Lightfoot?” she asked as she went back in the shanty to finish her washing.

For many days after this Lightfoot lived around the shanty learning to leap and do other things that goats have to do in this world. And one day he had an adventure that was not exactly pleasant.
Lightfoot was getting to be quite a big goat now, and sometimes he wandered away farther than he had ever gone before. Two or three streets from where the Malony shanty was built ran an electric car line. At first Lightfoot did not know what it was, but the other goats told him that people rode in the strange, yellow cars which went rolling along in such an unusual way on the shiny rails, a bell clanging in front.
One afternoon Lightfoot wandered down to the trolley tracks. An ash wagon had passed a little while before, and the goat had seen a tin can fall from it with a big, red, tomato-paper pasted on it.
“I’ll get that paper and eat off the paste,” thought Lightfoot.
The can was in the middle of the tracks. Lightfoot began nosing it, tearing off the paper and eating small pieces. It tasted very good to him.
Suddenly there was the clanging of a bell, and along came a car, headed straight for Lightfoot. The goat looked up.
“Bother!” he exclaimed to himself. “You’ll have to wait until I finish my lunch,” he went on. “I’m not going to hurry out of the way for you. I’m as good as you!” Lightfoot wanted his own way, you see.
But goats have no rights on a trolley track, though Lightfoot did not know this. The motorman clanged his bell, and cried:
“Get off the tracks, you goat, or I’ll bump into you!”
Now Lightfoot knew very little indeed about trolley cars. He did not know how strong they were. And so, as he stood between the rails, chewing the paper from the can, and saw the big yellow car clanging its way toward him, Lightfoot stamped his hoofs, shook his horns and said to himself:
“Well, do as you please, but I’m not going to move until I finish eating. I guess I can butt as hard as you!”
“Get out of there!” called the motorman again. But Lightfoot did not understand. The car slowed up a little, but still came on.
“Bump into him, Bill!” called the conductor to the motorman, and the next instant the fender of the street car struck Lightfoot’s lowered horns, and tossed him to one side over into a ditch full of weeds.
“Oh, dear! I’m hurt this time, sure!” thought poor Lightfoot. “I thought I could knock that car off the track, but, instead, it knocked me off! Oh, dear!”
For a few seconds after Lightfoot had been tossed into the ditch full of weeds the goat could not get up or even move. The trolley car clanged on its way down the tracks.
“What happened?” asked some of the passengers.
“Oh, a goat got on the track and the motorman had to knock him off,” explained the conductor.
“I hope you didn’t hurt him,” said a little girl sitting in a front seat to the motorman.
“No, I didn’t,” answered the motorman. “But I just had to get him out of the way. I would never hurt any animal, for my children have a dog and a cat, and I love them as much as they do. The goat really butted into me as much as I did into him.”
And this, in a way, was true. If Lightfoot had stood still, and had not tried to hit the fender of the car with his horns, he would have been easily pushed to one side. But he had to learn his lesson, and, like the lessons boys and girls have to learn, all are not easy or pleasant ones.
So poor Lightfoot lay groaning in the ditch among the weeds as the trolley car went on. At least he groaned as much as a goat can groan, making a sort of bleating noise.
“Oh, dear!” he thought. “Never again will I do such a thing as this! I will stick to jumping, for I can do that and not be hurt. I wonder if any of my legs or my horns are broken?”
Lightfoot, lying on his side in the ditch, shook his head. His horns seemed to be alright. Then he tried to scramble to his feet. He felt several pains and aches, but, to his delight, he found that he could get up, though he was a bit shaky.
“Well, none of my legs are broken, anyhow,” said Lightfoot to himself. “But I ache all over. I guess I’ll go home.” Home, to Lightfoot, meant the rocks around the shanty of the widow and her son.
As Lightfoot limped from the ditch to the road he passed a puddle of water. He could see himself in this, as you boys and girls can see yourselves in a mirror. The sight that met his eyes made Lightfoot gasp.
“I’d never know myself!” he said sadly. Well might he say that. One of his legs was cut, and his side was scratched and bruised. “I’m a terrible looking sight,” he said.
He walked along, limping, until he came within sight of the shanty. From behind it came Blackie.
“Why Lightfoot!” she cried in surprise. “Where in the world have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why! what has happened to you?”
“I—I tried to butt a trolley car off the tracks,” said the boy-goat. “I was eating some pasty paper off a tomato can that fell from an ash wagon, when the car came along. I wouldn’t get out of the way and—well, it knocked me into the ditch. Oh, dear!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Blackie sympathetically. “Come on up to the top of the rocks and you can roll in the soft grass. Maybe that will make you feel better.”
“No, I don’t believe I could climb to the top of the rocks now,” said Lightfoot. “I am too sore and stiff. I’ll just lie down here in the shade.”
“Do,” said the kind Blackie, “and I’ll bring you some nice brown paper I found.”
Goats love brown paper almost as much as they do the kind that has paste on it and that comes off cans. For brown paper is made from things that goats like to eat, though of course it is not good for girls and boys any more than hay or grass.
“Well, what’s the matter with you, Lightfoot?” asked Grandpa Bumper, the old goat, as he came scrambling down the rocks a little later to get a drink of water from the pail near the kitchen door. “What happened to you?”
“I got in the way of a trolley car,” said Lightfoot, and he told what had happened.
“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” said the old goat-man. “You are a strong goat-boy, and a fine jumper, but the strongest goat amongst us is not able to butt against a trolley car. I once heard of an elephant trying to butt a locomotive with his head.”
“I wonder if he is any relation to Tum Tum,” said Lightfoot, who was beginning to feel a little better now.
“Who is Tum Tum?” asked Grandpa Bumper.
“Oh, he is a jolly elephant who lives in a circus. I met a trick pony named Tinkle, who once was in the circus, and Tinkle told me all about Tum Tum.”
“I’m sure I don’t know about Tum Tum,” went on the old goat. “And I never saw a circus, though I have heard of them.”
“Maybe I’ll be in one some day,” murmured Lightfoot.
“Well, whatever you do, never again try to butt a trolley car,” advised the old goat, and Lightfoot said he never would.

Written by Mrs. Alfred Gatty

“Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children,” said a Butterfly to a quiet Caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her odd lumbering way. “See these little eggs,” continued the Butterfly; “I don’t know how long it will be before they come to life, and I feel very sick and poorly, and if I should not make it, who will take care of my baby butterflies when I am gone? Will you, kind, mild, green Caterpillar? But you must be careful with what you give them to eat, Caterpillar!—they cannot, of course, live on your rough food. You must give them early dew, and honey from the flowers; and you must let them fly about only a little way at first; for, of course, one can’t expect them to use their wings properly all at once. Dear me, it is a sad pity you cannot fly yourself! But I have no time to look for another nurse now, so you will do your best, I hope. Dear, dear! I cannot think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cabbage-leaf! What a place for young butterflies to be born upon! Still you will be kind, will you not, to the poor little ones? Here, take this gold-dust from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am! Caterpillar, you will remember about the food—”

And with these words the Butterfly drooped her wings and was gone; and the green Caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of even saying Yes or No to the request, was left standing alone by the side of the Butterfly’s eggs.
“A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!” exclaimed she, “and a pretty business I have in hand! Why, her senses must have left her, or she never would have asked a poor crawling creature like me to bring up her dainty little ones! Much they’ll mind me, truly, when they feel the happy wings on their backs, and can fly away out of my sight whenever they choose! Ah! how silly some people are, in spite of their painted clothes and the gold-dust on their wings!”

However, the poor Butterfly was gone, and there lay the eggs on the cabbage-leaf; and the green Caterpillar had a kind heart, so she resolved to do her best. But she got no sleep that night, she was so very anxious. She made her back quite ache with walking all night round her young charges, for fear any harm should happen to them; and in the morning says she to herself—
“Two heads are better than one. I will ask some wise animal upon the matter, and get advice. How should a poor crawling creature like me know what to do without asking for help?”

But still there was difficulty—who should the Caterpillar ask? There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the garden. But he was so rough!—he would most likely whisk all the eggs off the cabbage-leaf with one brush of his tail, if she called him near to talk to her, and then she should never forgive herself. There was the Tom Cat, to be sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the apple-tree, basking himself and warming his fur in the sunshine; but he was so selfish and indifferent!—there was no hope of his giving himself the trouble to think about butterflies’ eggs. “I wonder which is the wisest of all the animals I know,” sighed the Caterpillar, in great distress; and then she thought, and thought, till at last she thought of the Lark; and she like this idea because the Lark went up so high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be very clever, and know a great deal; for to go up very high (which she could never do) was the Caterpillar’s idea of perfect glory.

Now in the neighbouring corn-field there lived a Lark, and the Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to her, and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked him what she was to do to feed and raise the little creatures so different from herself.
“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it the next time you go up high,” observed the Caterpillar, timidly.
The Lark said, “Perhaps he should;” but he did not satisfy her curiosity any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing upwards into the bright blue sky. By degrees his voice faded away in the distance till the green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. It is nothing to say she could not see him, for, poor thing, she never could see far at any time, and had a difficulty in looking upwards at all, even when she reared herself up most carefully, which she did now; but it was of no use, so she dropped upon her legs again, and resumed her walk around the Butterfly’s eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.

“What a time the Lark has been gone!” she cried, at last. “I wonder where he is just now! I would give all my legs to know! He must have flown up higher than usual this time, I do think! How I should like to know where it is that he goes to, and what he hears in that curious blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets any secret out. He is very close!”
And the green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly’s eggs.

At last the Lark’s voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar almost jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend with a hushed note to the cabbage bed.
“News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!” sang the Lark; “but the worst of it is, you won’t believe me!”
“I believe everything I am told,” observed the Caterpillar, hastily.
“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little creatures are to eat”—and the Lark nodded his beak towards the eggs. “What do you think it is to be? Guess!”
“Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid,” sighed the Caterpillar.
“No such thing! Something simpler than that. Something you can get at quite easily.”
“I can get at nothing quite easily but the cabbage-leaves,” murmured the Caterpillar, in distress.
“Excellent! my good friend,” cried the Lark; “you have found it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.”
“Gasp! Never!” cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. “It was their mother’s last request that I should do no such thing.”
“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” persisted the Lark; “but why do you ask me, and then not believe what I say? You have neither faith nor trust.”
“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar.
“No, but you do not,” replied the Lark; “you won’t believe me even about the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to be?”
“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Caterpillar.
“Caterpillars!” sang the Lark; “and you’ll find it out in time;” and the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point with his friend.

“I thought the Lark had been wise and kind,” observed the mild green Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but I find that he is silly and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up too high this time. Ah, it’s a pity when people who soar so high are silly and rude nevertheless! Dear! I still wonder whom he sees, and what he does up yonder.”
“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the Lark, descending once more.
“I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar again, with as grave a face as if it were a fact.
“Then I’ll tell you something else,” cried the Lark; “for the best of my news remains. You will one day be a Butterfly yourself.”
“Crazy bird!” exclaimed the Caterpillar, “you tease me and now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will ask your advice no more.”
“I told you you would not believe me,” cried the Lark.
“I believe everything that I am told,” persisted the Caterpillar; “that is”—and she hesitated—“everything that is reasonable to believe.
But to tell me that butterflies’ eggs are caterpillars, and that caterpillars leave off crawling and get wings, and become butterflies!—Lark! you are too wise to believe such nonsense yourself, for you know it is impossible.”

“I know no such thing,” said the Lark, warmly. “Whether I hover over the cornfields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many wonderful things, I know no reason why there should not be more. Oh, Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call anything impossible.”
“Nonsense!” shouted the Caterpillar, “I know what’s possible, and what’s not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as well as you do. Look at my long green body and these endless legs, and then talk to me about having wings and a painted feathery coat.”
“You would-be-wise Caterpillar!” cried the indignant Lark. “Do you not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you from there, receive, as I do, upon trust.”
“That is what you call—”
“Faith,” interrupted the Lark.
“How am I to learn Faith?” asked the Caterpillar.
At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round—eight or ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had already made a show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the Butterfly’s eggs!
Shame and amazement filled our green friend’s heart, but joy soon followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so too. “Teach me your lesson, Lark!” she would say; and the Lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the heavens above. And the Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life to her relations of the time when she should be a Butterfly.
But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the Lark’s lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she said—
“I shall be a Butterfly some day!”
But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said, “Poor thing!”
And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to leave again, she said—
“I have known many wonders—I have faith—I can trust even now for what shall come next!”

Written by Clara Dillingham Pierson

A very small, wet, and hungry Kitten pattered up and down a boardwalk one cold and rainy night. His fur was so soaked that it dripped water when he moved, and his poor little pink-cushioned paws splashed more water up from the puddly boards every time he stepped. His tail looked like a wet wisp of fur, and his little round face was very sad. “Meouw!” said he. “Meouw! Meouw!”
He heard somebody coming up the street. “I will follow that Gentleman,” he thought, “and I will cry so that he will be sorry for me and give me a home.”
When this person came nearer he saw that it was not a Gentleman at all, but a Lady who could hardly keep from being blown away. He could not have seen her except that Cat’s eyes can see in the dark. “Meouw!” said the Kitten. “Meouw! Meouw!”
“Poor little Kitty!” said a voice above him. “Poor little Kitty! But you must not come with me.”
“Meouw!” he answered, and trotted right along after her. He was a Kitten who was not easily discouraged. He rubbed up against her foot and made her stop for fear of stepping on him. Then he felt himself gently lifted up and put aside. He scrambled back and rubbed against her other foot. And so it was for more than two blocks. The Lady, as he always called her afterward, kept pushing him gently to one side and he kept scrambling back. Sometimes she even had to stand quite still for fear of stepping on him.
“Meouw!” said the Kitten, and he made up his mind that anybody who spoke so kindly to strange Kittens would be a good owner. “I will stick to her,” he said to himself. “I don’t care how many times she pushes me away, I will scramble back.”

When they turned in at a gate he saw a big house ahead of him with many windows brightly lit and another light on the porch. “I like that home,” he said to himself. “I will slip through the door when she opens it.”
But after she had turned the key in the door she pushed him back and closed the screen between them. Then he heard her say: “Poor little Kitty! I want to take you in, but we have agreed not to adopt another Cat.” Then she closed the door.
He wanted to explain that he was not really a Cat, only a little Kitten, but he had no chance to say anything, so he waited outside and thought and cried. He did not know that the Lady and her husband feared that Cats would eat the many birds who nested in the trees on the lawn. He thought it very hard luck for a tiny Kitten to be left out in the cold rain while the Lady was reading by a blazing grate fire. He did not know that as she sat by the fire she thought about him instead of her book, for she loved little Kittens, and found it hard to leave any out in the street alone.
While he was thinking and crying, a tall Gentleman with a black beard and twinkling brown eyes came striding up to the brightly lighted porch. “Well, Kitty-cat!” said the Gentleman, and took a bunch of shining, jingling things out of his pocket and stuck one of them into the little hole in the door and turned it. Then the door swung open, and the Gentleman, who was trying to close his umbrella and shake off the rain, called first to the Lady and then to the kitten. “O Clara!” he cried. “Come to see this poor little Kitten. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty! I know you want to see him. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty! I should have thought you would have heard him crying. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”
The Lady came running out and was laughing. “Yes, John,” she said, “I have had the pleasure of meeting him before. He was under my feet most of the way home to-night, and I could hardly bear to leave him outside. But you know what we promised each other, that we would not adopt another Cat, on account of the birds.”
The Gentleman sat down upon the stairs and wiped the Kitten off with his handkerchief. “Yes, I know,” he said weakly, “but Clara, look at this poor little fellow. He couldn’t catch a Chipping Sparrow.”
“Not now,” answered the Lady, “yet he will grow, if he is like most Kittens, and you know what we said. If we don’t stick to it we will soon have as many Cats as we did a few years ago.”
The Kitten saw that if he wanted to stay in this home he must insist upon it and be very firm indeed with these people. So he kept on crying and stuck his sharp claws into the Gentleman’s sleeve. The Gentleman said “Ouch!” and lifted him onto his coat lapel. There he clung and shook and cried.
“Well, I suppose we mustn’t keep him then,” said he; “but we will give him a warm supper anyway.” So they got some milk and heated it, and set it in a shallow dish before the grate. Oh, how that Kitten did eat! The Lady sat on the floor beside him, and the Gentleman drew his chair up close, and they said that it seemed hard to turn him out, but that they would have to do it because they had promised each other.
The Kitten lapped up his milk with a soft click-clicking of his little pink tongue, and then turned his head this way and that until he had licked all the corners clean. He was so full of warm milk that his sides bulged out, and his fur had begun to dry and stuck up in pointed wisps all over him. He pretended to lap milk long after it was gone. This was partly to show them how well he could wash dishes, and partly to put off the time when he should be thrust out of doors.
When he really could not make believe any longer, his tongue being so tired, he began to cry and rub against these two people. The Gentleman was the first to speak. “I cannot stand this,” he said. “If he has to go, I want to get it over.” He picked up the Kitten and took him to the door. As fast as he loosened one of the Kitten’s claws from his coat he stuck another one in, and at last the Lady had to help him get free. “He is a regular Rough Rider,” said the Gentleman. “There is no shaking him off.”
The Kitten didn’t understand what a Rough Rider was, but it did not sound like finding a home, so he cried some more. Then the door was shut behind him and he was alone in the porch. “Well,” he said, “I like that house and those people, even if they did put me out. I think I will make them adopt me.” So he cuddled down in a sheltered, dry corner, put his four feet all close together, and curled his tail, as far as it would go, around them. And there he stayed all night.

In the morning, when the rain had stopped and the sun was shining brightly, he trotted around the house and cried. He went up onto another porch, rubbed against the door and cried. The Maid opened the door and put out some milk for him. He could see into the warm kitchen and smell the breakfast cooking on the range. When she came out to get the empty dish, he slipped in through the open door. She said “Whish!” and “Scat!” and “Shoo!” and tried to drive him out, but he pretended not to understand and cuddled quietly down in a corner where she could not easily reach him. Just then some food began to burn on the range and the Maid left him alone. The Kitten did not cry now. He had other work to do, and began licking himself all over and scratching his ears with his hind feet.
When he heard the Gentleman and the Lady talking in the dining-room, he watched his chance and slipped in. He decided to pay the most attention to the Gentleman, for he had been the first to take him up. They were laughing and talking and saying how glad they were that the rain had stopped falling. “I believe, John,” the Lady said, “that if it had not been for me, you would really have kept that Kitten last night.”
“Oh, no,” answered the Gentleman. “We ought not to keep Cats. I think that if it had not been for me you would have kept him.”
Just at that minute the Kitten began climbing up his trousers leg and crying. “Oh, poor little Kitty,” said the Gentleman. “Clara, can’t we spare some of this cream?” He reached for the pitcher. The Kitten began to feel more sure of a home.
“O John, not here,” began the Lady, and the Maid came in to explain how it all happened. The Kitten stuck his claws into the Gentleman’s coat and would not let go. Then he cried some more and waved his tail. He had a very beautiful tail, marked just like that of a Raccoon, and he turned it toward the Lady. He had heard somewhere about putting the best foot forward, and thought that a tail might do just as well. While he was waving his tail at the Lady he rubbed his head against the Gentleman’s black beard.
“If we should keep him, John,” said the Lady, “we ought to call him Silvertip, because he has such a pretty white tip to his tail.” The Kitten waved it again and began to purr.
“If you knew what a strong and fearless fellow he is, you would call him Teddy,” answered the Gentleman, turning over a paper which said in big black letters, “Our Teddy Wins.”
“Call him Teddy Silvertip then,” said the Lady, as she reached for the bell. When the Maid came in to answer to her ring, she said, “Belle, please take our Kitten into the kitchen and feed him.” Then the Kitten let go and was carried away happy, for he had found a home. He had also learned how to manage the Lady and the Gentleman, and he was always very firm with them after that.

Written by Richard Barnum

Lightfoot stamped his hoofs on the hard rocks, shook his horns, wiggled the little bunch of whiskers that hung beneath his chin, and called to another goat who was not far away:
“I’m going up on the high rocks!”
“Oh, you’d better not,” said Blackie. “If you go up there you may slip and fall down here and hurt yourself, or some of the big goats may chase you back.”
“Well, if they do I’ll just jump down again,” went on Lightfoot, as he stood on his hind legs.
“You can’t jump that far,” said Blackie, looking up toward the high rocks which were far above the heads of herself and Lightfoot.

Lightfoot and Blackie were two goats, and they lived with several others on the rocky hillside at the edge of a big city. Lightfoot and Blackie, with four other goats, were owned by the widow, Mrs. Malony. She and her son Mike had a small shanty on the ground in the shadow of the big rocks. The reason they kept most of the goats was for the milk they gave. For some goats, like cows, can be milked, and many people like goats’ milk better than the cows’ kind, which your milkman might bring to your door every morning, or which is brought to the house from the stable or the lot where the cows are milked if you live in the country.
“You can never jump down that far if the big goats chase you away when you get on top of the high rocks,” went on Blackie as she looked up.
“Well, maybe I can’t do it all in one jump,” Lightfoot said slowly, “but I can come down in two or three jumps if the big goats chase me away. Anyhow, maybe they won’t chase me.”
“Oh, yes, they will!” bleated Blackie in the animal talk which the goats used among themselves.
They could understand a little man talk, but not much. But they could talk and think among themselves.

“The big goats will never let you come up where they are,” went on Blackie, who was called that because she was nearly all black.
“Why won’t the big goats let me go up there?” asked Lightfoot. “I know it is nicer up there than down here, for I have heard Grandfather Bumper, the oldest of all us goats, tell how far he can see from the top of the rocks. And nice sweet grass grows up there. I’d like some of that. The grass here is nearly all dried up and gone.”

Lightfoot saw, off to one side, a tomato can, and he hurried toward it. Sometimes these cans had paper pasted on them, and the goats liked to eat the paper. For it had a sweet taste, and the paste with which it was fastened to the can was even sweeter.
“That’s just the reason the big goats don’t want you to go up where they are,” said Blackie, as Lightfoot came back, looking as disappointed as a goat can look, for there was no paper on the can. Someone had eaten it off. “The big goats want to save the sweet grass on the high rocks for themselves. Some of the best milk-goats are there, and they have to eat lots of grass to make milk.”

“Well, I’m going up, anyhow,” said Lightfoot. “At least I’m going to try. If they drive me back down I’ll get down all right. I’m getting to be a pretty good jumper. See!”
He gave a little run, and leaped lightly over a big rock not far from the shanty of the Widow Malony.
“Oh, that was a fine jump!” exclaimed Blackie. “I’ll never be able to jump as far as you. But I wouldn’t go up if I were you.”
“Yes, I shall,” declared Lightfoot, as he shook his horns again and started to climb the rocks. He was very fond of having his own way.

Lightfoot did not remember much about the time when he was a very very small goat. He could dimly recall that he had once lived in a green, grassy field with other goats, and then, one day, that he had been taken for a long ride in a wagon. He went to a number of places, finally reaching the home of the Widow Malony and her son Mike, who was a tall, strong lad with a happy, laughing face, covered with freckles and on his head was the reddest hair you ever saw.
Lightfoot soon made himself at home among the other goats Mrs. Malony kept. At first these goats said very little to him, but one day, when he was but a small kid (as little goats are called) he surprised the other animals among the rocks by giving a big jump to get away from a dog that ran after him.
“That goat will be a fine jumper,” said Grandpa Bumper, who was called that because he could bump so hard with his horns and head that all the other goats were afraid of him. “Yes, he’ll be a great jumper,” went on the oldest goat of them all. “I think I shall name him Lightfoot, for he comes down so lightly and so easily after he makes his leap.”
And so Lightfoot was named. As far as he knew there were none of the other goats who were any relation to him. He was a stranger among them, but they soon became friendly with him. Among the six goats owned by the Widow Malony there were only two who were of any relation. These were Mr. and Mrs. Sharp-horn, as we will call them, though of course goats don’t call each other husband and wife. They have other names that mean the same thing.
But though he had no brothers or sisters or father or mother that he knew, Lightfoot was not unhappy. There was Blackie, with whom he played and frisked about the rocks. And Grandpa Bumper, when he had had a good meal of the sweet grass that grew on top of the rocks, with, perhaps, some sweet paste-paper from the outside of a tomato can to finish off, would tell stories of his early life. And he would tell of other goats, in far-off mountains, some of them nearly as big as cows, with great, curved horns on their heads. Lightfoot loved to listen to these stories.

There was not much for the goats to do at the home of the Widow Malony. They had no work to do except to jump around on the rocks and to eat when they were hungry and could find anything they liked, though some of the goats were milked. There was more milk than the widow and her son could use, so they used to sell some to their neighbors who did not keep goats.
But many others besides Mike and his mother kept goats, for all the neighbors of the Malonys lived among the rocks on the edge of the big city. They did not own the land where they built their poor shanties. But some had been there so long they thought they owned it.

Mrs. Malony and her son were very poor. Sometimes, had it not been for the milk of the goats, they would have had nothing to eat. The widow took in washing, and Mike earned what he could running errands. But, for all that, the widow and Mike were cheerful and tried to be happy. They kept their shanty clean, and were clean themselves. And they took very good care of the goats. Mike made a little shed for them to sleep in when Winter came; and when the grass on the rocks was scarce Mike would get a job in the city, cutting the lawn of some big house, and he would bring the clipped grass home to Lightfoot and the others.
“Yes, I’m going up on top of the rocks,” said Lightfoot to himself as he began to climb upward.

The path to the top was a hard and rough one to climb. But Lightfoot did not give up.
“I know I can do it,” he declared, still to himself. “I was nearly up once but Mr. Sharp-horn chased me back. I was only a little goat then.”
Lightfoot knew he was much larger and stronger now, and he certainly was a better jumper. He really did not know how far he could jump, for he had not had much chance. On the lower rocks there were not many good jumping places. The ground was too rough.
“Wait until I get up to the top,” thought Lightfoot to himself. “Then I’ll do some jumping. I wonder if they’ll chase me back?”

Part way up the rocky path he stopped to look toward the top. He saw Mr. Sharp-horn looking down at him, and Lightfoot pretended to be looking for some grass that grew in the cracks of the rocks. As he did this the widow came to the door of her shanty.
“Mike! Mike!” she called. “Where are you? I want you to be takin’ home Mrs. Mackintosh’s wash. ’Tis all finished I have it.” And then, as she shaded her eyes from the sun, and looked up on the rocks, Mrs. Malony saw Lightfoot halfway to the top.
“Would you look at that goat now!” she called. “Come here, Mike, and see where Lightfoot is. Look at the climber he’s gettin’ to be altogether!”

“Yes, Lightfoot’s a good goat,” said Mike as he came around the corner of the shanty where he had been trying to fix a broken wheel on a small cart he had made from a soap box. “He’s a fine leaper and he’s going to be better when he grows up. I wonder what he’s trying to do now?”
“Go to the top of the rocks, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Malony.

“If he does the Sharp-horns or old Bumper will send him down quick enough!” laughed Mike. “They don’t want the small Nannies and Billies eatin’ the top grass. You’d better come back, Lightfoot! he called to the climbing goat. But if Lightfoot heard or understood he gave no sign.
“I’d like to stay and see what happens when he gets to the top,” laughed Mike, running his fingers through his red hair.
“You’ve no time,” called his mother. “Be off with this wash now, like a good boy. Sure it’s the money from it I’ll be needing’ to get meat for the Sunday dinner. Off with ye now!”
“All right, Mother. Just as soon as I fix the wheel on my cart.”

While Mike went back to fix his wagon, so he could take home the basket of clean clothes, Lightfoot, the leaping goat, once more began scrambling up the rocks toward the top. Mr. Sharp-horn, who had looked over the edge to see the smaller goat climbing up, had moved back to eat some more grass, and he forgot about Lightfoot.
“Now none of them is looking, I’ll get to the top,” thought Lightfoot. “And when I do I’ll have some fun, and get something good to eat. I want some long-stemmed grass. That at the foot of the rocks is dry and sour.”

On and on he climbed. Now and then he would stop to kick up his heels, he felt so fine, and again he would push his horns against the hard rocks to see how strong his head and neck were getting.
“Soon I’ll be able to butt as well as Grandpa Bumper,” thought Lightfoot.
Some neighboring children, playing in the yard of their shanty next to that of the Malonys, saw Lightfoot kicking and butting.
“Oh look at that funny goat of Mike’s!” called a little girl.
“Sure, he’s a fine goat!” declared her brother. “I wish we had one like that. Our Nannie is getting old,” he added.
On and on went Lightfoot, cutting up such funny capers that the little boy and girl, watching him, laughed with glee.

At last the goat was close to the top of the rocks, where there was a smooth level place and where sweet grass grew. Lightfoot peeped carefully over the top. He did not want Mr. Sharp-horn or Grandpa Bumper to rush at him the first thing and, maybe, knock him head over heels down the rocky hill.
But, as it happened, all the other goats were away from the edge and did not see Lightfoot. Up he scrambled and began cropping the sweet grass.
“Oh, this is fine!” he cried.
He was eating the grass, when, all at once, Mr. Sharp-horn looked up and saw him.
“Well, the idea!” cried that big goat. “The idea of that kid coming up here, where only we big goats are supposed to come! He is too young for this place, yet. I must drive him down and teach him a lesson.” Then lowering his head, and shaking his horns, the goat rushed at Lightfoot.

Mr. Sharp-horn did not mean to be unkind. But small animals are always kept in their own places by the larger ones until they have grown big enough to take their own part. That is one of the lessons goats and other animals have to learn.
Lightfoot was soon to have his lesson. He was eating away at the sweet grass, thinking how good it was, when he heard a clatter of hoofs.
Looking up quickly, Lightfoot saw Mr. Sharp-horn running toward him swiftly. Lightfoot knew what the lowered head of the older goat meant.
“Go on down out of here!” bleated Mr. Sharp-horn.
“I don’t want to,” answered Lightfoot, and stamped with his forefeet, his hard hoofs rattling on the ground.

“But you must go down!” said the older goat. “This is no place for you kids. It is for the older goats. Keep on the rocks below.”
“I am old enough to come up here now,” said Lightfoot. “Besides, I am hungry.”
“That makes no difference!” cried Mr. Sharp-horn. “Get down, I say!”
He kept on running toward Lightfoot with lowered head. The boy-goat thought the man-goat was, perhaps, only trying to scare him, and did not turn to run. But Mr. Sharp-horn was in earnest. On and on he came, and when Lightfoot turned to run it was almost too late.
However he did turn, and he did run, for he did not like the idea of being butted with those long horns. Before him was the edge of the rocks, and then, when it was too late, Lightfoot saw that he had run to the wrong place on the edge. There was, here, no path down which he could scramble. The rock went straight down, and he must either stand still and be butted over the edge, or he must jump.
He gave a bleating cry and over the edge of the rocks he jumped.

Written by Mrs. Alfred Gatty

“I wonder what becomes of the Frog when he climbs up out of this world, and disappears so that we do not see even his shadow; till, plop! he is among us again. Does anybody know where he goes to?”
Thus chattered the grub of a Dragonfly as he darted about with his companions in and out among the plants at the bottom of a beautiful pond in the centre of a wood.
“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered one who overheard the Grub’s question, “what is it to us?”
“Look out for food for yourself and let the other people’s business alone,” cried another. “But I would like to know,” said the grub. “I can see all of you when you pass by me among the plants in the water here, and when I don’t see you any longer I wonder where you have gone. I followed the Frog just now as he went upwards, and all at once he went to the side of the water, then he began to disappear and presently he was gone. Did he leave this world? And where did he go?”
“You silly fellow,” cried another. “See what a good bite you have missed with your wonderings about nothing.” So saying he seized an insect which was flitting right in front of the Grub.

Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the water and a large yellow Frog swam down to the bottom among the grubs.
“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a minnow as he darted by overhead.
Such a chance of satisfying himself was not to be lost, and after taking two or three turns round the roots of a water-lily, the grub gathered up his courage and, approaching the Frog, asked, “Is it permitted to a very unhappy creature to speak?”
The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon him in surprise and answered, “Very unhappy creatures had better be silent. I never talk but when I’m happy.”
“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said the Grub.
“Talk away then,” said the Frog.
“But it is something I want to ask you.”
“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog.
“What is there beyond the world?” inquired the Grub in a very quiet way.
“What world do you mean—this pond?” asked the Frog, rolling his goggle eyes round and round.
“I mean the place we live in whatever way you may choose to call it. I call it the world,” said the Grub.

“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is the place you don’t live in?”
“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” replied the little Grub.
“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, then. It is dry land.”
“Can one swim about there?” inquired the Grub.
“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog.
“Dry land is not water. That is just what it is not. Dry land is something like the sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is not wet because there’s no water.”
“Really! What is there then?”
“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy.
“There is something, of course, they call it air, but how to explain it I don’t know. Now just take my advice and ask no more silly questions. I tell you the thing is not worth your troubling yourself about. But I admire your spirit,” continued the Frog. “I will make you an offer. If you choose to take a seat on my back I will carry you up to dry land and you can judge for yourself what is there and how you like it.”
“I accept with gratitude, honoured Frog,” said the little Grub.
“Drop yourself down on my back, then, and cling to me as well as you can. Come now, hold fast.”

The little Grub obeyed and the Frog, swimming gently upwards, soon reached the bulrushes by the water’s side.
“Hold fast,” repeated the Frog, and then, raising his head out of the pond, he clambered up the bank and got upon the grass.
“Now, then, here we are,” exclaimed the Frog. “What do you think of dry land?”
But no one answered.
“Hello! Gone? That’s just what I was afraid of. He has floated off my back, silly fellow. But perhaps he has made his way to the water’s edge here after all, and then I can help him out. I’ll wait about and see.”
And away went Froggy with a leap along the grass by the edge of the pond glancing every now and then among the bulrushes to see if he could spy his little friend, the dragonfly grub.

But what had become of the little grub? He had really clung to the Frog’s back with all his might; but the moment the mask of his face began to issue from the water, a shock seemed to strike his frame and he reeled from his resting place back into the pond panting and struggling for life.
“Terrible,” he cried as soon as he came to himself. “The Frog has deceived me. He cannot go there, at any rate.” And with these words, the little Grub moved away to his old companions to talk over with them what he had done and where he had been.
“It was terrible, terrible. But the sun is beginning to set and I must take a turn around the pond in search for food.” And away went the little dragon fly grub for a ramble among the water plants.

On his return who should he see sitting calmly on a stone at the bottom of the pond but his friend the yellow Frog.
“You here!” cried the startled Grub. “You never left this world at all then. How you deceived me, Frog!”
“Clumsy fellow,” replied the Frog. “Why did you not sit fast as I told you?”
The little Grub soon told his story while the Frog sat staring at him in silence out of his great goggley eyes.
“And now,” said the Grub, “since there is nothing beyond this world, all your stories of going there must be mere inventions. As I have no wish to be fooled by any more of your tales, I will bid you a very good evening.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said the Frog, “until you have heard my story.”
“As you wish,” answered the Grub.

Then the Frog told him how he had lingered by the edge of the pond in hope of seeing the little Grub again, how he had hopped about in the grass, how he had peeked among the bulrushes.
“And at last,” he continued, “though I did not see you yourself, I saw a sight which has more interest for you than for any other creature that lives,” and then the Frog stopped speaking.
“What was it?” asked the inquisitive little Grub.
“Up the polished green stalk of one of those bulrushes I saw a little dragon-fly grub slowly and gradually climb till he had left the water behind him. As I continued to look, I noticed that a small hole seemed to come in your friend’s body. I cannot tell you in what way the thing happened, but after many struggles, there came from it one of those beautiful creatures who float through the air and dazzle the eyes of all who catch glimpses of them as they pass—a glorious Dragon-fly!
“As if just waking from a dream he lifted his wings out of the covering. Though shrivelled and damp at first they stretched and expanded in the sunshine till they glistened as if with fire. I saw the beautiful creature at last hold himself for a second or two in the air before he took flight. I saw the four gauzy wings flash back the sunshine that was poured on them. I heard the clash with which they struck the air and I saw his body give out rays of glittering blue and green as he darted along and away over the water in circles that seemed to know no end. Then I plunged below to find you out and tell you the good news.”

“It’s a wonderful story,” said the little Grub.
“A wonderful story, indeed,” repeated the Frog.
“And you really think, then, that the glorious creature you saw was once a—”
“Silence,” cried the Frog. “All your questions have been answered. It is getting dark here in your world. I must return to my grassy home on dry land. Go to rest, little fellow, and awake in hopes.”
The Frog swam close to the bank and clambered up its side while the little Grub returned to his companions to wait and hope.

Written by The Brothers Grimm

There were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for a child. At length the woman hoped that her wish was about to come true. These people had a little window at the back of their house from which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most beautiful flowers and herbs. It was, however, surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an enchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world.

One day the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the garden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful rampion, and it looked so fresh and green that she longed for it, she quite pined away, and began to look pale and miserable. Then her husband was alarmed, and asked: ‘What’s wrong, dear wife?’ ‘Ah,’ she replied, ‘if I can’t eat some of the rampion, which is in the garden behind our house, I shall never eat anything again.’ The man, who loved her, thought: ‘Sooner than let your wife fade away, bring her some of the rampion yourself, let it cost what it will.’

At twilight, he clambered down over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, quickly clutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once made herself a salad of it, and ate it greedily. It tasted so good to her—so very good, that the next day she longed for it three times as much as before. If he was to have any rest, her husband must once more descend into the garden.

In the gloom of evening therefore, he let himself down again; but when he had clambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the enchantress standing before him. ‘How can you dare,’ said she with an angry look, ‘descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a thief? You shall suffer for it!’ ‘Ah,’ he answered, ‘let mercy take the place of justice, I only made up my mind to do it out of necessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such a longing for it that she would have faded away if she had not got some to eat.’
Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said to him: ‘If the case be as you say, I will allow you to take away with you as much rampion as you will, only I make one condition, you must give me the child which your wife will bring into the world; it shall be well treated, and I will care for it like a mother.’

The man in his fear consented to everything, and when the woman was brought to bed and ready to have her child, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the child the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her.

Rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child under the sun. When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her up into a tower, which lay in a forest, and had neither stairs nor door, but quite near the top was a little window. When the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed herself beneath it and cried:
‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair to me.’

Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she heard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell twenty stories down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.

After a year or two, it came to pass that the king’s son rode through the forest and passed by the tower. Then he heard a song, which was so charming that he stood still and listened. This was Rapunzel, who in her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The king’s son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the tower, but none was to be found. He rode home, but the singing had so deeply touched his heart, that every day he went out into the forest and listened to it.

Once when he was standing behind a tree, he saw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried:
‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair to me.’

Then Rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress climbed up to her. ‘If that is the ladder by which one mounts, I too will try my fortune,’ he said, and the next day when it began to grow dark, he went to the tower and cried:
‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair to me.’

Immediately the hair fell down and the king’s son climbed up.

At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man, such as her eyes had never yet seen, came to her; but the king’s son began to talk to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to see her. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and after some time when he asked her if she would take him for her husband, and she saw that he was young and handsome, she thought: ‘He will love me more than old Dame Gothel does’; and so she said yes, and laid her hand in his. She said: ‘I will willingly go away with you, but I do not know how to get down. Bring with you a skein of silk every time that you come, and I will weave a ladder with it, and when that is ready I will descend, and you will take me with you on your horse.’

They agreed that until that time he should come and visit every evening, for the old woman came by day. The enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once Rapunzel said to her: ‘Tell me, Dame Gothel, how it happens that you are so much heavier for me to draw up than the young king’s son—it takes me no time at all to pull him up.’ ‘Ah! you wicked child,’ cried the enchantress. ‘What do I hear you say! I thought I had separated you from all the world, and yet you have deceived me!’

In her anger she clutched Rapunzel’s beautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a pair of scissors with the right, and snip, snap, they were cut off, and the lovely braids lay on the ground. And as she was so cruel, she took poor Rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great grief and misery.

On the same day that she cast out Rapunzel, however, the enchantress fastened the braids of hair, which she had cut off, to the hook of the window, and when the king’s son came and cried:
‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair to me.’

she let the hair down. The king’s son climbed up, but instead of finding his dearest Rapunzel, he found the enchantress, who gazed at him with wicked and dangerous looks. ‘Aha!’ she cried mockingly, ‘you would fetch your dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in the nest; the cat has got it, and will scratch at you. Rapunzel is lost to you; you will never see her again.’

The king’s son was beside himself with pain, and in his sadness and need to get away he leapt down from the tower. He escaped the enchantress, but the thorns into which he fell had scratched his eyes. He then wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but sob and weep over the loss of his dearest Rapunzel.

Thus he roamed about in misery for some years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel, with the twins she had had, a boy and a girl, lived in sorrow and unhappiness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom where they were joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and content.

Written By Abbie Phillips Walker

“I tell you I saw them with my own eyes,” said old White Hen, standing on one foot with her neck outstretched and her bill wide open. “One was pink and the other was blue. They were just like any other egg as far as size, but the color–think of it–pink and blue eggs. Whoever could have laid them?” Old White Hen looked from one to the other of the group of hens and chickens as they stood around her.

“Well, I know that I didn’t,” said Speckled Hen.
“You needn’t look at me,” said Brown Hen. “I lay large white eggs, and you know it, every one of you. They are the best eggs in the yard, if I do say it.”

“Oh, I would not say that,” said White Hen. “You seem to forget that the largest egg ever seen in this yard was laid by me, and it was a little on the brown color; white eggs are all well enough, but give me a brown tone for quality.”

“You never laid such a large egg as that but once,” replied Brown Hen, “and everybody thought it was a freak egg, so the least said about it the better, it seems to me.”

“It is plain to understand how you feel about that egg,” said White Hen, “but it does not help us to find out who laid the blue and pink eggs.”
“Where did you see them?” asked Speckled Hen.

“On the table, by the window of the farm-house,” said old White Hen. “I flew up on a barrel that stood under the window, and then I stretched my neck and looked in the window, and there on the table, in a little basket, I saw those strange-looking eggs.”

“Perhaps the master had bought them for some one of us to sit on and hatch out,” said Brown Hen.
“Well, I, for one, refuse to do it,” said White Hen. “I think it would be an insult to put those gaudy things into our nests.”

“I am sure I will not hatch them,” said Speckled Hen. “I would look funny hiking around here with a blue chick and a pink chick beside me, and I, a speckled hen. No! I will not mother fancy-colored chicks; the master can find another hen to do that.”

“You do not think for a minute that I would do such a thing, I hope,” said Brown Hen. “I only mentioned the fact that the master might have such an idea, but as for mixing up colors, I guess not. My little yellow darlings shall not be disgraced by a blue and pink chick running with them.”

“Perhaps White Hen is color-blind,” said Speckled Hen. “The eggs she saw may be white, after all.”
“If you doubt my word or my sight, go and look for yourselves,” said White Hen, holding her head high. “You will find a blue and a pink egg, just as I told you.”

Off ran Speckled Hen and Brown Hen, followed by many others, and all the chicks in the yard.
One after another they flew to the top of the barrel and looked in the window at the eggs White Hen had told them of. It was all too true; the eggs were blue and pink.
“Peep, peep, peep, peep, we want to see the blue and pink eggs, too,” cried the chickens. “We never saw any and we want to look at them.”

“Oh dear! why do I talk before them?” said Brown Hen. “They will not be quiet unless they see, and how in the world shall I get them up to that window?”
“Did it ever occur to you not to give them everything they cry for?” said White Hen. “Say ‘No’ once in a while; it will save you a lot of trouble.”

“I cannot bear to deny the little darlings anything,” said Brown Hen, clucking her little brood and trying to quiet them.
“Well, you better begin now, for this is one of the things you will not be able to do.” said White Hen, strutting over to the dog-house to tell the story of the blue and pink eggs to Towser the dog.

“Wouldn’t it be just too awful if the master puts those eggs in one of our nests?” asked White Hen, when she had finished her story.
“Oh–oh!” laughed Towser, “that is a good joke on you; don’t know your own eggs when you see them.”

“Don’t tell me I laid those fancy-colored eggs,” said White Hen, looking around to see if any of her companions were within hearing distance. “I know I never did.”
“But you did,” said Towser, laughing again. “I heard the master say to my little girl, ‘If you want eggs to color for Easter take the ones that White Hen laid; they are not so large as the others, and I cannot sell them so well.'”

“Towser, if you will never mention what you have just told me I will tell you where I saw a great big bone this morning,” said White Hen. “I was saving it for myself. I like to pick at one once in a while, but you shall have it if you promise to keep secret what you just told me.”

Towser promised, and White Hen showed where it was hidden.
A few days after Brown Hen said: “I wonder when master is going to bring out those fancy eggs. If he leaves them in the house much longer no one will be able to hatch them.”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you that those eggs were not real eggs, after all,” said White Hen, “but only Easter eggs for the little girl to play with, so we had all our worry for nothing. Towser told me, but don’t say a word to him, for I did not let on that we were worried and didn’t know they were only make-believe eggs; he thinks he is so wise, you know, it would never do to let him know how we were fooled.”

? Please consider purchasing this book. For more titles by Patti Larsen, please visit her website.

Written by The Brothers Grimm

A poor woodman sat in his cottage one night, smoking his pipe by the fireside, while his wife sat by his side spinning. ‘How lonely it is, wife,’ he said, as he puffed out a long curl of smoke, ‘for you and me to sit here by ourselves, without any children to play about and amuse us while other people seem so happy and merry with their children!’

‘What you say is very true,’ said the wife, sighing, and turning round her wheel; ‘how happy should I be if I had but one child! If it were ever so small—nay, if it were no bigger than my thumb—I should be very happy, and love it dearly.’ Now—odd as you may think it—it came to pass that this good woman’s wish was fulfilled, just in the very way she had wished it; for, not long afterwards, she had a little boy, who was quite healthy and strong, but was not much bigger than my thumb. So they said, ‘Well, we cannot say we have not got what we wished for, and, little as he is, we will love him dearly.’ And they called him Thomas Thumb.

They gave him plenty of food, yet for all they could do he never grew bigger, but kept just the same size as he had been when he was born. Still, his eyes were sharp and sparkling, and he soon showed himself to be a clever little fellow, who always knew well what he was about.

One day, as the woodman was getting ready to go into the wood to cut fuel, he said, ‘I wish I had someone to bring the cart after me, for I want to make haste.’ ‘Oh, father,’ cried Tom, ‘I will take care of that; the cart shall be in the wood by the time you want it.’ Then the woodman laughed, and said, ‘How can that be? you cannot reach up to the horse’s bridle.’ ‘Never mind that, father,’ said Tom; ‘if mother will only harness the horse, I will get into his ear and tell him which way to go.’ ‘Well,’ said the father, ‘we will try for once.’

When the time came the mother harnessed the horse to the cart, and put Tom into his ear; and as he sat there the little boy told the horse how to go, crying out, ‘Go on!’ and ‘Stop!’ as he wanted: and thus the horse went on just as well as if the woodman had driven it himself into the wood.

It happened that as the horse was going a little too fast, and Tom was calling out, ‘Gently! gently!’ two strangers came up. ‘What an odd thing that is!’ said one: ‘there is a cart going along, and I hear someone talking to the horse, but yet I can see no one.’ ‘That is strange, indeed,’ said the other; ‘let us follow the cart, and see where it goes.’ So they went on into the wood, till at last they came to the place where the woodman was. Then Tom Thumb, seeing his father, cried out, ‘See, father, here I am with the cart, all right and safe! now take me down please!’ So his father took hold of the horse with one hand, and with the other took his son out of the horse’s ear, and put him down upon a straw, where he sat as merry as you please.

The two strangers were all this time looking on, and did not know what to say for wonder. At last one took the other aside, and said, ‘That little boy will make our fortune, if we can get him, and carry him about from town to town as a show; we must buy him.’ So they went up to the woodman, and asked him what he would take for the little boy. ‘He will be better off,’ said they, ‘with us than with you.’ ‘I won’t sell him at all,’ said the father; ‘my own flesh and blood is dearer to me than all the silver and gold in the world.’ But Tom, hearing of the bargain they wanted to make, crept up his father’s coat to his shoulder and whispered in his ear, ‘Take the money, father, and let them have me; I’ll soon come back to you.’

So the woodman at last said he would sell Tom to the strangers for a large piece of gold, and they paid the price. ‘Where would you like to sit?’ said one of them. ‘Oh, put me on the rim of your hat; that will be a nice gallery for me; I can walk about there and see the country as we go along.’ So they did as he wished; and when Tom had taken leave of his father they took him away with them.
They journeyed on till it began to get dusky, and then the little man said, ‘Let me get down, I’m tired.’ So the man took off his hat, and put him down on a clod of earth, in a ploughed field by the side of the road. But Tom ran about amongst the furrows, and at last slipped into an old mouse-hole. ‘Good night, my masters!’ he said, ‘I’m off! mind and look sharp after me the next time.’ Then they ran at once to the place, and poked the end of their sticks into the mouse-hole, but all in vain; Tom only crawled farther and farther in; and at last it became quite dark, so that they were forced to go their way without their prize, as sulky as could be.

When Tom found they were gone, he came out of his hiding-place. ‘What dangerous walking it is,’ he said, ‘in this ploughed field! If I were to fall from one of these great clods, I could break a bone.’ At last, by good luck, he found a large empty snail-shell. ‘This is lucky,’ he said, ‘I can sleep here very well’; and in he crept.

Just as he was falling asleep, he heard two men passing by, chatting together; and one said to the other, ‘How can we rob that rich person’s house of his silver and gold?’ ‘I’ll tell you!’ cried Tom. ‘What noise was that?’ said the thief, frightened; ‘I’m sure I heard someone speak.’ They stood still listening, and Tom said, ‘Take me with you, and I’ll show you how to get the person’s money.’ ‘But where are you?’ they said. ‘Look about on the ground,’ answered him, ‘and listen where the sound comes from.’ At last the thieves found him out, and lifted him up in their hands. ‘You little urchin!’ they said, ‘what can you do for us?’ ‘Why, I can get between the iron window-bars of the person’s house, and throw you out whatever you want.’ ‘Hmmm! That’s a good thought,’ said the thieves; ‘come along, we shall see what you can do.’

When they came to the person’s house, Tom slipped through the window-bars into the room, and then called out as loud as he could yell, ‘Will you have all that is here?’ At this the thieves were frightened, and said, ‘Softly, softly! Speak low, that you may not awaken anybody.’ But Tom seemed as if he did not understand them, and yelled out again, ‘How much will you have? Shall I throw it all out?’ Now the cook lay in the next room; and hearing a noise she raised herself up in her bed and listened.

Meantime the thieves were frightened, and ran off a little way; but at last they plucked up their courage, and said, ‘The little urchin is trying to make fools of us.’ So they came back and whispered softly to him, saying, ‘Now let us have no more of your roguish jokes; but throw us out some of the money.’ Then Tom called out as loud as he could, ‘Very well! hold your hands! here it comes.’

The cook heard this quite plain, so she sprang out of bed, and ran to open the door. The thieves ran off as if a wolf was at their tails: and the maid, having groped about and found nothing, went away for a light. By the time she came back, Tom had slipped off into the barn; and when she had looked about and searched every hole and corner, and found nobody, she went to bed, thinking she must have been dreaming with her eyes open.

The little man crawled about in the hay-loft, and at last found a snug place to finish his night’s rest in; so he laid himself down, meaning to sleep till daylight, and then find his way home to his father and mother. But alas! how woefully he was undone! what crosses and sorrows happen to us all in this world!

The cook got up early, before daybreak, to feed the cows; and going straight to the hay-loft, carried away a large bundle of hay, with the little man in the middle of it, fast asleep. He still, however, slept on, and did not awake till he found himself in the mouth of the cow; for the cook had put the hay into the cow’s trough, and the cow had taken Tom up in a mouthful of it. ‘Good lack-a-day!’ he said, ‘how came I to tumble into the mill?’ But he soon found out where he really was; and was forced to have all his wits about him, that he might not get between the cow’s teeth.
At last down he went into her stomach. ‘It is rather dark,’ he said; ‘they forgot to build windows in this room to let the sun in; a candle would be no bad thing.’

Though he made the best of his bad luck, he did not like his quarters at all; and the worst of it was, that more and more hay was always coming down, and the space left for him became smaller and smaller. At last he cried out as loud as he could, ‘Don’t bring me any more hay! Don’t bring me any more hay!’

The maid happened to be just then milking the cow; and hearing someone speak, but seeing nobody, and yet being quite sure it was the same voice that she had heard in the night, she was so frightened that she fell off her stool, and tipped over the milk-pail. As soon as she could pick herself up out of the dirt, she ran off as fast as she could to her master, the person who owned the house, and said, ‘Sir, sir, the cow is talking!’ But the man said, ‘Woman, you are surely mad!’ However, he went with her into the cow-house, to try and see what was the matter.

Scarcely had they set foot on the threshold, when Tom called out, ‘Don’t bring me any more hay!’ Then the man himself was frightened; and thinking the cow was surely bewitched, told his man to get rid of the cow on the spot. So the cow was gotten rid of, but Tom had crawled up onto the hay and out of the cow’s mouth and fell into the dunghill as they led the cow away.

Tom soon set himself to work to get out, which was not a very easy task; but at last, just as he had made room to get his head out, when more bad luck found him. A hungry wolf sprang out, swallowed him whole, and ran away.

Tom, however, was still not disheartened; and thinking the wolf would not dislike having someone chat with him as he was going along, he called out, ‘My good friend, I can show you a famous treat.’ ‘Where’s that?’ said the wolf. ‘In such and such a house,’ said Tom, describing his own father’s house. ‘You can crawl through the drain into the kitchen and then into the pantry, and there you will find cakes, ham, beef, cold chicken, roast pig, apple-dumplings, and everything that your heart can wish.’

The wolf did not want to be asked twice; so that very night he went to the house and crawled through the drain into the kitchen, and then into the pantry, and ate and drank there to his heart’s content. As soon as he had had enough he wanted to get away; but he had eaten so much that he could not go out by the same way he came in.

That was just what Tom had hoped would happen; and now he began to set up a great shout, making all the noise he could. ‘Will you be easy?’ said the wolf; ‘you’ll awaken everybody in the house if you make such a clatter.’ ‘What’s that to me?’ said the little man; ‘you have had your frolic, now I’ve a mind to be merry myself’; and he began, singing and shouting as loud as he could.

The woodman and his wife, being awakened by the noise, peeped through a crack in the door; but when they saw a wolf was there, you may well suppose that they were sadly frightened; and the woodman ran for his axe. ‘Do stay behind,’ said the woodman, ‘and when I have knocked him on the head you tie him up.’

Tom heard all this, and cried out, ‘Father, father! I am here, the wolf has swallowed me.’ And his father said, ‘Heaven be praised! we have found our dear child again’; and he told his wife to be careful so she did not hurt him. Then he struck the wolf on the head, they quickly tied him up, and set Tommy free.

‘Ah!’ said the father, ‘what fears we have had for you!’ ‘Yes, father,’ answered Tom; ‘I have travelled all over the world, I think, in one way or another, since we parted; and now I am very glad to come home and get fresh air again.’ ‘Why, where have you been?’ said his father. ‘I have been in a mouse-hole—and in a snail-shell—and down a cow’s throat—and in the wolf’s belly; and yet here I am again, safe and sound.’

‘Well,’ said they, ‘you are come back, and we will not sell you again for all the riches in the world.’

Then they hugged and kissed their dear little son, and gave him plenty to eat and drink, for he was very hungry; and then they fetched new clothes for him, for his old ones had been quite spoiled on his journey. So Master Thumb stayed at home with his father and mother, in peace; for though he had been so great a traveller, and had done and seen so many fine things, and was fond enough of telling the whole story, he always agreed that, after all, there’s no place like HOME!

? Please consider purchasing this book. For more titles by Patti Larsen, please visit her website.

Written by The Brothers Grimm

There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a pigsty, close by the seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing; and one day, as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the sparkling waves and watching his line, all of a sudden his float was dragged away deep into the water: and in drawing it up he pulled out a great fish. But the fish said, ‘Pray let me live! I am not a real fish; I am an enchanted prince: put me in the water again, and let me go!’

‘Oh, ho!’ said the man, ‘you need not make so many words about the matter; I will have nothing to do with a fish that can talk: so swim away, sir, as soon as you please!’

Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom, leaving a long white streak behind him on the wave.

When the fisherman went home to his wife in the pigsty, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and how, on hearing it speak, he had let it go again.

‘Did you not ask it for anything?’ said the wife, ‘we live very wretchedly here, in this nasty dirty pigsty; go back and tell the fish we want a snug little cottage.’

The fisherman did not much like the business: however, he went to the seashore; and when he came back there the water looked all yellow and green. And he stood at the water’s edge, and said:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

Then the fish came swimming to him, and said, ‘Well, what is her will? What does your wife want?’

‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘she says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go; she does not like living any longer in the pigsty, and wants a snug little cottage.’

‘Go home, then,’ said the fish; ‘she is in the cottage already!’ So the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a nice trim little cottage. ‘Come in, come in!’ she said; ‘isn’t this much better than the filthy pigsty we had?’ And there was a parlour, and a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden, planted with all sorts of flowers and fruits; and there was a courtyard behind, full of ducks and chickens.

‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘how happily we shall live now!’ ‘We will try to do so, at least,’ said his wife.

Everything went right for a week or two, and then Ilsabill said, ‘Husband, there is not near room enough for us in this cottage; the courtyard and the garden are a great deal too small; I should like to have a large stone castle to live in: go to the fish again and tell him to give us a castle.’

‘Wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘I don’t like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry; we ought to be easy with this pretty cottage to live in.’

‘Nonsense!’ said the wife; ‘he will do it very willingly, I know; go along and try!’

The fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy: and when he came to the sea, it looked blue and gloomy, though it was very calm; and he went close to the edge of the waves, and said:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

‘Well, what does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the man, dolefully, ‘my wife wants to live in a stone castle.’

‘Go home, then,’ said the fish; ‘she is standing at the gate of it already.’ So away went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before the gate of a great castle.

‘See,’ said she, ‘is not this grand?’ With that they went into the castle together, and found a great many servants there, and the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and around it was a park half a mile long, full of sheep, and goats, and hares, and deer; and in the courtyard were stables and cow-houses. ‘Well,’ said the man, ‘now we will live cheerful and happy in this beautiful castle for the rest of our lives.’ ‘Perhaps we may,’ said the wife; ‘but let us sleep upon it, before we make up our minds to that.’ So they went to bed.

The next morning when Ilsabill woke up it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said, ‘Get up, husband, and get yourself going, for we must be king of all the land.’

‘Wife, wife,’ said the man, ‘why should we wish to be the king? I will not be king.’

‘Then I will,’ she said.

‘But, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘how can you be king—the fish cannot make you a king?’

‘Husband,’ she said, ‘say no more about it, but go and try! I will be king.’

So the man went away quite sorrowful to think that his wife should want to be king. This time the sea looked a dark grey colour, and was overspread with curling waves and the ridges of foam as he cried out:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

‘Well, what would she have now?’ said the fish. ‘Alas!’ said the poor man, ‘my wife wants to be king.’

‘Go home,’ said the fish; ‘she is king already.’

Then the fisherman went home; and as he came close to the palace he saw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets. And when he went in he saw his wife sitting on a throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head; and on each side of her stood six fair maidens, each a head taller than the other.

‘Well, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘are you king?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am king.’
And when he had looked at her for a long time, he said, ‘Ah, wife! what a fine thing it is to be king! Now we shall never have anything more to wish for as long as we live.’

‘I don’t know how that may be,’ she said; ‘never is a long time. I am king, it is true; but I begin to be tired of that, and I think I should like to be emperor.’
‘Alas, wife! why should you wish to be emperor?’ said the fisherman.
‘Husband,’ she said, ‘go to the fish! I say I will be emperor.’ ‘Ah, wife!’ replied the fisherman, ‘the fish cannot make an emperor, I am sure, and I should not like to ask him for such a thing.’
‘I am king,’ said Ilsabill, ‘and you are my slave; so go at once!’

So the fisherman was forced to go; and he muttered as he went along, ‘This will come to no good, it is too much to ask; the fish will be tired at last, and then we shall be sorry for what we have done.’

He soon came to the seashore; and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over the waves and rolled them about, but he went as near as he could to the water’s brink, and said:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

‘What would she have now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘she wants to be emperor.’
‘Go home,’ said the fish; ‘she is emperor already.’

So he went home again; and as he came near he saw his wife Ilsabill sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a great crown on her head full two yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, each one smaller than the other, from the tallest giant down to a little dwarf no bigger than my finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and the fisherman went up to her and said, ‘Wife, are you emperor?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am emperor.’
‘Ah!’ said the man, as he gazed upon her, ‘what a fine thing it is to be emperor!’

‘Husband,’ she said, ‘why should we stop at being emperor? I will be pope next.’
‘O wife, wife!’ he said, ‘how can you be pope? there is but one pope at a time.’
‘Husband,’ she said, ‘I will be pope this very day.’
‘But,’ replied the husband, ‘the fish cannot make you pope.’
‘What nonsense!’ she said; ‘if he can make an emperor, he can make a pope: go and try him.’

So the fisherman went. But when he came to the shore the wind was raging and the sea was tossed up and down in boiling waves, and the ships were in trouble, and rolled fearfully upon the tops of the billows.

In the middle of the heavens there was a little piece of blue sky, but towards the south all was red, as if a dreadful storm was rising. At this sight the fisherman was dreadfully frightened, and he trembled so that his knees knocked together: but still he went down near to the shore, and said:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

‘What does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘my wife wants to be pope.’
‘Go home,’ said the fish; ‘she is pope already.’

Then the fisherman went home, and found Ilsabill sitting on a throne that was two miles high. And she had three great crowns on her head, and around her stood all the pomp and power of the Church. And on each side of her were two rows of burning lights, of all sizes, the greatest as large as the highest and biggest tower in the world, and the least no larger than a small rushlight. ‘Wife,’ said the fisherman, as he looked at all this greatness, ‘are you pope?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am pope.’
‘Well, wife,’ replied he, ‘it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be easy, for you can be nothing greater.’
‘I will think about that,’ said the wife.

Then they went to bed: but Ilsabill could not sleep all night for thinking about what she should be next. At last, as she was dropping asleep, morning broke, and the sun rose. ‘Ha!’ thought she, as she woke up and looked at it through the window, ‘after all I cannot prevent the sun rising.’

At this thought she was very angry, and woke her husband, and said, ‘Husband, go to the fish and tell him I must be lord of the sun and moon.’ The fisherman was half asleep, but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed. ‘Alas, wife!’ he said, ‘cannot you be happy with being pope?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I am very unhappy as long as the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish at once!’

Then the man went shivering with fear; and as he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the very rocks shook. And all the sky became black with stormy clouds, and the lightning played, and the thunder rolled; and you might have seen in the sea great black waves, swelling up like mountains with crowns of white foam upon their heads. And the fisherman crept towards the sea, and cried out, as well as he could:

‘O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’

‘What does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘she wants to be lord of the sun and moon.’
‘WHAT? Go home,’ said the fish, ‘to your pigsty again.’ “Your wife will never be satisfied, so I will take away all I have given.”
The fisherman turned and returned to his pigsty.
And there they live to this very day.

? Please consider purchasing this book. For more titles by Patti Larsen, please visit her website.

Once upon a time, there was a king who had three sons. Now it happened that one day the three princes went out hunting in a large forest at some distance from their father’s palace, and the youngest prince lost his way, so his brothers had to return home without him.

For four days the prince wandered through the glades of the forest, sleeping on moss beneath the stars at night, and by day living on roots and wild berries. At last, on the morning of the fifth day, he came to a large open space in the middle of the forest, and here stood a stately palace; but neither within nor without was there a trace of human life. The prince entered the open door and wandered through the deserted rooms without seeing a soul. At last he came to a great hall, and in the centre of the hall was a table spread with dainty dishes and choice wines. The prince sat down, and satisfied his hunger and thirst, and immediately afterwards the table disappeared from his sight. This struck the prince as very strange; but though he continued his search through all the rooms, upstairs and down, he could find no one to speak to. At last, just as it was beginning to get dark, he heard steps in the distance and he saw an old man coming towards him up the stairs.

‘What are you doing wandering about my castle?’ asked the old man.
The prince replied: ‘I lost my way hunting in the forest. If you will take me into your service, I would like to stay with you, and will serve you faithfully.’
‘Very well,’ said the old man. ‘You may enter my service. You will have to keep the stove always lit, you will have to fetch the wood for it from the forest, and you will have the charge of the black horse in the stables. I will pay you a florin a day, and at meal times you will always find the table in the hall spread with food and you can eat and drink as much as you require.’

The prince was satisfied, and he entered the old man’s service, and promised to see that there was always wood on the stove, so that the fire should never go out. Now, though he did not know it, his new master was a magician, and the flame of the stove was a magic fire, and if it had gone out the magician would have lost a great part of his power.

One day the prince forgot, and let the fire burn so low that it very nearly burnt out. Just as the flame was flickering the old man stormed into the room.
‘What do you mean by letting the fire burn so low?’ he growled. ‘I have only arrived in the nick of time.’ And while the prince quickly threw a log on the stove and blew on the ashes to kindle a glow, his master gave him a severe look, and warned him that if ever it happened again it would not be good.

One day the prince was sitting heartbroken in the stables when, to his surprise, the black horse spoke to him.
‘Come into my stall,’ it said, ‘I have something to say to you. Fetch my bridle and saddle from that cupboard and put them on me. Take the bottle that is beside them; it contains an ointment which will make your hair shine like pure gold; then put all the wood you can gather together on to the stove, till it is piled quite high up.’

So the prince did what the horse told him; he saddled and bridled the horse, he put the ointment on his hair till it shone like gold, and he made such a big fire in the stove that the flames sprang up and set fire to the roof, and in a few minutes the palace was burning like a huge bonfire.

Then he hurried back to the stables, and the horse said to him: ‘There is one thing more you must do. In the cupboard you will find a looking-glass, a brush and a riding-crop. Bring them with you, mount on my back, and ride as hard as you can, for now the house is burning merrily.’
The prince did as the horse told him. Scarcely had he got into the saddle then the horse was off and away, galloping at such a pace that, in a short time, the forest and all the country belonging to the magician lay far behind them.

In the meantime the magician returned to his palace, which he found in smouldering ruins. In vain he called for his servant. At last he went to look for him in the stables, and when he discovered that the black horse had disappeared too, he at once suspected that they had gone together; so he mounted a horse that was in the next stall, and set out.

As the prince rode, the quick ears of his horse heard the sound of pursuing feet.
‘Look behind you,’ he said, ‘and see if the old man is following.’ And the prince turned in his saddle and saw a cloud like smoke in the distance.
‘We must hurry,’ said the horse.
After they had galloped for some time, the horse said again: ‘Look behind, and see if he is still at some distance.’
‘He is quite close,’ answered the prince.
‘Then throw the looking-glass on the ground,’ said the horse. So the prince threw it; and when the magician came up, the horse stepped on the mirror, and crash! his foot went through the glass, and he stumbled and fell, there was nothing for the old man to do but to go back with him to the stables, and put new shoes on his feet. Then they started once more in pursuit of the prince, for the magician set great value on the horse, and was determined not to lose it.

In the meanwhile the prince had gone a great distance; but the quick ears of the black horse detected the sound of following feet from afar.
‘Dismount,’ he said to the prince; ‘put your ear to the ground, and tell me if you do not hear a sound.’
So the prince dismounted and listened. ‘I seem to hear the earth tremble,’ he said; ‘I think he cannot be very far off.’

‘Get on,’ answered the horse, ‘and I will gallop as fast as I can.’ And he set off so fast that the earth seemed to fly from under his hoofs.
‘Look back once more,’ he said, after a short time, ‘and see if he is in sight.’
‘I see a cloud and a flame,’ answered the prince; ‘but a long way off.’
‘We must be quick,’ said the horse. And shortly after he said: ‘Look back again; he can’t be far off now.’
The prince turned in his saddle, and exclaimed: ‘He is close behind us, in a minute the flame from his horse’s nostrils will reach us.’
‘Then throw the brush on the ground,’ said the horse.
And the prince threw it, and in an instant the brush was changed into such a thick wood that even a bird could not have got through it, and when the old man got up to it the horse came suddenly to a stand-still, not able to take one step into the thick tangle. So there was nothing for the magician to do but to retrace his steps, fetch an axe, with which he cut a way through the wood. But it took him some time.

But once more they heard the sound of pursuing feet. ‘Look back,’ said the black horse, ‘and see if he is following.’
‘Yes,’ answered the prince, ‘this time I hear him distinctly.
‘Let us hurry on,’ said the horse. And a little later he said: ‘Look back now, and see if he is in sight.’
‘Yes,’ said the prince, turning round, ‘I see the flame; he is close behind us.’
‘Then you must throw down the riding crop,’ answered the horse.’ And in the twinkling of an eye the riding crop was changed into a broad river. When the old man got up to it he urged the horse into the water, but as the water got higher and higher, the magic flame which gave the magician all his power grew smaller and smaller, till, with a fizz, it went out, and the old man and the horse disappeared. When the prince looked round they were no longer to be seen.
‘Now,’ said the horse, ‘you may dismount; there is nothing more to fear, for the magician is gone. Beside that brook you will find a willow wand. Gather it, and strike the earth with it, and it will open and you will see a door at your feet.’
When the prince had struck the earth with the wand a door opened into a large vaulted stone hall.
‘Lead me into that hall,’ said the horse, ‘I will stay there; but you must go through the fields till you reach a garden, in the midst of which is a king’s palace. When you get there you must ask to be taken into the king’s service. Good-bye, and don’t forget me.’

So they parted; but first the horse made the prince promise not to let anyone in the palace see his golden hair. So he tied a scarf round it and the prince set out through the fields, till he reached a beautiful garden, and beyond the garden he saw the walls and towers of a stately palace. At the garden gate he met the gardener, who asked him what he wanted.
‘I want to take service with the king,’ replied the prince.
‘Well, you may stay and work under me in the garden,’ said the man; for as the prince was dressed like a poor man, he could not tell that he was a king’s son. ‘I need someone to weed the ground and to sweep the fallen leaves from the paths. You shall have a florin a day, a horse to help you to cart the leaves away, and food and drink.’
So the prince agreed, and set about his work. But when his food was given to him he only ate half of it; the rest he carried to the vaulted hall beside the brook, and gave to the black horse. And this he did every day, and the horse thanked him for his faithful friendship.

One evening, as they were together, after his work in the garden was over, the horse said to him: ‘To-morrow a large company of princes and great lords are coming to your king’s palace. They are coming from far and near, as suitors for the three princesses. They will all stand in a row in the courtyard of the palace, and the three princesses will come out, and each will carry a diamond apple in her hand, which she will throw into the air. At whosesoever’s feet the apple falls he will be the bridegroom of that princess. You must be close by in the garden at your work. The apple of the youngest princess, who is the most beautiful of the sisters, will roll past the suitors and stop in front of you. Pick it up at once and put it in your pocket.’

The next day, when the suitors were all gathered in the courtyard of the castle, everything happened just as the horse had said. The princesses threw the apples into the air, and the diamond apple of the youngest princess rolled past, out into the garden, and stopped at the feet of the young gardener, who was busy sweeping the leaves away. In a moment he had stooped down, picked up the apple and put it in his pocket. As he stooped the scarf round his head slipped a little to one side, and the princess caught sight of his golden hair, and loved him from that moment.
But the king was very sad, for his youngest daughter was the one he loved best. But there was no help for it; and the next day a threefold wedding was celebrated at the palace, and after the wedding the youngest princess returned with her husband to the small hut in the garden where he lived.

Some time later fighting broke out in their land and the king and the sons of his daughters set out. The youngest daughter’s husband had only an old horse that could not go very far but he was determined not to be left behind. So he rode a little ways and when the horse refused to go any further he dismounted and went down to the brook, to where the black horse lived in the vaulted hall. And the horse said to him: ‘Saddle and bridle me, and then go into the next room and you will find a suit of armour and a sword. Put them on, and we will ride forth together to battle.’
And the prince did as he was told; and when he had mounted the horse his armour glittered in the sun, and he looked so brave and handsome, that no one would have recognised him as the gardener who swept away the leaves from the paths. The horse bore him away at a great pace, and when they reached the battle-field they saw that the king was losing the day. But when the warrior on his black charger and in glittering armour appeared on the scene, hewing right and left with his sword, the enemy were dismayed and fled in all directions, leaving the king master of the field. Then the king and his two sons-in-law, when they saw their deliverer, shouted, and all that was left of the army joined in the cry: ‘A prince has come to our rescue!’ And they would have surrounded him, but his black horse rose in the air and bore him out of their sight.

Two more times this happened but on the third time the young prince was injured. The king took his own handkerchief, with his name and crown embroidered on it, and bound it round the wounded leg. And the king would fain have compelled him to mount in a litter and be carried straight to the palace, and two of his knights were to lead the black charger to the royal stables. But the prince put his hand on the mane of his faithful horse, and managed to pull himself up into the saddle, and the horse mounted into the air with him. And throughout all the kingdom nothing else was spoken about, and all the people said: ‘Who can the hero be who has fought for us in so many battles? He cannot be a man.’
And the king said: ‘If only I could see him once more, and if it turned out there after all he was a man I would reward him with half my kingdom.’

Now when the prince reached his home—the gardener’s hut where he lived with his wife—he was weary, and he lay down on his bed and slept. And his wife noticed the handkerchief bound round his wounded leg, and she wondered what it could be. Then she looked at it more closely and saw in the corner that it was embroidered with her father’s name and the royal crown. So she ran straight to the palace and told her father. And he and his two sons-in-law followed her back to her house, and there the gardener lay asleep on his bed. And the scarf that he always wore round his head had slipped off, and his golden hair gleamed on the pillow. And they all recognised that this was the hero who had fought and won so many battles for them.
Then there was great rejoicing throughout the land, and the king rewarded his son-in-law with half of his kingdom, and he and his wife reigned happily over it.

Please consider purchasing this book. For more titles by Patti Larsen, please visit her website.

Written by Barbara Arndt

Two children, Paul and Lisa, were wandering about in the country on Easter Day, they said sadly to one another. “Has the Easter Bunny quite forgotten us this year?” For three hours they tramped about, and hunted for eggs in every corner of the fields near the big forest. Suddenly Paul found a huge egg; he called to Lisa to come at once to see it, and she trotted along towards him, carrying a pretty little nest filled with Easter eggs in her hands, which she had also found.

The children were very happy; it was such a lovely sunny day, and they were so delighted with their treasures. However they did not give up hunting, and soon each of them found an Easter Rabbit made of the most delicious chocolate. Then Lisa discovered an egg which she called an April-fool’s egg; for when she tried to lick it to see what it tasted like, she found that it was made of soap.
“O, do come and see what a heap of eggs I’ve got,” said Paul, in tones of delight.

Then little Lisa jumped up, calling out: “Look, look—O do come here, quick, quick, and see those two beautiful big nests filled with Easter eggs, and two lovely silver baskets beside them! O how exquisite! The Easter Bunny is too good, he is a darling, did you ever see such beautiful things as he has given us? I can hardly hold mine!”
“Neither can I,” said Paul, “but look over there, Lisa, there are two large baskets. I expect they are meant for us, how very convenient! We can put all our things into them.”
“Let’s go and fetch them at once,” said Lisa. “Do you see that pretty bush with silver palm-buds on it over there?” she continued, “we will go and pick a few twigs from it and tie them on to our baskets with some grass; then they will look more ‘Eastery.'”
“If only we knew where the Easter Bunny lives,” they said somewhat sadly, “we would go and call on him at once and thank him for all his kindness to us.”

“O but just look, Paul,” said Lisa excitedly, “there is something written on the rocks over there; perhaps the Easter Bunny lives there. Paul, you can read a little, do see if you can make out what is written.”
Paul read:
“I am the Master Easter Hare
Lay eggs, in plenty, everywhere.”

“Come along, run, we will knock at the door,” said Lisa joyfully. So they went up to the rock and knocked.

“Come in,” said a clear voice.
They went in and turned to the door on the right from which the voice had come. They entered a comfortable room, and there on a cosy easy-chair, there sat Mr. Easter Bunny, who had just put on his glasses to examine the eggs which his son, who was about seven years old, had painted.
“Good morning, Dear Mr. Easter Bunny, we have come to thank you for the lovely eggs,” said the children.
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Easter Bunny, “you found them of course in your garden, or——?”

“Alas, no, we have no home, we are orphans; the people in the orphanage did not treat us kindly, so we ran away, and mean to seek our fortune in the wide world,” said the children. “Then we were so lucky as to find these beautiful eggs in the fields over there!”
“Dear me, so you are orphans!—well then perhaps you would like to stay here with us and learn painting and housekeeping,” said Mr. Easter Bunny.
“Oh yes indeed, we should simply love to!” answered the children, “but where is your wife? Perhaps she will be able to teach us to be of some use in the household.”
“Well, well, my wife is in the kitchen cooking cabbage, and carrots, and making a famous salad.”
“Oh!” said both the children, “may we help her dress the salad?”
“Certainly, my wife will be very pleased to find that you can be so useful; there, just opposite in the passage, is a door that leads into the kitchen where my wife is busy.”

The children followed his directions and went into the kitchen, and there sat Mrs. Easter Bunny.
“Good morning, Mrs. Easter Bunny,” said the children politely, curtsying and bowing, “we have come to help you in the household, and to stay with you till we are grown up; but now please let us make the salad.”
“Well, that is very kind of you, I’m sure, to want to help me,” said Mrs. Easter Bunny, and the children set to work at once.
After this the children helped her every day in the kitchen in the morning, and in the afternoon they learnt to paint from Mr. Easter Bunny. They painted the eggs smoothly and prettily, and they learned how to read and write; for the Easter Bunny is educated, you must know, and far more intelligent than ordinary hares.

When they grew up and went out into the world again, Paul became a celebrated artist and lived in the artist colony at Cronberg, and little Lisa moved nearby, and became an exemplary chef; but their best friends throughout their lives were always MR. AND MRS. EASTER BUNNY.

Written by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot

There was once a promise made to all the people of the world, and everyone was waiting and had been waiting long for it to be kept.
No one could remember who had made the promise, but the little children were told that it was made by a great King who knew everything that had ever happened, and all things that would ever be.

And this was the promise:
A wonderful flower was to grow in a certain garden that would bring to the one who owned the garden all the good things in the world.

Everyone waited and waited for the flower to come. Years and years they had waited—summer after summer; each new little boy and girl that came into the world was told of the great promise, and among the very first things they did was to go about seeking the flower and asking questions about it.

But no one could tell them anything except to repeat the promise that a beautiful gift-plant would someday grow upon the earth, which only people with loving hearts could see, and they should be greatly blessed.

Everyone in the whole world went about looking for this flower; even though they did a great deal of work, and thought of other things, yet they never quite forgot the wonderful promise.

Many of them prepared the soil and made beautiful gardens to receive it. Some sought far and wide for rare seeds and bulbs which they planted and watered, but only such plants grew as every one had seen before, and so they still waited and searched.

Many others wished and wished, and some prayed and prayed, but the precious seed did not come.
The rich men of the land had great parks laid out; the ground was tilled and everything kept ready for the plant to find root. Many gardeners and watchers were hired to stay there and watch for this wondrous flower and guard it—but it did not come.
Yet no one ever doubted the promise, for everyone wished very much to have all the good things which were to come with this flower.

Among all these people there was one very kind woman, who did many good deeds. She loved and cared for little children who had no one to help them. One night when she came home from her work what did she see in a little broken flower-pot that stood in her window?

A tiny plant which she had never noticed before!
She watered it and it grew and grew, and she learned to love it.

One day while she was looking at the tiny plant she remembered the promise, and said quietly to herself: “Can it be that this is the beautiful flower the whole world is waiting for! I think it is, for it has made me so happy.” And it was the flower. She knew the promise had come because it had made her so happy.

Everyone, far and near, came to see it; and they begged pieces and seeds to plant. And though the good woman gave of her plant, it grew larger and larger, and she became happier and happier.

One day it blossomed wide and beautiful. The rich men who had made great parks and gardens for the flower would not believe the woman had received the real promised plant. They shook their heads and laughed at it all, and went on seeking after other seeds and plants.

But the people who believed because they saw how happy it made the woman to whom the flower came, brought rich gifts to her and begged for the seed, and they took it home and planted it everywhere, that the whole world might be filled with joy and peace.

Written by Richard Barnum

Nor were these all the tricks Tinkle learned. Mr. Drake taught him how to add and subtract simple numbers that the trainer wrote on a blackboard with chalk. Tinkle could not really add the numbers in his head, but when the trainer wrote down say a 3 and a 4 and said: “Tell me how much that is, Tinkle,” Tinkle would nod his head seven times. He knew Mr. Drake wanted him to nod seven times by the way the trainer spoke and by the words he used. If the sum were eight, on ten or some other number, the trainer would ask the question in a different way. So that Tinkle got to know numbers by listening to the different ways his trainer spoke the words to him, and it really seemed as though the pony could do sums in arithmetic.

Another trick Tinkle learned to do was to get letters from the “post-office.” Mr. Drake had a box made with partitions in it so that it looked like part of a post-office. Into the little squares, into which the big box was divided, the trainer would put cards with the names of different persons written on them—such as “John Jones,” or “Peter Smith” or “Mary Black.”
Each card was always put in the same place, and Mr. Drake taught Tinkle to trot up to the make-believe post-office. Then when asked: “Is there a letter for John Jones,” the pony would take out the right card. Tinkle learned to do this by listening to the different sounds of Mr. Drake’s voice just as happened when the numbers were called. A pony knows the different sounds of words, else how could he know enough to stop when “whoa!” is called, or that he should go when told to “gid-dap!”

“Well, now you know so many tricks, I think I’ll show you off before the people in the big circus tent,” said Mr. Drake one day. And that afternoon Tinkle was led out all alone. A new white bridle was put on him, and around him was put a red strap, on top of which, in the middle of the pony’s back, was fastened a bright, red, white and blue plume.
Tinkle had looked in, but had never been in the big circus tent before, where all the people were seated, and where the band was playing jolly tunes, with funnily painted clowns jumping here and there making the boys and girls laugh. And at first Tinkle was a bit frightened. But he looked over to where Tum Tum, the jolly elephant, was turning a hand organ with his trunk, and Tum Tum called in his pleasant voice:
“Steady there, Tinkle. Don’t be afraid. You’ll do all right.”

Then Tinkle felt better, and Mr. Drake patted him and gave him a lump of sugar before Tinkle had done even one trick.
“We’ll begin with the easy one—make a bow,” said the trainer.
Tinkle bowed his prettiest, and some boys and girls in the front row of seats clapped their hands and laughed. This made Tinkle feel glad, and he looked around, thinking he might see George or Mabel. But neither was in the tent.
Then the pony went through all his tricks—he added and subtracted numbers, he brought letters from the post-office and then he picked out the differently colored flags or handkerchiefs that Mr. Drake called for.
“Now, Tinkle,” said the trainer, after the pony had done some jumping, “tell the people which flag you love the best.”
Tinkle trotted over to the box where a number of flags of different countries had been put. The United States banner was at the bottom, but Tinkle knew that. He nosed around among all the flags until he found the one he knew he wanted, and with that in his teeth he trotted over to Mr. Drake, while the band played “The Star Spangled Banner.”

My! I wish you could have heard the people clap then. And how the boys and girls shouted with joy! They thought Tinkle was just the finest pony they had ever seen. And Mr. Drake patted him and gave him an extra large lump of sugar for behaving so nicely when he first did his tricks in public.
“I told you he’d make a good trick pony,” said Mr. Drake, as Tom led the little animal back to the tent.
“Yes, he’s a dandy!” replied the man. “I’ll give him a good feed of oats for this.”
And when Tinkle was back in his stall Prancer and Tiny Tim talked to him and told him how glad they were that he had done his tricks so well. Tinkle felt happy, for a while.

As the days went on, and the circus traveled from place to place, Tinkle gave many exhibitions of his smartness. He learned new tricks and he could do the old ones much more easily the more often he practiced them, just as you can with your music lesson.
But though he liked it very much in the circus, Tinkle was sad. His animal friends could tell that by looking at him, and the pony did not eat as well as he had at first.
“Come now, Tinkle, tell me what the matter is,” came a voice behind him one day, and, turning, the pony saw a funny monkey seated in the straw on the ground.

“I am Mappo, the merry chap Tum Tum and Dido told you about,” went the monkey. “I haven’t had time to come and see you before. I’ve been so busy in this circus.”
“Oh, yes, I remember Dido and Tum Tum speaking about you,” said Tinkle. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“Well, you don’t look very happy about it,” said Mappo. “Come, what is the trouble? Why are you sad? Look at me, I’m merry enough for everyone,” and Mappo turned a somersault that made Tinkle laugh in his pony way.
“Come! That’s better,” said Mappo. “Be jolly like Tum Tum. What is the matter, anyhow?”
“Oh, I feel sad when I think of the nice home I was taken from,” said Tinkle. “I miss George and Mabel, and I’d like to be with them again, to let them ride on my back or pull them about in the pony cart. That is why I am sad.”

Mappo, the merry monkey, picked up a long, clean straw and put it in his mouth, almost as a man might do with a toothpick. Mappo sat chewing on the straw and looking at Tinkle.
“Tell me about that nice home where you used to live, little pony,” said Mappo. “Maybe it will make you feel better to talk about it.”
“Oh, I think it will,” sighed Tinkle. “Oh, I just love to talk about George and Mabel, they were so good and kind to me! And so was Patrick, the coachman.”

So Tinkle told Mappo the story of his home and of having been taken away in the moving van.
“Those were strange adventures,” said Mappo. “Almost as unusual as those I had.”
“Did you have adventures, too?” asked Tinkle.
“Indeed I did,” answered the merry monkey, and he told his story of having once lived in the jungle-forest and of how he had been caught and put in the circus.

But now we will leave him talking to Mappo, if you please, and go back to where George and Mabel live. You will remember that Patrick, the coachman, had gone to the store for salve for one of the horses, and that George and Mabel, with their father and mother, were visiting in the country.
When Patrick came back with the salve the first thing he noticed was that Tinkle was not in his stall.
Patrick searched all around for Tinkle, but, of course, could not find him. He asked the people living in neighboring houses, but none of them had seen Tinkle go away, because the men had shut him up inside the moving van, you see. Some people had seen the big wagon near the stable but none had seen Tinkle put into it.

Patrick even got a policeman and a fireman, whom he knew, to look for Tinkle, but they could not find him. And when, a day or so later, Mr. and Mrs. Farley came back from the country, with George and Mabel, the two children cried when they were told that Tinkle was gone.
“I think I must cheer them up a bit,” said Mr. Farley to his wife one afternoon. “They are thinking too much about Tinkle. I must take their minds off him.”
“How will you do it?” asked Mrs. Farley.
“A circus is coming to town to-morrow,” said her husband. “I’ll take the children to see that, and when they watch the funny monkeys, the clowns and the big elephants they will forget about Tinkle.”

So, when the big show with the white tents came to the city where the Farleys lived, George and Mabel were taken with their father to see the wonderful sight.
“Do you think there’ll be any ponies in the circus?” asked George.
“Why, yes, maybe,” answered Mr. Farley. “Why?”
“I’m not going to look at them,” said Mabel.
“Nor I,” added George. “They’d make me think too much of our Tinkle.”

On the way to the circus with their father, Mabel and George passed through a part of the city where there were not many houses, and in what few homes there were less fortunate people lived.
Many of them owned goats, some for the milk they gave, for the milk of goats is almost as good as that of cows.
“Oh, see that big goat!” cried George as they passed a small house, on the rocks behind which a goat was jumping about. “Look how easy he jumps!”
“You may well say that!” exclaimed a pleasant-faced Irish woman at the front gate. “Sure, Lightfoot is the most intelligent goat that ever was.”
“Is Lightfoot his name?” asked Mr. Farley.
“Sure it is, for it fits him well. He’s that light on his feet you’d never know he was jumpin’ at all. Ah, he’s a fine goat.”
“I had a fine pony once,” said George, “but somebody took him away.”
“That’s too bad,” said the Irish woman, whose name was Mrs. Malony. “Sure but I’d like to see any one, not a friend, try to take Lightfoot away. He’d butt ’em with his horns.”
“Isn’t it too bad Tinkle didn’t have horns?” sighed Mabel, as she walked on.
“A pony with horns would be a funny one,” said her brother.

I wish I had time to tell you all that George and Mabel did at the circus and the many things they saw, from Tum Tum the jolly elephant to Mappo the merry monkey. They laughed at the clowns, ate popcorn and peanuts, giving some to the elephants, feeding a whole bag of peanuts to Tum Tum, though they did not know his name. But they were sure he was nice because he looked at them in such a funny, jolly way.
“Oh, look at the ponies!” cried Mabel, as the little horses trotted into the middle ring. There was Prancer and Tiny Tim, as well as the others, and they were going to do their tricks.
“They are nice ponies,” said George, glancing at them, even though he and Mabel had said they would not look. “But not one of them is as nice as Tinkle.”

The ponies went through their tricks, doing their very best, and then, when the time came, Tinkle himself was led in to do his tricks alone, as of late he always did. Mabel and George were looking the other way just then, watching a man turn a somersault over the backs of Tum Tum and some other elephants, and at first they did not see Tinkle. But as George turned in time to watch the trick pony take the United States flag out of the box, and bring it to Mr. Drake the little boy cried:
“Oh, Mabel! See that pony!”
“Which one?” asked the little girl.
“There,” and George pointed. “Doesn’t he look like Tinkle? He has four white feet and a white star on his head. Mabel, see, isn’t he just like our pony? Why—why!” cried George, standing up in his seat, and very much excited, “it is Tinkle! Oh, Mabel, it is Tinkle!”
“I—I believe it is,” said the little girl slowly.

Persons sitting near the children looked at them, and then at the pony. Mr. Farley, too, was staring at the little trick horse.
“I wonder if it could be Tinkle?” he asked himself.
George was sure he was right—so sure that he jumped from his seat and rushed into the ring where the pony had just finished his tricks.
“Tinkle! Tinkle!” said George. “It is you, isn’t it? And you know me, don’t you?”
Tinkle knew his little master at once though it was several months since he had seen him. The pony trotted across the ring, and while the trainer, the circus folk, and the people in their seats looked on in wonder, George threw his arms around the pony’s neck.
Tinkle whinnied. That was the only way he could talk our language, but it meant he was glad to see George again—very glad indeed.
“Oh, Tinkle, Tinkle!” cried the happy little boy. “I’ve found you again! I’ve found our Tinkle!”

“What does this mean?” asked Mr. Drake. “Do you say this is your pony? I bought him for the circus.”
“Yes, Tinkle is my pony,” cried George. “Mine and Mabel’s. I taught him some tricks, too. Make a bow, Tinkle.” And Tinkle did.
“Well, this is very strange,” said the trainer. “He minds you and does tricks for you. But I bought him from a man, and—”
“Perhaps I can explain,” said Mr. Farley, coming into the ring with Mabel, who not only put her arms around Tinkle’s neck but kissed him on his white star. And Tinkle rubbed his soft nose against her soft cheek. “This looks very much like my little boy’s pony, that was stolen from our stable some time ago,” went Mr. Farley, and he told of having bought Tinkle at the stock farm.

“Well, I guess you’re right, and it is your little boy’s pet,” said the circus man, after Tinkle’s story had been told by Mr. Farley. “I didn’t like the looks of the man from whom I bought the pony, but I never thought he had stolen Tinkle.”
There was no doubt that Tinkle belonged to George. You could tell that by watching how glad the pony was to see his master again. The people in the audience thought it was all part of the circus, and laughed as Tinkle followed George about the ring.
The circus man was sorry to lose Tinkle but, as he said he had no right to him, he agreed to let George and Mabel have the pony back.

“And may we take him now?” asked George eagerly.
“Yes, I guess so,” said Mr. Drake. “There is an old pony cart in one of the tents. You can drive Tinkle home in that and send the cart back by your coachman. But you may keep Tinkle.”
“And we’ll never let him go away again,” said George.
“Never!” cried his sister. “We’ll keep him forever.”

A man took Tinkle away to harness him to the pony cart. Tinkle had a chance to say good-by to Mappo and Tum Tum.
“So you are going back to your old home,” observed the monkey. “I am glad, for you never would have been happy here in the circus, though it just suits me.”
“And me, also,” added Tum Tum, the jolly elephant. “If you see Dido, the dancing bear,” he went on, “tell him to hurry back. We are lonesome without him.”
“I will!” cried Tinkle, who was so excited he could hardly wait to be harnessed. He was very eager to be with George and Mabel again.

The circus men patted the pony, for they liked him. Tinkle called good-by to Tum Tum, Mappo and all his animal friends, and then, the pony cart being ready, he trotted home with Mr. Farley, George and Mabel.
“There is that funny goat, Lightfoot, again,” said George as they passed the home of Mrs. Malony.
“Yes,” said Mabel. “I like him. I wonder if we will ever see him again?”
And they did, several times.

You may well imagine how surprised Mrs. Farley and Patrick were to see the children come driving home with the long-lost Tinkle.
“We found him in the circus!” cried George.
“And he can do ever so many more tricks,” said Mabel, laughing.
“You ought to see him find the flag!” added her brother, and they began to make Tinkle do some of his new circus tricks. So while the children are doing that, and telling their mother how they found Tinkle again, this will be a good chance for us to say good-by to the trick pony.
THE END

Written by Johnny Gruelle

Thumbkins ran beneath the bushes and down the tiny path until he came to where Tommy Grasshopper sat upon a blade of grass swinging in the breeze.

“Have you seen Mrs. Thumbkins, Tommy Grasshopper?” Thumbkins called.
“I have been asleep,” replied Tommy Grasshopper, “And I haven’t seen her!”
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried Thumbkins. “She has not been home all day!”
“Perhaps she went over to see Grandpa Tobackyworm!” suggested Tommy Grasshopper, as he flicked his wings and made the blade of grass swing up and down.

So Thumbkins thanked Tommy Grasshopper and ran over to Grandpa Tobacyworm’s house.
Grandpa Tobackyworm was sitting upon a blade of grass, swinging in the breeze and smoking his old clay pipe.
“Oh, Grandpa Tobackyworm! Have you seen Mrs. Thumbkins? She has not been at home all day and I can not find her!” cried Thumbkins.
“Yes, I saw her early this morning going down the path with her acorn basket,” said Grandpa Tobackyworm as he blew a few rings of smoke in the air. “Perhaps she has gone to the Katydid grocery store to buy something,” Grandpa Tobackyworm added as he bounced up and down on his blade of grass.

So Thumbkins thanked Grandpa Tobackyworm and went on down the tiny path.
“Hello, Thumbkins!” cried a cheery voice as Thumbkins ran under a bunch of flowers. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Thumbkins saw Billy Bumblebee sitting upon one of the flowers, swinging in the breeze.
“Mrs. Thumbkins has not been home all day!” said Thumbkins. “And I can not find her anywhere!”
“HUMMMM!” replied Billy Bumblebee. “Let me think! HUMMMM!” This was his way of thinking very hard.
“Perhaps she has gone over to see Grandpa Tobackyworm, Mr Thumbkins!”
“No!” replied Thumbkins, “I went there, and also over to the Katydid store, but she was not there!”
“Suppose you climb upon my back, Thumbkins, and let me help you find her!” said Billy Bumblebee, as he buzzed his wings, making the flower sway up and down. So Thumbkins climbed up the flower stalk and took a seat upon Billy Bumblebee’s back.

“Let us fly way up in the air so that we may look down over all the country!” said Billy Bumblebee, as he made his wings whirr and climbed high in the air.
Billy Bumblebee and Thumbkins looked over the country carefully, but they could not see Mrs. Thumbkins anywhere.

Finally Billy’s sharp eyes discovered something shiny down by the side of the pond, so they flew down towards it. It was a new tin can house. The door was closed.
Thumbkins alighted from Billy Bumblebee’s back and knocked at the door.
TINKY-TINKY-TINK!
“GRUMP! GRUMP!” said a deep voice from inside the tin can house. Billy Bumblebee peeped through a chink in a window, and saw a hoppy-toad with his mouth full of pancakes.
So Thumbkins picked up a pebble and knocked louder.
TONKY-TONKY-TONK!
Old Man Hoppy-toad came to the door with a pancake in each hand and another large one in his mouth. “GRUMP! GRUMP!” he said.
“Where is Mrs. Thumbkins?” Billy Bee demanded, as he buzzed around Old Man Hoppy-toad’s head.
“I don’t know!” said Old Man Hoppy-toad when he had swallowed the pancake.
“Yes, you do!” Thumbkins cried as he caught Old Man Hoppy-toad’s hand. “Who made those pancakes for you?”
Billy Bumblebee buzzed closer to Old Man Hoppy-toad’s head and Old Man Hoppy-toad blinked his big round eyes and finally said, “She is locked up in the kitchen!”

So Thumbkins ran to the kitchen and came out with Mrs. Thumbkins. Old Man Hoppy-toad had locked her in the kitchen so she would bake lots and lots of pancakes for him.
Thumbkins was so glad to see Mrs. Thumbkins he came very near crying. And Billy Bumblebee said to Old Man Hoppy-toad, “Now you must leave our neighborhood, for we do not permit anyone to bother anyone else in the Town of Tinythings.”

So Old Man Hoppy-toad had to pack up all his things in a red handkerchief and hustle out of town.
And Billy Bumblebee buzzed right around his head as Old Man Hoppy-toad went down the path “Lickity split-Hoppity hop!” and never once looked behind him.

Thumbkins and Mrs. Thumbkins went back home, and when Billy Bumblebee returned and told them he had made Old Man Hoppy-toad go ‘way down to the river they knew they would never be troubled with him again.

Mrs. Thumbkins said she had fried pancakes all day but she was not too tired to fry more. So she made a lot of pancakes, while Billy Bumblebee flew home and returned with a bucket of honey, and they had so many pancakes Mrs. Thumbkins asked Billy Bumblebee if he would fly around and invite all the neighbors in to help eat them.

Tommy Grasshopper, Grandpa Tobackyworm, and all the other friends of the Thumbkins came and ate the lovely pancakes, covered with the delicious honey.

And, after eating as much as they could, everybody caught hold of hands and danced until late in the night, for the Katydid orchestra was there to play the music.

Written by Richard Barnum

“Well, come along now, pony. I’ll see how many tricks you know and how many I can teach you.”
It was the circus man who had bought Tinkle who was speaking, but Tinkle was so taken up with looking about him, at the strange sights all round that he did not at first listen.
“Come along!” called the man again, and then Tinkle heard a whistle. This time he turned around quickly. For a moment he thought his dear little master George had come for him, but he saw only the circus man, and other strange men and animals all about.
“It must have been the man who whistled to me,” said Tinkle to himself. “I guess, though, he wants me to come with him, as George used to when he wanted me to go with him when he whistled. I’ll go.”
So Tinkle followed the man, which was just what the man wanted. He led Tinkle along by the rope made fast to his halter.
“Well, you know something, to start with,” said the circus man, smiling at Tinkle. The pony, of course, did not know what a smile meant, but he did know that the man spoke in kind tones and not sharp and cross as had the moving men, sometimes. Besides the circus man talked to the pony, and the other men had not.

So Tinkle knew by the voice that the man was kind, and he followed him to a little tent where there were many other ponies. In a tent next door were big horses, and they were all either eating hay or oats, or lying down on the straw, for it was not yet time for the circus to begin.
“Here is a new pony I have bought, Tom,” said the first man to one who had the charge of the ponies. “He can do a few tricks and I am going to teach him more. Look after him, and clean him off. He doesn’t seem to have been well taken care of.”
“That’s right, Mr. Drake; he doesn’t,” answered Tom. “I’ll take good care of him, though.”
Poor Tinkle’s hairy coat was in a sad state. It was dirty and bits of hay and straw clung to it. Also his mane and tail were tangled. Tinkle had been kept very clean by Patrick and George, but the moving men spent no time on the pony they had stolen.
“First to clean you up,” said Tom, talking to himself, but also, in a way, speaking to Tinkle. “Then we’ll see about your tricks. Mr. Drake is a good pony teacher.”
Though Tinkle could understand very little of this talk, yet, somehow, he felt happier than he had in a long while—in fact since he had been taken away from George.
With a brush, a currycomb, and a cloth Tom cleaned Tinkle’s hairy coat until it began to shine and glisten almost as it had when he lived in the nice Farley stable.
“That will do for a while,” said Tom. “Now I’ll get you something to eat. Come along, pony,” and he whistled just as George used to do. Tinkle liked to hear a clear, cheerful whistle.

Tinkle was tied in the tent with the other ponies. His stall was just a place between two ropes, and his manger made of canvas, for the tent, and everything in it, had to be moved from place to place as the circus traveled, and wooden stalls, such as are in barns, would never do. In the manger were some hay and oats. Tinkle began to eat hungrily. It was almost as good as being home again.
“Well, where in the world did you come from?” asked a pony on Tinkle’s left side.
“Yes, tell us about yourself,” added another on the right side. “You are a stranger. I never saw you in the circus before.”
“I just came to-day,” said Tinkle, after he had swallowed some of the hay and oats. “I never was with a circus before. Is it nice?”
“Oh, it’s lots of fun,” said the pony on the left, whose name was Tiny Tim. “It’s jolly!”
“We have great times doing tricks,” said the pony on Tinkle’s right, and his name was Prancer. “We do lots of tricks. Can you do any, Tinkle?” for the new pony had told his name.
“I can make a bow, jump over a rope and walk on my hind legs.”
“Those are all good tricks,” said Tiny Tim, “but you will have to learn many more if you are to stay with us in this circus.”
“I guess the man they call Mr. Drake will teach Tinkle tricks,” remarked Prancer. “He taught me all I know. Why, would you believe,” he went on, “when first I joined the circus I couldn’t do a single thing!”
“Can you do many tricks now?” asked Tinkle.
“I should say he could!” cried Tiny Tim, with a laughing whinny. “He is the best trick pony in the circus!”
“Oh, not the best,” protested Prancer modestly. “I can do a few tricks, it is true, but—”

“Now you let me tell!” interrupted Tiny Tim, laughing. “You can jump over a barrel, stand up on a platform on your hind legs and turn around, you can pick up different colored flags, count, add up numbers on a blackboard and take letters from the post-office.
“Well, yes, I can do those things,” said Prancer.
“My! What a lot of tricks!” cried Tinkle. “I wonder if I shall ever be able to do even half that many?”
“Of course you will,” said Prancer kindly. “You wait; Mr. Drake will teach you as he taught me.”

All this while many things were going on about the circus grounds. The big tents had been put up, the animal cages wheeled in, the clowns were painting their faces in such funny ways to make the boys and girls laugh, and the big, golden wagons were being made ready for the parade. A band was playing, the pretty flags were blowing in the wind, and, altogether, the circus was such a nice place that, for the first time in a long while, Tinkle felt happy. But when he thought of George and the nice home he had been taken from he felt sad.
“Still, this is much better than being kept in the dirty stable,” thought the trick pony. “Maybe I’ll see George someday.
Tom, the man who had cleaned and fed Tinkle, came running into the ponies’ tent.
“Come on now!” he cried. “Lively everybody!”
All at once some other men began taking down, off pegs in the tent poles, red blankets, strings of bells, gaily colored plumes and harnesses.
“What is going on?” asked Tinkle.
“Oh, they are going to dress us up, and hitch us to a little golden wagon to go in the parade,” said Prancer.
“Do you think I am to go?” asked Tinkle.
“I think not this time,” answered Tiny Tim. “You see you don’t know much about a circus yet, and you might be frightened by the big crowds and the noise. Then, too, you wouldn’t know how to pull the golden chariot in which a lady rides, dressed up like a fairy princess.”
“Oh, that must be fine!” cried Tinkle.
“It is. But you’ll be in it soon, so don’t worry,” put in Prancer. “We’ll be back by noon.”
The men hitched up the ponies and led them out of the tent to where the golden chariot stood.
“This new pony is a very pretty one,” said the man Tom to one of his helpers. “When he is trained he’ll go in the parade too.”

Tinkle felt a little sad when his pony friends left him alone in the big tent, but still he had plenty to eat and a clean place to stay, and he knew they would come back soon. Tinkle saw a boy coming toward him with a pail of water, and, for a moment, the pony thought the boy might be George. But he was not.
“I wonder if I shall ever see George, Mabel and nice Patrick again?” thought Tinkle. “I would just love to be in my nice home once more, even though I like the circus.”
Suddenly Tinkle heard someone call:
“Look out! Here come the elephants!” and the ground seemed to rumble and shake as it did when there was a heavy thunderstorm.
“Elephants? Elephants?” said Tinkle to himself. “Where have I heard that word before?” Then he remembered. “Oh, now I know,” he said. “Dido, the dancing bear, told me about them.”
Tinkle looked from his tent. Near him, just outside, were ten big elephants with bright silk blankets on their backs. And, as Tinkle looked, he saw one funny elephant slyly reach out his trunk and pull the tail of the elephant in front of him. Then the funny elephant looked the other way and seemed to be hunting on the ground for a peanut.
All at once it flashed into Tinkle’s head.

“That must be Tum Tum the jolly elephant Dido was telling me about. I’ll ask him.” So he called, in animal talk: “How do you do, Tum Tum?”
“Ha! What’s that? Some one must know me,” answered Tum Tum, for it was he. “Oh,” he went on, “it’s a little pony. But, though I know most of the ponies in this circus, I don’t know you,” and Tum Tum walked a little closer to Tinkle’s tent.
“I heard about you from Dido, the dancing bear,” said Tinkle, as he told his own name. “I never thought I should meet you in this circus, though.”
“Why, how strange!” cried Tum Tum. “Fancy meeting Dido! You must tell me all about him. He and I are very good friends. I was sorry when he went away from the circus. Tell me about him when I come back. I have to go in the parade now,” and Tum Tum, with a jolly laugh and a wink of his eye at Tinkle, marched slowly off with a man seated on his big head.

Now Tinkle, we can have a nice talk,” said Tum Tum, a little later, when he came back from the parade. “Tell me about yourself, how you came to join the circus and, most of all, I want to hear about my old friend Dido.”
So Tinkle told all he could remember; telling first of the beautiful green meadow in which he had once lived, and of George who had taught him a few tricks, and of having been taken away by two men in the big moving van.
Then Tinkle told of having met Dido, of what the dancing bear had said, and of what he had told Tinkle about Tum Tum and Mappo, the merry monkey.
“Is Mappo in this circus?” asked Tinkle, as he finished his little story.
“Yes, and you’ll probably see him in a day or so,” answered Tum Tum.
That afternoon, when the performance was over, Mr. Drake, the man who had bought Tinkle from the man who had stolen him, came to where the pony was lying down in the tent and said:
“Now we’ll see what you know and how much I have to teach you. We will begin with some easy tricks.”
Then began a busy time for Tinkle, not only that day but for a number of days. When the circus was not traveling from one city to another or when a performance was not being held in the tents, Mr. Drake taught Tinkle tricks. Tinkle, the first time it occurred, did not know what was going to happen when, instead of being allowed to go to sleep after the show, he and the other ponies and animals were put in big railroad cars and the whole train was hauled away by an engine.
Tinkle did not know what was happening but the other ponies told him it was all right, that he would not be hurt, that they were only going to another city to give a show there and that this happened nearly every day or night. Tinkle soon became used to travel, and rather liked it.

It would take too long to tell you how Tinkle was taught to do many different tricks. It was not as easy as he first had thought it would be, and many times he could not understand what Mr. Drake wanted him to do.
In time he learned how to go to a box, in which were a number of flags or handkerchiefs, of different colors—red, white and blue.
“Bring me a blue flag,” Mr. Drake would say; and though at first Tinkle could not tell one color from another, he soon learned to do so. And he could tell, by hearing the word “blue,” that it was not the red or the white flag the trainer wanted, but the other. So, though Tinkle had no word in his own language for blue, he knew what that sound meant, and for which flag it stood.
“Now, Tinkle, bring me the red flag,” Mr. Drake would say, when the blue one had been dropped at his feet from the pony’s teeth. And Tinkle would pick out the right color. In time he could pick out of the box, and bring to the trainer, any of the three colors, no matter which one was asked for first. Tinkle hardly ever made a mistake.
“Well, now that you know red, white and blue,” said Mr. Drake one day, “suppose we put all three together, and this is what we get, Tinkle,” and he held up the beautiful United States flag, with its stripes of red and white and the white stars on the blue field. “Now, Tinkle when I ask you what flag you love best I want you to bring me from the box this red, white and blue one,” said the trainer, shaking the flag in front of the pony.
It was several days before Tinkle learned to do this trick, but, after a while, he could go to the box, pick out the red, white and blue flags, and then, at the last when the trainer asked the question about loving the flag, Tinkle would trot over to him carrying in his teeth the stars and stripes. Then Mr. Drake petted him and gave him two lumps of sugar, for he had done the trick well.

Little Cat Feels Left Out is written by Dori Durbin. Please visit her website and purchase her wonderful books

Written by Richard Barnum

“What does all this mean?” thought Tinkle to himself as he got up off the pile of bags in the moving van, and tried to stand. But he found that the motion of the big wagon, as it was rapidly driven away, toppled him about so that it was easier to lie down than to stay on his feet.
So Tinkle stretched out on the bags and tried to think what it all meant. His eyes were getting used to the dark now, and he could see, dimly, that he was in some place like his box stall. Only it was not as nice, and Tinkle could not smell any sweet hay or oats.
“I wonder if they can be taking me where George is?” thought Tinkle, for he had greatly missed the little boy and his sister who were accustomed to ride him or drive him about.
On and on went the moving van with Tinkle locked inside. The horses pulling the big wagon of course did not know they were taking a little pony away from his home. Even if they had known there was nothing they could have done. Poor Tinkle felt very sad and lonely. It was the first time anything like this had ever happened to him.
Up on the seat the two men were talking.
“Well, we got that trick pony all right,” said the red-haired one.
“Yes, but if the folks who own him find out we have him they’ll have us arrested,” said the short man.
“Oh, they’ll never find out. No one saw us take him, nobody but us knows he’s in this van and we’ll soon be far enough away. We can make money on this pony.”
On and on the moving van rumbled, farther and farther away, and pretty soon Tinkle, locked inside, began to feel hungry. He got up, intending to go about looking for something to eat. But the van tossed and tilted about so on the rough road that Tinkle was thrown against the side and bruised.
“I guess I had better stay lying down,” he said. “But I am very thirsty!”
It was hot, shut up inside the big wagon, and Tinkle thought longingly of the trough of cool drinking water in the stable yard and wished he were back there.
The men who had taken Tinkle away made the horses drawing the van hurry along, so they were soon out of the city where the Farleys lived. They drove along a country road and, just as night was coming on, they came to another city where they had their stable, and where they kept the van.
“Well, let’s see how the pony stood the trip,” said the red-haired man as he opened the big end doors.
“He seems to be alright,” replied the other. He held up a lantern and looked inside. Tinkle got up from his bed on the old bags. He saw the open doors and he smelled hay and oats, though the smell was not as good as that which came from his stable at home.
“Lift him out, and we’ll put him in one of the stalls,” said the red-haired man.
But Tinkle did not wait to be lifted out. He knew how to jump, and, giving a leap, he was quickly on the ground. Then, as he did not like the place where he was, nor the men who had taken him from his nice home, Tinkle tried to run away.
But the men were too quick for him. One of them caught him by the mane and the other by the nose.
“Look out! He’s a lively chap!” cried the short man. “He wants to get away.”
“Yes. We must put a halter on him and tie him in the stall,” said the other.
Tinkle again tried hard to get away, but could not. If he had been a big, strong horse he might have broken loose from the men. But, as I have said, he was not much bigger than a large Newfoundland dog. The men easily held him and led him into the barn.

This stable was not at all like the nice place in which Tinkle had lived when he was the pet of George. The straw on the floor was not clean, and when Tinkle was given a pail of water, after he had been tied in the stall, the water was not clean, either. Still Tinkle was so thirsty that he drank it. Then he felt a little better. But oh! how he did want his own, nice, clean box stall.
For now he found himself in an ordinary stall, such as the other horses had. The manger was too high for him to eat from, but one of the men brought a low box and put some hay in it.
“There! he can eat out of that I guess,” said the man. “We’ll likely sell him in a couple of days if we can find someone to buy him. He ought to bring in some money if he can do tricks.”
Poor Tinkle did not understand or pay much attention to this talk. He was too hungry, and, though the hay was not as sweet as that he got at home, still he munched it. Suddenly he heard a voice speaking in a language he understood.

“Hello in there!” was called to him. “Are you a new horse?”
“I’m a pony,” was the answer Tinkle made. “Who are you, if you please?”
“Ha! You’re polite, anyhow, which is more than I can say of some of the horses in this stable,” went on the voice. “Where did you come from, anyhow?”
“I belong to a boy named George,” answered Tinkle. “To George and his sister Mabel. I don’t know where I am, nor why I was brought here. I didn’t want to come. I’d rather be back in my own home.”
“Oh, ho!” exclaimed the voice, and by the light of a lantern hanging in the stable Tinkle could see that it was a horse in the next stall that was speaking to him. “Oh, ho! If you stay here long you’ll find there are lots of things you don’t want to do. I don’t want to pull a heavy moving van about the streets all day, but I have to,” said the horse, and he gave something like a groan.
“Do all the horses here do that?” asked Tinkle, who felt very sad.
“Most of us,” answered his new friend. “Some horses haul big wagons loaded with hay and feed, and the men don’t give us any too much to eat, either. Sometimes, when I’m drawing a load of hay, I’m so hungry I could just eat nearly all that is piled on the wagon. You won’t like it here one bit.”
“Oh, what’s the use of making trouble?” asked a horse in the stall on the other side of Tinkle. “He’s here, and he’ll have to stay.”
“Yes, I guess he will,” agreed the first horse. “But I don’t see what kind of work he can do. He isn’t big enough to be hitched up with any of us, and, if he was, he couldn’t pull the smallest moving van the men have.”
“I can pull a pony cart!” said Tinkle who did not like the other horses to think he was of no use.
“Ha! Pony cart!” exclaimed one horse whose hide was covered in mud. “You’ll find no pony carts around here! Dump carts, more likely. I’ve been hauling dirt in dump carts all day long, until I’m so tired I can hardly stand. And there’s a big sore spot on my back, too!”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Tinkle kindly. “If Patrick were here he’d put something on it to make it all better.”
“Who’s Patrick?” asked the dirt-cart horse. “Is he one of us?”
“Patrick is the coachman who taught me to do tricks for George, the little boy,” answered Tinkle, and he felt rather proud as he said this.
“Tricks, is it?” laughed the horse who had first spoken. “You’ll have no time for tricks here. You must belong in a circus. Tricks indeed!”
“I wish I could go to a circus!” said Tinkle eagerly. “I’ve heard about Tum Tum, the jolly elephant. He is in the circus.”
“Well, eat your supper and be thankful for what you have,” said the dump-cart horse. “I hope they don’t work me so hard to-morrow. If they do I’ll try to run away, though that isn’t much use,” and the horse kept on with his supper of hay.

Tinkle was very sad and lonely. It was not at all nice in the stable where he was tied. It was dirty, and it did not smell good. The horses around him, though kindly, were poor, hard-working animals, and were not like the sleek Prince and other horses in Mr. Farley’s stable. The men who owned the work horses seldom took the time to use the curry comb or brush on them. If a horse fell down in the dirt, as they often did from pulling too heavy loads, the dirt stayed on until it dried and blew off.
For several days Tinkle was kept tied in the stable. The men could not use him on any of their heavy wagons and there was no time for him to do his tricks, and no pony cart for him to ride children about in. Poor Tinkle felt very bad, and many, many times he wished himself back in his old home.

As best he could, in his stall, Tinkle practiced the tricks he had learned from George and Patrick. He bowed and he did a little jumping, but not much, as his stall was too small. And one day, when Tinkle was practicing his bowing trick, the red-haired man suddenly happened to come into the stable.
“Oh, ho!” he cried. “I forgot about that pony doing tricks! We must try to sell him and get the money. I wonder who would buy him?”
“I know,” said the other man, coming into the stable just then.
“Who would?” asked the red-haired man.
“The circus people,” was the answer. “The big circus which came to the city to-day. I have been down on the circus lot just now with a load of hay for the elephants. I saw some little ponies there, and I asked one of the circus men if they ever bought extra ones. He said they did sometimes, and he said they needed a new trick pony just now as one of theirs is sick.”
“That may be just the chance we’re looking for!” cried the red-haired man.
“Good,” said the other. “We’ll take this pony to the circus and sell him.”

Through the city streets one of the men led Tinkle and before long the pony heard music playing. He looked up and saw the big white tents and the gay fluttering flags.
“Oh, this must be the circus Dido, the dancing bear, told me about,” Tinkle said to himself. “I wonder if I shall meet Tum Tum, the jolly elephant?”
“Here’s the trick pony my partner was telling you about,” announced the red-haired man to a man who came out of a tent where many ponies and horses were eating their dinners.
“Can he do any tricks?” asked the circus man.
“Well, I’ve seen him bow and jump. I don’t know what else he can do.”
“I’ll soon find out,” stated the circus man. “He looks like a good pony. I’ll buy him off you.”
So after some talk, the money was paid over and then Tinkle belonged to the circus.
“I wonder what will happen to me now,” thought Tinkle, and very many strange things were to happen. And I am going to tell you all about them.

Written by The Brothers Grimm

There was once a shoemaker, who worked very hard and was very honest: but still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one pair of shoes.

Then he cut his leather out, all ready to make up the next day, meaning to rise early in the morning to his work. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles; so he went peaceably to bed, left all his cares, and soon fell asleep. In the morning after he had said his thanks, he sat himself down to his work; when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes already made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think at such an odd thing happening. He looked at the workmanship; there was not one false stitch in the whole job; all was so neat and true, that it was quite a masterpiece.

The same day a customer came in, and the shoes suited him so well that he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor shoemaker, with the money, bought leather enough to make two pairs more.

In the evening he cut out the work, and went to bed early, that he might get up and begin early the next day; but he was saved all the trouble, for when he got up in the morning the work was done ready to his hand. Soon in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for his goods, so that he bought leather enough for four pair more. He cut out the work again overnight and found it done in the morning, as before; and so it went on for some time: what was got ready in the evening was always done by daybreak, and the good man soon became thriving and well off again.

One evening as he and his wife were sitting over the fire chatting together, he said to her, ‘I should like to sit up and watch tonight, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me.’ The wife liked the thought; so they left a light burning, and hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind a curtain that was hung up there, and watched what would happen.

As soon as it was midnight, there came in two little elves; and they sat themselves upon the shoemaker’s bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began to ply it with their little fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping away at such a rate, that the shoemaker was all a wonder, and could not take his eyes off them. And on they went, till the job was quite done, and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak; and then they bustled away as quick as lightning.

The next day the wife said to the shoemaker. ‘These little elves have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them, and do something good for them if we can. I am quite sorry to see that they do not have decent clothes, for they have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I’ll tell you what, I will make each of them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a pair of pants into the bargain; and you make each of them a little pair of shoes.’

The thought pleased the good cobbler very much; and one evening, when all the things were ready, they laid them on the table, instead of the work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves, to watch what the little elves would do.

About midnight in they came, dancing and skipping, hopping round the room, and then went to sit down to their work as usual; but when they saw the clothes lying there for them, they laughed and chuckled, and seemed mightily delighted.

Then they dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and skipped and sprang about, as merry as could be; till at last they danced out at the door, and away over the green.

The good couple saw them no more; but everything went well with them from that time forward, as long as they lived.

Written by Richard Barnum

“That’s fine!” cried George, as Tinkle, after having jumped over the stick, came trotting up to get the sugar. “Soon you’ll be as good as Dido, the dancing bear.”
“Well, I guess I did pretty well for a beginner,” thought Tinkle to himself, as he crunched the sugar in his strong white teeth. “Now I hope they will leave me alone, or else drive me hitched to the cart or ride on my back.”
But George and the coachman were not yet through with Tinkle. They wanted to be sure he understood how to do the trick. So they set up the stick again, and George held out more sugar. This time the pony knew what to do at once, and, with a bound, over the stick he went.
“Oh, I want Mabel to see this!” cried George. “Come on out!” he called to his sister. “Come on out and see Tinkle do a trick!”
Mabel was as much pleased as was her brother. She, too, held out the sugar and Tinkle came to her as he had to George, leaping over the stick. Tinkle would do almost anything for lumps of sugar.
“Well, this is enough for the first day,” said the coachman to the children. “We don’t want Tinkle to get tired. Go take him for a drive now, and to-morrow we can teach him other tricks.”

Off in the pony cart rode the two children. Half-way down the street they met Tommie and Nellie Hall, and invited them to have a drive.
“Did you see the trained bear?” asked Tommie of George. “A man was leading him past our house. He did a lot of tricks.”
“We’re going to teach our pony to do tricks like those,” cried Mabel.
“No! Really?” exclaimed Nellie, in surprise.
“Yes, we are,” added George. “He can do one trick already—jump over a stick,” and he told how Tinkle had been taught.
“I’d like to see him do that,” said Tommie. “But there’s one trick Dido the bear did that your pony can never do.”
“What is that?” Mabel asked.
“Climb a telegraph pole!” said Tommie with a laugh.
“That’s right,” admitted George. “Tinkle never could do that. But I don’t want him to. To-morrow we are going to teach him a new trick.”

The next day George went out to the stable to ask Patrick what trick it would be best next to teach the pony.
“Let us see if he has forgotten his first trick,” said the coachman. Once more the stick was laid across the boxes and, standing on the other side of it, George held out the sugar. Tinkle jumped over at once, higher than he had ever before gone, for, now that he knew jumping was what his little master wanted, the pony made up his mind to do his very best.
“Yes, he hasn’t forgotten that trick,” said Patrick. “Now we’ll teach him to make a bow.”
“How do you do that?” asked George.
“I will show you,” Patrick answered.

He put some soft straw on the ground in front of the pony. Then the coachman tied a rope around Tinkle’s left front leg. Standing off a little way, behind, and to one side of Tinkle, Patrick pulled gently on the rope, at the same time saying:
“Make a bow, Tinkle! Make a bow!”
Of course Tinkle did not know then what the words meant, but when he felt the pull on his leg from the rope it seemed as though his leg was being pulled from under him. And that is what Patrick was doing, only so gently that it did not hurt.
Then the coachman said again:
“Make a bow, Tinkle!”
The pony suddenly felt his leg slipping and as it bent he came down on one knee on the soft straw.
“Oh, he did make a bow!” cried George; and that is just what it looked like.
“Give him a lump of sugar!” said Patrick. “Then he’ll know he is to get a lump when he makes another bow.”

The coachman loosened his hold of the rope and Tinkle quickly scrambled to his feet. He was not in the least hurt, but he was a little confused.
“I wonder what they are trying to do to me?” he asked himself. But he was glad when he found George had another lump of sugar for him. “This part of it is all right, anyhow,” thought the pony.
Once again he heard Patrick call:
“Make a bow, Tinkle. Make a bow!” Again came that tug on the rope which pulled Tinkle’s leg from under him, so that he had to bend down and bow.
“That’s the way to do it!” cried Patrick. “More sugar for the pony, George!”
“Oh! Now I begin to understand!” said Tinkle to himself. “This is just like jumping over the stick—only different. Ah, I have it! These are the tricks Dido was telling me about. Now I know what they are doing it for. I am to be a trick pony! And maybe I’ll be in the circus with Tum Tum and Mappo.”

But you will have to wait a little while to find out if that part came true.

“Now we’ll try it again,” said the coachman as Tinkle got up and stood on the soft straw. “Make another bow, Tinkle!” he called.
The pony heard the word “bow,” he felt the gentle pull on the rope that was tied to his leg. This time he did not wait for his leg to be pulled from beneath him, but he bowed of his own accord, and then George gave him the sugar.
“He is beginning to know what we want of him,” said the coachman. “Now he can do two tricks.”
“And soon I can take him around the country and show him off,” cried George, in great delight.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” laughed Patrick. “I guess your father and mother wouldn’t like that. But you can have him do tricks at home here for your friends.”

Tinkle was a smart little pony and in a few days all George had to do was to say “Jump!” and Tinkle would jump over two or even three sticks laid across boxes. And when George said: “Make a bow!” Tinkle would kneel down almost as politely as some dancers I have seen.

“Are there any other tricks you can teach Tinkle?” asked George of the coachman one day.
“Oh, yes, plenty more,” was the answer. “We’ll try to get him to stand on his hind legs and walk around. It is pretty hard but I guess he can do it.”

Tinkle was longer in learning this trick than he had been in learning how to do the other two put together. Patrick and George were kind and patient, however. Patrick, with another man to help him, put Tinkle in front of a board laid across two water pails. They set Tinkle’s front feet on the board and then with Patrick at one end, and the man at the other, they lifted up the board with Tinkle’s feet resting on it and started to walk. And Tinkle walked too, because George stood in front of him with a nice red apple, and as the pony reached for it George kept backing away.
Of course Tinkle wanted the apple, so he kept on walking. Only, as his front feet were resting on the board, the pony could walk on his hind feet only, but he was soon doing this without knowing it. It took a little time to make him stand up on his hind legs without anything on which to rest his front feet, but after a bit he understood what was wanted of him. Then he remembered how he had seen horses in the green meadow, where he used to live, rear up on their hind legs in play sometimes.

“Why that’s just what I’m doing,” thought Tinkle, and then it came easier for him. He could soon walk half the length of the stable yard on his hind legs, with his forefeet held up in the air.
“That’s three tricks Tinkle can do,” said George in delight as the pony pranced around on his hind legs. “He will soon be able to join a circus.”
“But you won’t let him, will you?” asked Mabel. “You won’t let Tinkle go away, George, I like him too much.”
“And so do I,” answered her brother. “Indeed I won’t let Tinkle go away.”

But one day something happened to Tinkle. Mr. and Mrs. Farley with George and Mabel went on a visit to the country, to be gone three days. They did not take Tinkle with them as they had to travel on the train.
“But I guess he’ll be alright until we come home,” said George as he went out to the stable to bid his pet good-by.
“I’ll be here to watch him,” said Patrick.
Two days after the Farley family had gone away Patrick, who slept in rooms over the stable, had to go to the store for some salve for one of the horses that got a nail in his foot.
Patrick thought he would be gone only a few minutes, so he left Tinkle outside in the stable yard.
“I guess he will be alright until I come back,” said the coachman.
But it took longer to put up the salve than he had supposed, so he was nearly half an hour away from the barn. And there was no one in the house, for the cook and maid had also gone away on visits when the family left.

In that half hour something happened. Two men drove a big, empty moving van down the street past the Farley house. In the side-yard was an old-fashioned pump and, seeing it, one of the men said:
“Let’s stop off and get a drink. It’s a hot day and I’m thirsty.”
“I am too,” said the other man.
They stopped the van in a side street near the stable yard, and pumped some water for themselves. Tinkle walked over near the fence and looked at the men, for he was a bit lonesome.
“That’s a fine pony,” said one of the men, wiping off the drops of water from his mustache.
“He sure is,” agreed the other. “Look at him making a bow; would you!”
For just then Tinkle took it into his head to do one of his tricks. He had not done any in two days because George was away.
“Say, he’s smart!” exclaimed the biggest man, who had red hair.
“He is that. Look at him jump!” for Tinkle did his second trick then. He was showing off, you see.
The two men talked together in low voices. They looked toward the house and saw that it was closed. No one was about. Patrick was down at the drugstore and no one was near the stable.
“We could easily put him in the moving van,” said the red-haired man. “He isn’t heavy.”
“But what would we do with him after we took him?” asked the shorter of the two men.
“Why, a trick pony like him is worth money. We could sell him for a hundred dollars, maybe. Let’s take him. No one will see us.”
Of course it was not right for the men to plan to take Tinkle away, but they did, just the same.

“Come here, pony!” called one of the men, and he whistled. Tinkle came closer, for George had taught him to come at the sound of a whistle to get a lump of sugar.
But the men had no sugar for Tinkle. Instead they opened the gate to the stable yard, and led Tinkle out by his mane. The pony went along willingly enough, for he was not afraid of men. None of them had ever hurt him, so he had no reason to be afraid.
“Lead him right out to the van,” said the red-haired man, “and we’ll toss him in. No one will see him in there.”
Before Tinkle knew what was happening he was led out of the yard, to the side street, and suddenly the two men lifted him up and put him right inside the big empty moving van, which could easily have held two or three big horses, to say nothing of several ponies as small as Tinkle.

Tinkle was not much bigger than a very big dog, and the men, being strong (for they could lift a piano) had no trouble in lifting the pony from the ground. Into the van he went, and he fell down, but, as it happened, there was a pile of soft bags there so he was not hurt.
But he was frightened when the men banged shut the big end doors. Then Tinkle felt himself being taken away. He was closed up inside the dark wagon and could see nothing.

Poor Tinkle!

Written by Clara D. Pierson

This is the story of something which did not really happen in the dooryard of the big house, yet it has seemed best to tell it this way because it could all be seen from that yard, and because Silvertip, the cat, had a part in it.
He was sitting quietly upon the broad top-rail of the fence one afternoon, wishing that the sun would shine again. It had rained most of the time for three days, and he did not like wet weather. He thought it was going to clear off, for the clouds had not sent any drops down since noon. The grass and walks were still damp, so he sat on the fence-rail. He had stayed in the house so long that he was tired of it, and he was also watching a pair of Robins who had built a nest on one of the up-stairs window-ledges. They had put it right on top of last year’s Robins’ nest, and that was on one of the year before. You can see that it was well worth looking at.

Silvertip had been here only a short time, when he saw Mr. White Cat, from another house, walking over to the one across the street. Miss Tabby Cat lived there, and he knew that Mr. Tiger Cat was around somewhere. Mr. White Cat looked very cross. He was one of those people who are good-natured only when the sun is shining and they have everything they want, and this, you know, is not the best sort of a person.

“Um-hum!” said Silvertip to himself. “I think there will be a fight before long. I will watch.” He stood up and stretched himself carefully and sat down the other way, so as to see all that happened. Silvertip himself never fought. He spent a great deal of time in making believe fight, and usually entertained his Cat callers by glaring, spitting, or even growling at them, but he never really clawed and scratched and bit. He did not care to have sore places all over him, and he did not wish to get his ears chewed on.

“I can get what I want without fighting for it, so why should I fight?” he said. He was a very good sort of Cat, and had never really been cross about anything except when the Little Boy came to live in the big house. Then he had been sulky for weeks, and would not stay in the room with the Little Boy at all. He thought that if he made enough fuss about it, the Gentleman and the Lady would not let the Little Boy live there. When he found the Little Boy would stay anyway, he stopped being cross. After a while he loved him too.

No, Silvertip would not fight. But he very much liked to watch other Cats fight. Now he saw Miss Tabby sit quietly by the house across the street and right in front of a hole under the porch. She had her legs tucked beneath her, and her tail neatly folded around them. She looked as though she had found a small spot which was dry, and wanted to get all of herself on that.

Just inside the open doorway of the barn, there sat Mr. Tiger Cat. He also had his legs tucked in and his tail folded around him. Mr. White Cat walked straight up to him and stood stiff-legged. Mr. Tiger Cat, who had just eaten a hearty meal and wanted an after-dinner nap, half opened his eyes and looked at him. Then he closed them again.

This made Mr. White Cat more ill natured still. He did not like to have people look at him and then shut their eyes. He began to switch his tail and stand his hair on end. He decided to make the other Cat fight anyway. He cared all the more about it because Miss Tabby was watching him. He had not noticed Silvertip. “Er-oo!” he said, drawing back his head and lowering his tail stiffly. “Did you say it was going to rain, or did you say it was not?”

“I hardly think it will,” answered Mr. Tiger Cat pleasantly.
“You don’t think it will, hey?” asked Mr. White Cat. “Well, I say it will pour.”
Mr. Tiger Cat slid his thin eyelids over his eyes.
“Did you hear me?” asked Mr. White Cat, still standing in the same way.
“Certainly,” answered the other.
“Well, what do you say to that?” asked Mr. White Cat, and now he began to stand straighter and hold his tail out behind.
“I am willing it should pour,” said Mr. Tiger Cat, beginning to uncover his eyes slowly.
“Oo-oo! You are?” growled Mr. White Cat. “You are, are you? Well, I am not!”

There was no answer. You see, Mr. Tiger Cat did not want to fight. He did not need to just then, and he never fought for the fun of it when his stomach was so full. He supposed he would have to in the end, for he knew when a fellow has really made up his mind to it, and is picking a quarrel, it has to end in that way. At least, it has to end in that way when one is a Cat. If one is bigger and better, there are other ways of ending it.

Mr. Tiger Cat knew all this, and yet he waited. “The longer I wait,” he thought, “the more I shall feel like it. My stomach will not be so full and I can fight better. He needn’t think he can come around and pick a quarrel and chew my ears when Miss Tabby is looking on. No indeed.”
You see, Mr. Tiger Cat was also fond of Miss Tabby.

“Er-roo!” said Mr. White Cat, straightening his legs until he stood very tall indeed. “Er-roo!”
He had made himself so angry now that he could not talk in words at all. Mr. Tiger Cat sat still.
“Er-row!” said Mr. White Cat, speaking way down his throat. “Er-row!” Mr. Tiger Cat still sat still.

Silvertip became so excited that he could not stay any longer on the fence. He dearly loved to see a good fight, you know, so he jumped quietly down without looking away from the barn door, and began walking softly toward it. He knew that when a Cat got to saying “Er-row!” down in his throat, something was going to happen very soon. Silvertip did not know, however, exactly what it would be because he did not see a couple of big dogs trotting down the street toward him.

He crept nearer and nearer to the barn, hardly looking where he stepped for fear of missing some of the fun. His pretty white paws got wet and dirty, but that did not matter now. Paws could be licked clean at any time. Fights must be watched while they may be found.
“Ra-ow!” said Mr. White Cat, giving a forward jump.
“Pht!” answered Mr. Tiger Cat, standing stiffly on his hind feet and letting his front ones hang straight down. He was wide awake now, and ready to teach Mr. White Cat a lesson in politeness.
“Bow-wow!” said the Dogs just behind Silvertip. He might have run up a tree nearby, but he had a bright idea.

“I’ll do it,” he exclaimed. “The Little Boy says it is not good to fight, anyway.” Then he ran straight in through that open door and jumped to a high shelf in the barn. He saw Miss Tabby turn a somersault backwards and crawl under the porch.

Mr. Tiger Cat took a long jump to the sill of a high window. Mr. White Cat did not seem to care at all whether it was going to pour or not. He sprang to the top round of a ladder. The Dogs frisked below, wagging their tails and talking to each other about the Cats.

Mr. Tiger Cat, who was very well-bred and could always think of something polite to say, remarked to Silvertip: “Your call was quite an unexpected pleasure!” He had a smiling look around the mouth as he spoke.
“Yes,” answered Silvertip, who liked a joke as well as anybody, unless it were a joke on himself alone. “Yes, I found myself coming this way, and just ran in.”

Then they both settled down comfortably where they were, tucking their feet under them and wrapping their tails around. Nobody said anything to Mr. White Cat, who had no chance to sit down, and, indeed, could hardly keep from falling off the ladder.
The Dogs frisked and tumbled in the barn for a while and hung around the foot of the ladder. They knew they could not get either of the other cats to chase, but they had a happy hope that Mr. White Cat might come down.
When at last the Dogs had gone, and Mr. White Cat had also snuck away, Mr. Tiger said: “Fighting is very wrong.”

“Yes,” replied Silvertip, “very wrong indeed. But,” he added, “I’ll make believe fight anybody.” So he jumped stiffly down and Mr. Tiger Cat jumped stiffly down, and they glared and growled at each other all afternoon and never bit or even unsheathed a claw. They had a most delightful time, and Miss Tabby came out from under the porch and smiled on them both. She loved Cats who acted bravely.

Written by Richard Barnum

George and Mabel were soon at the store, and, going in, they bought the loaf sugar. Patrick stayed out in the pony cart, and Tinkle stood near him to the curb. Near him was a horse hitched to a wagon full of coal.
“Hello, my little pony!” called the coal-horse. “You have a fine rig there.”
“Yes, it is pretty nice,” said Tinkle, and he was sure he must look very gorgeous, for Mabel had tied a blue ribbon in his mane that morning.
“You’re quite stylish,” went on the coal-horse.
“Well, I s’pose you might call it that,” admitted Tinkle.
“It’s much more fun to be pulling a light, little cart like that around the city streets, than to haul a great big heavy coal wagon, such as I am hitched to,” went on the big horse.
“Yes, but see how strong you are!” observed Tinkle. “I never could pull such a heavy load as you haul.”
“No, I guess you couldn’t,” said the coal horse. “Especially up some of the hills we have. It is almost more than I can do, and there is one hill that I have to take a rest on, half way up, but my driver is good to me, and never hurries me, which is more than I can say of some drivers I have known. So I guess, after all, it is better for you to draw the pony cart and for me to stick with the coal wagon.”
“Indeed it is,” said a horse that was hitched to one of the grocery wagons. “You’d look funny, coal-horse, trying to fit between the shafts of that pony cart.”
“I suppose I would,” admitted the other, laughing, in a way horses have among themselves.

When George and Mabel came out of the store, with the bag of sugar lumps, they saw the two horses—one hitched to a coal wagon and the other to a grocery cart—rubbing noses with Tinkle.
“They’re kissing each other,” laughed the little girl.
But the horses and the pony were really talking among themselves, and even Patrick, much as he knew about animals, did not understand horse-talk.
“Let’s give Tinkle some sugar now,” said Mabel.
“All right,” answered George, so they gave the pony two lumps.
“My, that sugar certainly smells good!” exclaimed the horse that was hitched to the coal wagon.
“It certainly does,” said the other horse, sniffing hard through his nose, for the air was filled with the sweet smell of the sugar lumps Tinkle was eating. “You might think,” went on the grocery horse, “that, working for a store, as I do, I’d get a lump of sugar once in a while.”
“Don’t you?” asked Tinkle, reaching out for another sweet lump George offered him.
“Never a bit!” said the grocery-horse, “and I just love it!”
“So do I,” said the coal-horse.
“I’m sorry I didn’t offer you some,” apologized Tinkle. “But it’s too late now. I’ve swallowed it.”

Just then Mabel thought of something nice.
“Oh, George!” she cried. “Let’s give the two horses some of Tinkle’s sugar. I guess horses like sweet stuff the same as ponies. Don’t they, Patrick?” she asked the coachman.
“Sure they do,” he answered. “Sure they do!”
“Then give them some, George,” she begged. “We have more than enough for Tinkle.”
“All right,” said the little boy. So he held out two lumps of sugar to the coal horse, and two to the grocery horse, and I just wish you could have seen how glad those horses were to get the sweet stuff. If they could have talked man language they would have thanked George and Mabel, but as it was they could only say to one another and to Tinkle:
“Well, you certainly have a good home with such nice children in it.”
“I’m glad you think so,” whinnied Tinkle to them, and he felt very happy.

George and Mabel drove home in their pony cart, carrying what was left of the bag of sugar. When they were near their home, and on a quiet street, George let his sister take the reins so she would learn how to handle them. Patrick watched the little girl carefully and told her how and when to pull, so Tinkle would go to the right or to the left, and also around the corners.
“Oh, Mother! now I know how to drive!” cried Mabel as she ran into the house to tell her father and Mrs. Farley about their first trip downtown in the new pony cart.
After that George and Mabel had many rides behind Tinkle, even in the Winter, when they hitched him to a little sled. The little pony grew to like his little boy and girl friends very much indeed, and they loved him dearly. They would hug him and pat him whenever they went out to the stable where he was, and feed him lumps of sugar. When Spring came they took long rides in the country.

One day a funny thing happened to Tinkle. He had been hitched to the pony cart which was tied to a post in front of his house, waiting for George and Mabel to come out. And then, from somewhere down the street sounded the tooting of a horn, and a strange odor, which made him tremble, came to the pony’s nostrils.
“I wonder what that is?” said Tinkle to himself. Very soon he found out.
Along came a man wearing a red cap, and every once in a while he would put a brass horn to his mouth and blow a tooting tune. But this was not what surprised Tinkle most. What did, was a big shaggy animal, that the man was leading by a chain. And when Tinkle saw the shaggy creature he was afraid. But the other animal, rising up on its hind legs said:
“Don’t be afraid of me, little pony. I won’t hurt you!”
“Who are you?” asked Tinkle, wonderingly.
“I am Dido, the dancing bear,” was the answer, “and I have had many adventures that have been put into a book.”

For a few seconds Tinkle stood looking at Dido, the dancing bear, not knowing what to do or say. Some ponies would have been afraid of a bear. They would have snorted, stood on their hind legs, and maybe have run away. But Tinkle had never seen a bear before, no one had ever told him about them, and he really did not know enough to be afraid. Besides, Dido seemed such a funny, good-natured and happy bear that I believe no one would have been afraid of him.
“So you are Dido, the dancing bear, are you?” asked Tinkle. “And you say you are in a book. What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you,” went on Dido, while his master, the man who blew such jolly tunes on the brass horn, was picking up some apples that had fallen from a roadside tree. He let Dido walk on ahead, without even a string tied to him, for he knew that Dido would not run away.
“You see, it’s this way,” went on the dancing bear. “Years ago I used to live in the woods with my father and mother, sisters and brothers.”
“I never lived in the woods,” said Tinkle, “but I lived in a big, green field.”
“That was nice,” murmured Dido. “I have been in the fields, too. Well, one day I was caught by a man, who took me away. At first I did not like it, but the man was good to me and taught me to do tricks.”
“What are tricks?” asked the pony, for he could speak all animal languages as well as understand them.

“Tricks are—well, I’ll show you in a minute,” went on Dido. “The man was good to me, as I said, and taught me tricks. Then I was sold to a circus and I had lots of good times with Tum Tum, the jolly elephant and Mappo the merry monkey. They are in books, too.”
“What are books?” asked Tinkle. “Are they good, like sugar; and do you eat them?”
“Oh, no!” laughed Dido. “Books are funny things, like blocks of wood; only you can open them, like a door, you know, and inside are funny black marks on paper that is white, like the snow. Boys and girls, and men and women, open these funny things called books and look at them for ever and ever so long.”
“Why do they do that?” asked Tinkle.
“Well, I don’t really know,” said Dido. “But after they have looked at the books, turning over the white things with the black marks on them, called leaves, the boys and girls laugh.”
“Why?” Tinkle demanded.
“Because of the funny things printed on them,” answered Dido. “You see in my book are all the things I did. And the things Mappo did and the things Tum Tum did are in their books. Some of the things were funny, and that is what makes the boys and girls laugh. Tum Tum’s book is enough to make any one laugh. He is a very jolly elephant.”

“Is it fashionable to be in a book?” asked Tinkle. “I have quite a stylish pony cart here, as you can see, so if being in a book is—”
“Of course it’s fashionable to be in a book!” exclaimed Dido. “You should see the funny pictures of me in my book.”

“Toot! Toot! Toot!” blew the horn again, and the man who owned Dido, having picked up all the apples he wanted, came walking along the road. Dido had been in a circus for some time, but now he was out again, traveling around the country doing tricks.
“Ah, you have met a friend, I see, Dido!” remarked the man, who had little gold rings in his ears. “A little pony, huh? Well, where there is a pony there must be children, and I think they will like to see your tricks, Dido. Come, we’ll get ready for them.”

The man blew another merry tune on his horn, and just then George and Mabel came running out of the house, ready to go driving in the pony cart.
“Oh, see the bear!” cried Mabel.
“And look at what he is doing!” added George. For, just then the man told Dido to do a somersault, and this the bear did.
“That’s one of my tricks,” said Dido to Tinkle, though of course George and Mabel did not know the two animals were speaking to one another, for they talked in a low whisper.
“Oh, so that’s a trick, is it?” asked Tinkle in surprise.
“Yes, and I can do others. Wait, I’m going to do some more,” went on Dido.
“Come on, Dido! Show the little boy and girl how you play soldier!” called the man and he tossed a stick to the bear. Dido clasped it in his paws and held it over one shoulder and marched around in a ring standing up stiff and straight like a soldier on parade.

“Oh, that’s great!” cried George.
“Is he a trained bear, Mister?” asked Mabel.
“Oh, yes he is a good trained bear,” answered the man. “I have taught him to do many tricks. Now stand on your head, Dido,” and Dido stood on his head without so much as blinking his eye. Only he could not stand that way very long because he was quite a heavy bear now. But he did very well.

“Can he do any more tricks?” asked George, and by this time Patrick, the coachman, Mary the cook, and Mrs. Farley had come out to watch Dido.
“I will have him climb a pole,” said the man, pointing to a telegraph pole in front of the Farley home. “Up you go, Dido!” he called, and the bear walked slowly over to the smooth pole. He stuck his sharp claws into the soft wood, and up and up he climbed until he was nearly at the top. Then he climbed down again while Mabel and George clapped their hands and laughed.

“He is a fine bear,” said George. “I wonder if he would eat sugar as Tinkle, my pony, does?”
“Try him and see,” answered the man, with a laugh.
“Won’t he bite?” asked Mabel, as George took some lumps of sugar from his pocket.
“Oh, no. Dido never bites,” answered the man. “He is a very gentle bear.”

George held a lump of sugar on his hand. Up Dido walked to the little boy.
“Don’t you dare bite him!” said Tinkle to Dido, speaking in animal talk, of course.
“Oh, no fear!” exclaimed Dido. “I wouldn’t bite him for the world. Just watch!” Then Dido put out his big red tongue to which the lump of sugar stuck, just like a postage stamp, and, in another second, it had slid down Dido’s throat.
“Oh, wasn’t that cute?” cried Mabel.

Then Dido did more tricks, and after Mrs. Farley had given the man some money he and Dido walked on down the road.
“Good-by, children!” called the man.
“Good-by,” answered George and Mabel, waving their hands.
“Good-by, Tinkle!” called Dido. “Perhaps some day I may see you again.”
“I hope so,” called back the pony. “I want to hear more about being in a book and about Tum Tum and Mappo.”
“They are in the circus now, I think,” said Dido. “If you ever go to the circus you may meet them.”
“I don’t believe I ever shall,” said Tinkle. But you just wait and see what happens.

“Well, go for your drive now, children,” said Mrs. Farley. “And don’t let Tinkle run away with you.”
“We won’t,” answered George, laughingly. And as he and Mabel drove away, Patrick not going with them this time, George said: “I wish I could teach Tinkle some tricks.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be great!” exclaimed Mabel. “I once saw a trick pony in a show. He could bow and tell how old he was by pawing on the ground with his hoof.”
“Then I’m going to teach Tinkle some tricks,” said George. “And when he learns them we’ll take him around the country and show him off and earn money.”
“Oh, how nice!” cried Mabel, clapping her hands.

When George and Mabel got back from their drive George spoke to his father about teaching Tinkle to do some tricks.
“I hardly think you can,” said Mr. Farley. “But you may try. Better ask Patrick about it, though. He knows a lot about horses and ponies.”

“Teach Tinkle tricks, is it?” asked Patrick when George spoke to the coachman about it. “Well, maybe you can. He’s young yet. You can’t teach an old pony tricks any more than you can teach an old dog. We’ll try some day.”

A few days after this Patrick called George out to the stable yard where Tinkle was standing.
“What are you going to do?” asked George.
“Teach Tinkle his first trick,” was the answer. “He is going to learn how to jump over a stick.” Patrick put two boxes, about two feet high, on the ground and laid a stick across them. He led the pony close to the stick and stood there beside him.
“Now, George, you stand on the other side of the stick, and hold out these lumps of sugar,” said Patrick. “We will see what Tinkle will do.”

George held out the sugar a few feet away from Tinkle’s nose. Tinkle could smell it, and he wanted it very much.
“Go get it!” called Patrick, letting loose the halter strap he had been holding. “Go get the sugar, Tinkle.”
Instead of jumping across the stick, as they wanted him to do, Tinkle walked right against it and knocked it off the boxes.

“That won’t do!” cried Patrick. “Don’t give him the sugar, George, until he jumps over the stick.”
So George held the sugar behind his back, and Tinkle was quite disappointed at not getting it.
“I wonder what they want me to do, and why they put that stick in front of me?” thought the little pony. Patrick placed the stick back on the boxes, and this time he nailed it down so the pony could not easily knock it off. Then the coachman held the pony as before and George put the lumps of sugar out on his hand again.

Once more Tinkle walked forward to get them, but this time he could not knock the stick down with his legs. He shoved the boxes aside, though, and again Patrick led him back.
“Jump over the stick, Tinkle! Jump over the stick and I’ll give you the sugar!” called George. And then, after two or three more times, Tinkle understood. He found that stick always in his way when he wanted to get the sweet sugar, and finally he thought of the fence he had once jumped over.
“I guess that’s what they want me to do now!” he said. And with a jump, over the stick he went. Tinkle had done his first trick!

Written by Johnny Gruelle

A silvery thread of smoke curled up over the trunk of the old tree and floated away through the forest, and tiny voices came from beneath the trunk of the old tree.

Long, long ago, the tree had stood strong and upright and its top branches reached far above any of the other trees in the forest, but the tree had grown so old it began to shiver when the storms howled through the branches. And as each storm came the old tree shook more and more, until finally in one of the fiercest storms it tumbled to the earth with a great crash.

There it lay for centuries, and vines and bushes grew about in a tangled mass until it was almost hidden from view. Now down beneath the trunk of the fallen tree lived three little gnomes, and it was the smoke from their fire which curled up over the trunk of the old tree and floated away through the forest. They were preparing dinner and laughing and talking together when they heard the sound of a horn.
“What can it be?” asked one.
“It sounds like the horn of a huntsman!” another cried.

As the sound came nearer, the three little gnomes stamped upon their fire and put it out so that no one would discover their home. Then they climbed upon the trunk of the tree and ran along it to where they could see across an open space in the forest without being seen themselves. And when the sound of the horn drew very close, they saw a little boy climb through the thick bushes.

As the little boy came out into the open space the three little gnomes saw that he was crying.
“He must be lost!” said the first little gnome.
“He looks very tired and hungry!” said the second little gnome.
“Let us go and ask him!” said the third little gnome.

So the three little gnomes scrambled down from the trunk of the fallen tree and went up to where the little boy had thrown himself upon the ground. They stood about him and watched him, for he had put his face in the crook of his arm and was crying.

Finally one of the little gnomes sat down in front of the little boy and spoke to him.
“I am lost!” the little boy said. “My father went out yesterday with all his men and when they were out of sight I took my little horn and followed them, but I soon lost their track, and I have wandered about with nothing to eat. Last night I climbed into a tree and slept!”

The three little gnomes wiped the little boy’s eyes and led him to their home under the fallen tree. There they finished preparing the dinner and sat about until the little boy had eaten and had fallen asleep. Then the three little gnomes carried him into their house, away back in the trunk of the tree, and placed him upon one of their little beds.

When the three little gnomes had finished their dinner they lit their pipes and wondered how they might help the little boy find his way home.

“Let us go to old Wise Owl and see if he can suggest anything!” said one.
“Yes, brothers,” cried another, “Let us go to old Wise Owl.”
So the three little gnomes went to the home of Wise Owl and Wise Owl said he would fly high above the forest and try and see the little boy’s home.

“I can not see his home!” cried Wise Owl. “Maybe Fuzzy Fox can tell you!”
So the three little gnomes went to the home of Fuzzy Fox and Fuzzy Fox said he would run through the forest and see if he could find the little boy’s home. So Fuzzy Fox ran through the forest, but could not find the little boy’s home.

“But,” said Fuzzy Fox, “I came upon a deer who told me that a group of men had passed through the forest yesterday and had scared her with their noise.” So the three little gnomes went to see the scared deer and they soon soothed the fear that the men had made and the deer felt better again.

Then the three little gnomes sat upon Fuzzy Fox’s back and he ran on through the forest with them until they came to a wild boar. The wild boar had been chased by the men, he told the three little gnomes, but had managed to hide himself in the thick bushes and escape. “It must have been the little boy’s father and his men,” said the wild boar. “I am sorry that I am too scared, for I would like to help him!”

Then Fuzzy Fox ran with the three little gnomes through the forest and they met a bear, and a squirrel, and five or six bunny rabbits, and they all told the three little gnomes that the men had gone after them and that they managed to escape.

The three little gnomes felt very sorry for their frightened friends and helped them all they could by calming their minds. “We are sorry that we can not go with you and help find the little boy’s home,” they all said, “For his mother will miss him and cry for him. And we know how much a Mommy or a Daddy can miss a little boy or girl. That is why we feel sorry that we can not help you bring him back to his mother.”

So Fuzzy Fox ran until he came to the edge of the forest and then the three little gnomes saw a large castle away in the distance with bright red roofs on the tall towers.

“That must be the little boy’s home!” said one little gnome.
“Let us return at once to our home under the fallen tree and ask the little boy!” said another. So Fuzzy Fox ran with them back to their home and the little boy told them it was his home.

Then the kind Fuzzy Fox took the three little gnomes and the little boy upon his back and ran to the edge of the forest and on the way they stopped to see the animals, and they were all glad that the little boy’s Mommy and Daddy would soon see him and they bade the little boy goodbye.

So Fuzzy Fox carried the three little gnomes and the little boy almost to the castle gate and shook hands with him.
“I will remember the way to your home,” the boy told the three little gnomes, “and I will be back to see you soon!”

The next day when the three little gnomes were preparing dinner they again heard the little boy’s horn, and ran along the trunk of the tree until they came to where they could see across the open space.

Soon there came a great many people, and riding upon a fine horse in front of his Daddy was the little boy, but this day he wore fine silk and satin clothes and they were not torn by the brambles and bushes. Near him rode a beautiful lady. She was the little boy’s Mommy.

So the three little gnomes went out to meet them, and the little boy slid from the horse and ran to them and threw his arms around them. “This is my Daddy, and this is my Mommy!” he told them.

The little boy’s Mommy and the little boy’s Daddy dismounted and came to the three little gnomes and thanked them for returning the little boy to them. “We will give you anything you wish for!” said the little boy’s Mommy and Daddy.

“We wish for nothing!” said the three little gnomes, “We live happily here in the forest and our wants are simple, but if you could stop scaring and chasing our forest friends we would be very grateful!”

“I told Daddy of the frightened creatures!” said the little boy. “Yes,” his Daddy said, “and I have given orders that no one in my country shall hunt through this forest, and from now on your forest friends will be safe and can always live here in peace and happiness.” For the great king was sorry that he or his men had ever caused any of the forest creatures any harm. And after that the creatures of the forest were never scared and they grew up so tame they would wander right up to the castle, where the king’s men would feed them.

The tiny thread of smoke still curls up over the trunk of the fallen tree, and the voices of the little boy and his Daddy mingle with the tiny voices of the three little gnomes as they prepare their dinner; for the great King and the little Prince come often to visit their friends, the three little gnomes.

Written by Richard Barnum

“Well, I never expected to see you here!” exclaimed a whinnying voice as Tinkle was led into his stall. The little pony looked up in surprise and saw a big horse.
“Oh! Why, hello, Hobble!” cried Tinkle, as he saw the horse that used to live on the stock farm with him.
“My name isn’t Hobble any more—it’s Prince.”
“Oh, well. Hello, then, Prince!” called Tinkle in a cordial, off-hand manner, for he now felt quite grown up. Had he not been hitched up, and had he not carried a boy on his back? “I didn’t know you were here.”
“And I didn’t know you were coming,” observed Prince. “How is everything back on the farm?”
“Oh, there’s not much change. I was sorry to come away and leave my father and mother.”
“Well, that’s the way things happen in this world,” said Prince. “We are colts for a little while, and then some of us grow to be big horses or grown-up ponies and have to go away from our friends. It’s just the same with men and women, I’ve heard. But you’ll like it here.”
“Is it nice?” asked Tinkle.
“Nice? I should say it is! Of course, I miss being out in the big, green, grassy meadow. But I get plenty to eat here, and every day a man scratches my back—”
“Scratches your back?” cried Tinkle. “I don’t believe I should like that!”
“Oh, yes you will,” said Prince. “You can’t imagine how your back begins to itch and ache when you’ve been in the harness all day. And when a man uses a brush and comb on you—”
“A brush and comb!” cried Tinkle. “Come on, you’re joking! I know men and women, as well as boys and girls, use brushes and combs, but ponies or horses—”
“Yes, we really have our own brushes and combs, though they are different from those which humans use,” said Prince. “The brush is a big one, more like a broom, and the comb is made of iron and it’s called a currycomb. But they make your skin nice and clean and shiny. You’ll like them.”
“Maybe,” said Tinkle. “Is anything else different here from what it was on the farm?”
“Oh, lots and lots of things. You have to have shoes on your feet.”
“Oh, now I’m sure you’re fooling me!” cried Tinkle in horse-talk. “Who ever heard of ponies having shoes!”
“Well, of course they’re not leather shoes, such as boys and girls wear,” went on Prince. “They are made of iron, and they are nailed on your hoofs.”
“Nailed on!” cried Tinkle. “Oh, doesn’t that hurt?”
“Not a bit when a good blacksmith does it,” explained Prince. “You see our hoofs are just like the finger nails of boys and girls. It doesn’t hurt to cut their fingernails, if they don’t cut them down too close, and it doesn’t hurt to fasten the iron shoes on our hoofs with sharp nails. Don’t you remember how Dapple Gray used to tell about his iron shoes making sparks on the paving stones in the city when he ran and pulled that funny shiny wagon with the chimney?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Tinkle; “I do remember. Well, I suppose I’ll have to be shod then.”
“Of course,” returned Prince. “If you don’t have the iron shoes on your hooves they would get sore when you ran around on the stony streets. A city is not like our green meadow. There are very few soft dirt roads here. That is one thing I don’t like about a city. Still there is always something going on here, and lots to see and do, and that makes up for it, I guess.”
“I wonder how I shall like it,” thought Tinkle. “But first I must see what my new home is like.”

He looked around the stable. It was a large one, and there were a number of stalls in it. In each one was a horse, like Prince, munching his oats or chewing hay. Tinkle saw that his stall was different from the others. It was like a big box, and, in fact, was called a “box stall.” Tinkle did not have to be tied fast with a rope or a strap to the manger, which is the place where the feed for the ponies and horses is put. There was a manger in Tinkle’s stall and he could walk up to it whenever he felt hungry.
Tinkle did not remember much about the stable at home on the farm, as he was hardly ever in it. Night and day, during the warm Summer, he stayed out in the green meadow, sleeping near his mother under a tree.
Tinkle was kicking the straw around in his stall, making a nice soft bed on which he could lie down and go to sleep, when George, who had gone into the house to get something to eat after driving with his father from the stock farm, came running out to the stable again.
“How’s my pony?” cried George. “How’s my Tinkle?”
Tinkle made a sort of laughing sound—whinnying—for he knew now George’s voice and he liked the little boy.
“Here’s something nice for you!” cried George.
“Oh, what are you going to give him?” asked Mabel, who had come home from school and who had also hurried out to see Tinkle.
“I’m going to give him some sugar,” answered George. “I took some lumps from the bowl on the table. Mother said I might.”
“Are you going to let him eat them out of your hand?” asked the little girl.
“Of course,” answered George.
“Won’t he bite you?”
“Not if you hold out your hand flat, like a board,” said George. “The man at the farm showed me. Put the sugar on the palm of your hand, open it out flat and a horse can pick up a lump of sugar, or an apple without biting you a teeny weeny bit. Look!”
George opened the top half of the door to the box stall where Tinkle had his home and held out on his hand the lump of sugar. Tinkle came over, smelled of the lump to make sure it was good for him to eat, and then he gently took it in his soft lips, and began to chew the sweet stuff.
“Oh, isn’t that cute!” cried Mabel. “Let me feed Tinkle some sugar.”
Her brother gave her a lump, and she held it out on her hand. Tinkle, having eaten the first lump, which he liked very much, was quite ready for the second. He took it from Mabel’s hand as gently as he had taken it from George’s.
“Oh, he is a lovely pony!” cried the little girl. “How soon can we have a ride on him?”
“Well, you can ride him around the yard now,” said her father, who had come out to the stable. “But before he is driven around the city streets he must be shod. I’ll send him to a blacksmith. But for a while now you and George may take turns riding him. I’ll have Patrick saddle him for you.”

Patrick was Mr. Farley’s coachman, and knew a great deal about horses and ponies. The pony cart which Mr. Farley had bought from the stockman, together with a harness and saddle for Tinkle, had been put away. Patrick now brought out the saddle, and, after putting a blanket on the pony, fastened on the saddle with straps.
“Now who’s to ride first?” asked the coachman.
“Let Mabel,” said George, politely. “Ladies always go first.”
“I’d rather you’d go first so I can see how you do it,” said the little girl, and George was glad, for he did want very much to get on Tinkle’s back again. He had ridden a little at the stock farm and, oh! it was such fun!
Patrick helped George into the saddle, and then led Tinkle about the yard, for Mr. Farley wanted to make sure the pony would be safe for his little boy to ride.
“I’ll be very careful,” said Tinkle to himself. “George and his sister are going to be kind to me, I’m sure. I’ll not run away.”
Tinkle remembered what his father and mother had told him about behaving when he was in the harness, or had a saddle on.
“And if I’m good,” thought the pony, “maybe I’ll get more lumps of sugar.”
“Let him go now and see if I can drive him,” said George to Patrick. So the coachman stepped aside and George held the reins in his own hands.
“Gid-dap, Tinkle!” cried George, and the pony knew this meant to go a little faster. So he began to trot on the soft, green grass of the big yard about the Farley home.
“Oh, how nice!” cried Mabel, clapping her hands.
“Yes, it’s lots of fun!” laughed George. “Go on, Tinkle.”

When George had ridden twice around the yard it was Mabel’s turn. At first she was a little afraid, but her father held her in the saddle, and she could soon sit on alone and guide Tinkle, who did not go as fast with her as he had gone with George.
“For she might fall off, and I wouldn’t want that to happen,” thought Tinkle. “They might say it was my fault, and give me no more lumps of sugar.”
While Mabel was riding, another boy and a girl came into the yard. They were Tommie and Nellie Hall, who lived next door.
“Oh, what a lovely pony!” they cried. “Where did you get him?”
“My father bought him for Mabel and me,” explained George. “See how soft his hair is,” and he patted Tinkle. Tommie and Nellie also patted the pony and called him all sorts of nice names.
“My! I think I am going to like it here,” thought Tinkle. “I have four new, good, little friends. I will try to make them love me.”

Every morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, George would run out to the stable to see Tinkle. He would rub the soft, velvety nose of his pet pony, or bring him a piece of bread or a lump of sugar. Sometimes Mabel, too, would come out with her brother to look at Tinkle before she went to school.
“And when we come back from school we’ll have a ride on your back,” said George, waving his hand to Tinkle.

A few days after he had been brought to his new home Tinkle had been taken to a blacksmith’s shop and small iron shoes had been fastened to the pony’s hooves.
At first Tinkle was afraid he was going to be hurt, but he thought of what Dapple Gray and the other horses had told him and made up his mind—if ponies have minds—that he would stand a little pain if he had to. But he did not. The blacksmith was kind and gentle, and though it felt a bit funny at first, when he lifted up one of Tinkle’s legs, the pony soon grew used to it.
It felt strange, too, when the iron shoes were nailed on. And when Tinkle stood on his four newly shod feet he hardly knew whether he could step out properly or not. But he soon found that it was all right.
“I’m taller with my new shoes on than in my bare hoofs,” said Tinkle to himself, and he was taller—about an inch I guess. The clatter and clang of his iron shoes on the paving stones sounded like music to Tinkle, and he soon found that it was better for him to have iron shoes on than to run over the stones in his hoofs, which would soon have worn down so that his feet would have hurt.

“Now Tinkle is ready to give us a ride in the little cart!” cried George when his pony had come home from the blacksmith shop.
“Take Patrick with you so as to make sure you know how to drive, and how to handle Tinkle,” said Mrs. Farley, as George and Mabel made ready for their first real drive—outside the yard this time.
George and Mabel got into the pony cart, George taking the reins, and Mabel sat beside him. Patrick, the coachman, sat in the back of the cart, ready to help if he were needed.
“Gid-dap!” called George, and he headed the pony down the driveway. “Gid-dap, Tinkle,” and Tinkle trotted along.
“Don’t they look cute!” exclaimed Mrs. Farley to her husband as they watched the children from the dining room window. “I hope nothing happens to them.”
“Oh, they’ll be all right,” said her husband. “Tinkle is a kind and gentle pony. Besides there is Patrick. He’ll know just what to do if anything should happen.”
“Well, I hope nothing does,” said Mrs. Farley. “There! they’ve stopped! I wonder what for.”

The pony cart had stopped at the driveway gates, and Patrick, with a strange smile on his face, came walking back.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Farley. “Did anything happen—and so soon?”
“No,” replied the coachman, “but George wants to know if you’d like to have him bring anything from the store. He says he’d like to buy something for you.”
“Oh!” and Mrs. Farley laughed. “Well, I don’t know that I need any groceries. But I suppose he wants to do an errand in the new cart. So tell him he may get a pound of loaf sugar. He and Mabel can feed the lumps to Tinkle.”
“Very well, I’ll tell him,” and, touching his hat, Patrick went back to George and Mabel.

“Well, I guess everything is alright,” thought Tinkle to himself as he trotted along in front of the pony cart, hauling George, Mabel and Patrick. “It’s a good deal easier than I thought, and my new iron shoes feel fine!”
So he trotted along merrily, and George and his sister, sitting in the pony cart, enjoyed their ride very much. George drove Tinkle along the streets, turning him now to the left, by pulling on the left rein, and again to the other side by pulling gently on the right rein.
“Am I doing all right, Patrick?” asked the little boy.
“Fine, George,” answered the coachman. “You drive as well as anybody.”
“I’ll let you take a turn soon, Mabel,” said George.
“Oh, I don’t want to—just yet,” replied the little girl. “I want to watch and see how you do it. Besides, I’d be afraid to drive where there are so many horses and wagons,” for they were on the main street of the city.
“You’ll soon get so you can do as well as George,” declared Patrick. “Tinkle is an easy pony to manage.”
As George and Mabel traveled on in their pony cart, they met several of their playmates who waved their hands to the Farley children.
“Oh, what a nice pony cart!” cried the boys and girls.
“I’ll give you a ride, some day,” promised George.

I had some old mulberry-trees in my garden. My grandfather had planted them. In the fall I was given a small amount of silkworm eggs, and was advised to hatch them and raise silkworms. These eggs are dark gray and so small that in that amount I received I counted 5,835 of them. They are smaller than the tiniest pin-head. They are quite still; and only when you crush them do they crack.
The eggs had been lying around on my table, and I had almost forgotten all about them.
One day, in the spring, I went into the orchard and noticed the buds swelling on the mulberry-trees, and where the sun beat down, the leaves were out. I thought of the silkworm eggs, and took them apart at home and gave them more room. The majority of the eggs were no longer dark gray, as before, but some were light gray, while others were lighter still, with a milky shade.

The next morning, I looked at the eggs, and saw that some of the worms had hatched out, while other eggs were quite swollen. Evidently they felt in their shells that their food was ripening.
The worms were black and shaggy, and so small that it was hard to see them. I looked at them through a magnifying-glass, and saw that in the eggs they lay curled up in rings, and when they came out they straightened themselves out. I went to the garden for some mulberry leaves; I got about three handfuls of leaves, which I put on my table, and began to fix a place for the worms, as I had been taught to do.

While I was fixing the paper, the worms smelled their food and started to crawl toward it. I pushed it away, and began to entice the worms to a leaf, and they made for it, as dogs make for a piece of meat, crawling after the leaf over the cloth of the table and across pencils, scissors, and papers. Then I cut off a piece of paper, stuck holes through it with a penknife, placed the leaf on top of it, and with the leaf put it down on the worms. The worms crawled through the holes, climbed onto the leaf, and started to eat.
When the other worms hatched out, I again put a piece of paper with a leaf on them, and all crawled through the holes and began to eat. The worms gathered on each leaf and nibbled at it from its edges. Then, when they had eaten everything, they crawled on the paper and looked for more food. Then I put on them new sheets of perforated paper with mulberry leaves upon them, and they crawled over to the new food.
They were lying on my shelf, and when there was no leaf, they climbed about the shelf, and came to its very edge, but they never fell down, even though they are blind. The moment a worm comes to an edge, it lets out a web from its mouth before descending, and then it attaches itself to it and lets itself down; it hangs awhile in the air, and watches, and if it wants to get down farther, it does so, and if not, it pulls itself up by its web.

For days at a time the worms did nothing but eat. I had to give them more and more leaves. When a new leaf was brought, and they transferred themselves to it, they made a noise as though a rain were falling on leaves,—that was when they began to eat the new leaf.
Thus the older worms lived for five days. They had grown very large and began to eat ten times as much as ever. On the fifth day, I knew, they would fall asleep, and waited for that to happen. Toward evening, on the fifth day, one of the older worms stuck to the paper and stopped eating and stirring.
The whole next day I watched it for a long time. I knew that worms moulted several times, because they grew up and found it too close in their old skin, and so put on a new one.

My friend and I watched it by turns. In the evening my friend called out:
“It has begun to undress itself,—come!”
I went up to him, and saw that the worm had stuck with its old skin to the paper, had torn a hole at the mouth, and pushed forth its head, and was wiggling and working to get out, but the old skin held it fast. I watched it for a long time as it wiggled and could not get out, and I wanted to help it. I barely touched it with my nail, but soon saw that I had done something very foolish. Under my nail there was something liquid, and the worm didn’t make it. At first I thought that it was blood, but later I learned that the worm has a liquid mass under its skin, so that the skin may come off easier. With my nail I had disturbed the new skin, for, though the worm crawled out, it soon died.
The other worms I did not touch. All of them came out of their skins in the same manner; only a few didn’t make it, and nearly all came out safely, though they struggled hard for a long time.
After shedding their skins, the worms began to eat more voraciously, and more leaves were devoured. Four days later they again fell asleep, and again crawled out of their skins. A still larger quantity of leaves was now consumed by them, and they were now a quarter of an inch in length. Six days later they fell asleep once more, and once more came out in new skins, and now were very large and fat, and we had barely time to get leaves ready for them.
On the ninth day the oldest worms quit eating entirely and climbed up the shelves and rods. I gathered them in and gave them fresh leaves, but they turned their heads away from them, and continued climbing. Then I remembered that when the worms get ready to roll up into larvæ, they stop eating and climb upward.
I left them alone, and began to watch what they would do.

The eldest worms climbed to the ceiling, scattered about, crawled in all directions, and began to draw out single threads in various directions. I watched one of them. It went into a corner, put forth about six threads each two inches long, hung down from them, bent over in a horseshoe, and began to turn its head and let out a silk web which began to cover it all over. Toward evening it was covered by it as though in a mist; the worm could scarcely be seen. On the following morning the worm could no longer be seen; it was all wrapped in silk, and still it spun out more.
Three days later it finished spinning, and quieted down. Later I learned how much web it had spun in those three days. If the whole web were to be unravelled, it would be more than half a mile in length, seldom less. And if we figure out how many times the worm has to toss its head in these three days in order to let out all the web, it will appear that in these three days the worm tosses its head 300,000 times. Consequently, it makes one turn a second, without stopping. But after the work, when we took down a cocoon and broke them open, we found inside the worms all dried up and white, looking like pieces of wax.
I knew that from these larvæ with their white, waxen bodies would come butterflies; but as I looked at them, I could not believe it. None the less I went to look at them on the twentieth day, to see what had become of them.

On the twentieth day, I knew, there was to be a change. Nothing was to be seen, and I was beginning to think that something was wrong, when suddenly I noticed that the end of one of the cocoons grew dark and moist. I thought that it had probably spoiled, and wanted to throw it away. But then I thought that perhaps it began that way, and so I watched to see what would happen. And, indeed, something began to move at the wet end. For a long time I could not make out what it was. Later there appeared something like a head with whiskers. The whiskers moved. Then I noticed a leg sticking out through the hole, then another, and the legs scrambled to get out of the cocoon. It came out more and more, and I saw a wet butterfly. When all six legs scrambled out, the back jumped out, too, and the butterfly crawled out and stopped. When it dried it was white; it straightened its wings, flew away, circled around, and alighted on the window.
Two days later the butterfly on the window-sill laid eggs in a row, and stuck them fast. The eggs were yellow. Twenty-five butterflies laid eggs. I collected five thousand eggs. The following year I raised more worms, and had more silk spun.

Written by Richard Barnum

“George! George! Come away!” cried his father. “That pony may kick or bite you!”
“Oh, no, Tinkle won’t do that,” said Mr. Carter. “Tinkle is a gentle pony, which is more than I can say of some I have. A few of them are quite wild. But the only bad thing Tinkle ever did was, one day, to leave the meadow and get stuck in a swamp. But I got him out.”
“He wasn’t really bad, was he?” asked George, who was standing near the pony, patting him.
“Well, no, I guess you couldn’t call it that exactly,” said the stockman with a smile. “Tinkle just didn’t know any better. He wanted to have some fun, perhaps; but I guess he won’t do that again.”
“I won’t let him run away when I have him,” said George.
“Oh, ho!” cried Mr. Farley with a laugh. “So you think you are going to have Tinkle for your own, do you?”
“Won’t you get him for me?” begged the little boy. “Mabel and I could have such fun riding and driving him.” Mabel was George’s sister. She was a year younger than him.

“Do you think it would be safe for a little boy like mine to have a pony?” asked Mr. Farley.
“Why, yes, after Tinkle is trained a bit,” said Mr. Carter. “He has never been ridden or driven, but I could soon get him trained so he would be safe to use both ways. Do you think you want to buy him?”
“Well, I might,” said Mr. Farley slowly. He was thinking whether it would be best or not. He did not want either of his little children to be hurt by a pony that might run away.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the owner of the stock farm. “I’ll sell you a horse for yourself, and then I’ll start at once to teach Tinkle what it means to have someone on his back, and also how he must act when he is hitched to a pony cart. I am going to train some of the other ponies, and I’ll train him also. He is old enough now to be trained. Then you and your little boy come back in about two weeks and we’ll see how George likes Tinkle then,” finished Mr. Carter.
“Oh, I’ll love him all the more!” cried George. “I love him now, and I want him for my very own! He is a fine pony!” and once more George patted the little creature.
“You couldn’t do that to some of the ponies,” said Mr. Carter, as he and George’s father walked back toward the house. “They would be too wild, and would not stand still. But Tinkle is a smart little pony.”
“Good-by!” called George to Tinkle as the small boy walked away with his father. “I’ll come back to see you soon,” and he waved his hand at Tinkle and Tinkle waved his tail at George. At least George thought so, though I imagine that Tinkle was only brushing off a tickling fly.

But one thing I do know, and that was that Tinkle really liked the little boy who patted him so nicely.
“He has very soft, nice hands,” said Tinkle to Curley Mane, another pony, as they cropped the sweet grass together. “I’m sure he would be good to me.”
“Are you going to live with him?” asked Curley Mane.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tinkle answered. “But I’ve always noticed that whenever any strange men or boys come to the farm here, in a few days afterward some of the horses or ponies go away, and I guess the men and boys take them.”
“Yes, that is right,” said old Dapple Gray walking up beside the two ponies. “You’ve guessed it, Tinkle. The Man, here, raises us horses to sell. I’ve been sold more than once.”
“Is it nice to be sold?” asked Tinkle.
“Well, it all depends,” was the answer. “The first place I was sold to was not nice. I had to draw a grocery wagon through the streets, and the boy who sat on the seat used to treat me not very well.”
“What did you do?” asked Curley Mane.
“Well, I’m sorry to say I ran away. It wasn’t the right thing to do, only I couldn’t help it. The boy fell off the seat of the wagon, I ran so fast, and he bumped his nose. Then the wagon was smashed and I was cut and bruised and I had a terrible time,” said Dapple Gray.
“Then the grocery man brought me back here, saying he didn’t want me, and after that I was sold to some men that made me draw the big shiny wagon that had a chimney spouting flames and smoke. I was treated well there. I had a nice stall with plenty of hay to eat and clean straw to sleep on. Sometimes I had oats, and I got so I could run very fast indeed.
“But it was hard work, and I soon grew tired. So they brought me back here again. That’s what being sold means. You never can tell where you’re going.”
“Do you think some of the horses here were sold to that man and little boy?” asked Tinkle.
“We can tell pretty soon,” answered Dapple Gray, “by watching to see if any horses or ponies are taken away.”

And, surely enough, the next day one of the men on the stock farm took away one of the horses. He was called Hobble by the other horses because, when he was a colt, he hurt his foot on a sharp stone and had to hobble for a week or two. But he soon got over that. And Hobble was the horse George’s father had bought for himself, though Mr. Carter named the horse Prince.
“Good-by!” called Hobble, or as we must call him, Prince, to his friends as he was led away from the stock farm. “Maybe I’ll see some of you again before long.”
“I don’t believe so,” called back Dapple Gray. But neither he nor anyone else knew what was going to happen to Tinkle.

When Prince had been driven to a big city, a few miles away from the stock farm, he was taken into a nice clean stable where there were one or two other horses.
“Ah, so that’s the new horse I bought, is it?” asked a voice, and looking behind him, from where he was tied in his stall, Prince saw Mr. Farley. Of course Prince did not know the man’s name but he knew he was the same one who had been at the stock farm.
“I wonder,” thought Prince, “where the little boy is that was patting Tinkle.”
He did not have to wonder long for he soon heard another voice calling:
“Oh, Daddy! Did the new horse come?”
“Yes, he’s in his stall,” said Mr. Farley.
“And did he bring Tinkle?” asked George.
“No, not yet. Tinkle won’t be ready for a week or so. And I am not sure I am going to get him for you.”
“Oh, yes you are, Daddy! I know you are when you smile that way!” cried Mabel, who, with her little brother, had come out to the stable. “Won’t we have fun, George,” she cried, “when we have a pony of our own?”
“We surely will!” said George.
“Don’t be too sure,” returned Mr. Farley, but he could not keep his eyes from laughing, even if his lips did not smile.

Prince soon made friends with the other horses in Mr. Farley’s stable, and they rubbed noses and talked among themselves in a way that all horses have.
And now I must go back to the stock farm to see how Tinkle is getting on, for this story is mostly about him.

“Well,” said Mr. Carter to one of his men a day or two after Prince had been sold and taken to Mr. Farley, “I think it is time we started to train Tinkle, if that little boy George is to have him. We want to get the pony used to having a saddle on his back, and also teach him how to draw a pony cart.”
So Tinkle began to have his first lessons, for animals like horses and dogs, as well as trained animals in a circus, have to be taught lessons, just as you are taught lessons in school. Only, of course, the lessons are different.

Tinkle was driven into the stable yard and while one of the men was patting him and giving him some oats to eat—which Tinkle liked very much—another man slipped some leather straps over the pony’s head. Tinkle did not like this, for never, in all his life, had he felt anything tied on his head before. He tried to run away and shake it off, but he found himself held tightly by a long strap, which was fast to the other straps on his head.
“I wonder what in the world this is?” thought Tinkle, when he found he could not shake off the straps. Afterward he learned it was a halter, which is the rope, or strap, that is used to keep a horse or pony tied in his stall.
So this is what Tinkle was held fast by, and when he found that no amount of pulling or shaking would get it off his head he stood quietly.
“Maybe if I am good they’ll take it off anyhow,” he thought.
But Tinkle had many more lessons to learn. I will not tell you all about them here, because I know lessons aren’t too much fun, though we all have to learn them.

So I’ll just say that after Tinkle had become used to the halter he was given a bridle. This was not so nice, as there was an iron thing fast to it, called a “bit,” and this had to go in Tinkle’s mouth so he could be driven.
“Oh, I don’t like this at all!” cried Tinkle as he tried to get the bit out from between his teeth. But it was held fast by straps, and a man pulled gently first on one strap, and then on the other, moving Tinkle’s head to the left or right. Soon the pony found that when his bit was pulled to the left it meant he was to walk or run that way, and so, also, when the other strap, or rein, was pulled, he must go to the right. After a while he did not mind the bit at all.

Next Tinkle had to learn to have a saddle fastened to his back. First a blanket was strapped on him, and Tinkle tried to get this off by rolling over and over. But the blanket stayed on, for it was fastened by straps, and soon the little pony did not mind at all. Then when the saddle was put on he thought it was only another kind of blanket at first, and when he came to know (for his mother told him) that all horses and ponies had to wear saddles part of the time Tinkle did not mind.
Tinkle was frightened when one of the boys on the stock farm got in the saddle on the pony’s back to have a ride. It was the first time Tinkle had ever had anyone on his back and he really was quite frightened. But he soon grew used to that also, and trotted around, walking and running as the boy told him to.
“Well, Tinkle is learning quickly!” said Mr. Carter one day. “As soon as he learns to draw a pony cart he will be ready for that boy George to drive.”
Being hitched to a cart, with harness straps all over him, did not feel comfortable to Tinkle at first.
“I don’t like this at all!” he thought. “It isn’t any fun!” But he found he could not get away from the cart, which followed him everywhere because he was hitched fast to it. Then he was driven about, made to turn around, and to the left and to the right by a boy who rode in the pony cart.
“Well, I might as well make up my mind to it,” said Tinkle, telling the other ponies what had happened to him.
“Yes, indeed,” remarked Dapple Gray. “That is what you ponies and we horses are for—to give people rides, or to pull their wagons. That is our life and if you are good you will be treated kindly.”
“Then I am going to be good,” said Tinkle.

In another week the pony could be ridden or driven very easily, and Mr. Carter sent word to Mr. Farley to come and bring George with him to the stock farm.
“Oh, what a fine pony he is!” cried the little boy as he saw how easily Tinkle was ridden and driven. “Do get him for me, Daddy!”
“Yes, I think I’ll buy him,” said Mr. Farley, so he paid Mr. Carter for the pony. Tinkle was taken to his new home, George and his father riding in the pony cart. Mr. Farley drove, but let George hold the reins part of the time.
“For you must learn to drive if you are going to have a real live pony,” said George’s father.
So Tinkle left the stock farm, and went to live in his new home, a big city stable.

Written by Johnny Gruelle

Grandpa had finished building the chicken coop and he walked out in front of the house to speak to a neighbor.
Johnny and Janey, who had been watching Grandpa with such interest, grew tired of waiting for his return.
“Let’s build a Flying Machine,” Johnny said after a while. “Grandpa has finished and will not need the boards that are left and we can find plenty of nails.”
“Do you think we can build a Flying Machine?” asked Janey, delighted at the idea.
“Easily!” Johnny told her. “Of course we can’t make one that will really fly, but we can pretend that it goes ’way up in the air.”
“It will be loads of fun!” cried Janey, and she jumped up and down and smiled.

So Johnny got an old box and nailed four or five boards to the sides for wings.
“It should have a sail,” Janey said.
“Yes, it needs a sail and a mast and a rudder,” replied Johnny. “Run in and ask Grandma for an old sheet to make the sail of, will you, Janey? I’ll be putting on a mast and the rudder.”
When Janey came running back with an old sheet she said, “I just thought! We must have something to start and stop the Flying Machine with, so Grandma gave me two empty spools. We can use them.”
“Just the thing!” Johnny answered. “I’ll put them at the front of the box and label one ‘Start’ and the other ‘Stop.’”
“How can we guide the Flying Machine when we get to flying?” Janey asked. “When we make believe we’re flying, I mean.”
“I’ve put only one nail in the rudder,” Johnny replied, “so that by pulling on these strings we can guide it. See?” And Johnny showed his sister how the board with only one nail in it turned from side to side as he pulled the strings.
“Oh! That’s fine!” Janey exclaimed. “I’ll ask Grandma if we may have some lunch to take with us on our trip,” and she ran into the house.

When Janey came out with a tiny basket of lunch Johnny had marked “Polly Ann” on both sides of the box. He had fastened the sail made from the old sheet to a stick and ran a string through a screw-eye, so that the sail could be raised or lowered whenever they might wish.
“Let’s see!” Johnny mused. “Have we everything we need?”
“Well, here are the wings, the rudder, the ‘Start’ and ‘Stop’ spools and the sail,” Janey told him. “I think that is all, don’t you?”
“All right, then, Sis! Put the lunch on one of the sails. No!” and Johnny hammered a nail on one side of the box, “hang the basket of lunch there and climb in. It’s going to be a tight squeeze for both of us. But it won’t take this Flying Machine long to get to Mars or Venus or the Moon, and we can get out and rest on some of the Stars if we get tired.”
“Let’s go to the Moon first, and then to the Milky Way!” Janey cried.
“All right, if you are ready!” Johnny agreed, as he sat in the bottom of the box, in front of Janey. “Hold your hat, Sis, for here she goes!”
And Johnny turned one of the spools in the front of the box.

“Oh! isn’t the view grand from up here, Johnny!” Janey cried. “See, there is Grandma’s house ’way down below, and we are getting closer to the Moon all the time!”
“Those are strange birds flying by, Sis,” said Johnny, who could make believe any way he liked. “Can you make out what they are?”
“Yes,” Janey answered, as she looked at the chickens in the yard, “they are Eagles. See that beautiful big one with the red comb? That’s a Roc!”

“My, I wish this Flying Machine would really Fly!” Johnny said, a little later. “But it’s fun pretending anyways. Let’s get out at the next Star, Sis, and eat our lunch. I didn’t eat much breakfast and I’m hungry!”
“All right!” said Janey, who wasn’t tired of the play either. “Wait a minute!” as Johnny started to climb out of the box. “You forgot to stop the Flying Machine.”
“Well, I’ll bring it to a stop very slowly,” Johnny told her. “So that we won’t strike these mountain tops and tip over!”
And he turned the “Stop” spool a fraction of an inch.

Neither of the children was prepared for what followed.
The Polly Ann shot up over the fence, suddenly, scattering the startled chickens in all directions, and as Johnny and Janey crouched low in the box the familiar objects about the farm whizzed by them like bullets.
“We are really going!” Janey gasped, as they sped upward. “I feel as if I’d like to jump!”
At this Johnny caught his sister’s foot and held it tight.
“Don’t look over the side until you get used to flying!” he cautioned her, very wisely.
“Twist the other spool!” Janey told him. “I don’t like to be up so high. Everything seems so small.”
Johnny gave the other spool a twist and the Flying Machine swept ahead at twice its former speed.
“You’re twisting the wrong spool!” Janey screamed.
“You must have been twisting the wrong one all the time, somehow. See, you’ve been twisting the one marked ‘Start.’”
“Sure enough! That’s just what I did,” Johnny admitted. “Well, I’ll twist the other now.”

The Flying Machine came to such a sudden halt that the children were almost thrown from the box, and the basket of lunch was whirled off its nail so suddenly that it flew straight ahead of the Flying Machine for nearly a hundred feet before it curved to the earth.
The children watched it curve and circle as it fell. Then the paper came off and there was a regular shower of sandwiches, doughnuts and small cakes.

“Now, Mister! You be careful or we’ll never get back!” Janey cried as she clutched her brother tightly by the collar. “Send the Flying Machine down to the ground again, Johnny. Please do!”
But the Flying Machine, when it stopped, hung suspended in the air although when Johnny gently twisted the “Start” spool and it started off again, it went in the opposite direction from the earth.
“It won’t go down,” cried Johnny, as he brought the Flying Machine to a stop again. “What shall we do?”
“Well, if it won’t go down, there’s nothing we do but go on!” Janey answered. “It’s all your fault for building the Flying Machine!”
“Now, Sis, that isn’t fair!” cried Johnny. “You know you suggested putting on the spools, and if we’d left them off we shouldn’t have started. What we should have thought of was something to make the Flying Machine go up or down as we wanted. Now it only goes ahead or stops.”
“Try guiding it with the rudder,” Janey suggested.

So Johnny twisted the “Start” spool, and as the Flying Machine started forward he pulled one of the rudder strings. The Flying Machine slowly turned and flew in a large circle.
“We can’t do it!” Janey cried, the tears coming to her eyes. “We can’t make it go down as we want to! We’re only flying in a circle above Grandma’s farm. See! Grandma and Grandpa and a lot of other people are out looking at us!”
Sure enough, so far below that they looked like tiny specks of dust, the children could see their grandparents and many of the neighbors watching them as they sailed.
Johnny brought the Flying Machine to a stop directly over Grandma and Grandpa and the neighbors, and they could hear Grandpa calling to them quite distinctly. The children called back at the top of their voices, but they couldn’t make Grandma and Grandpa hear.
Johnny tried twisting first one spool and then the other, but this jerked the Flying Machine so much that his sister objected. She said she would rather go on than stay just where they were, doing nothing. So the children took off their hats and waved farewell to the people below, and Johnny, twisting the “Start” spool gently at first, increased the speed until the Flying Machine sped along like a meteor, leaving the farm far below and behind.

The different colors in the fields gave the Earth a sort of patchwork effect, but as the Flying Machine climbed higher and higher the yellows and greens and blues blended together until the Earth was more the color of an opal. In fact, the children now saw a continuous change of colors, ranging from a deep yellow to a bluish purple, with every now and then a speck of crimson as the sunlight glanced along a hill.
“Isn’t it beautiful!” Janey cried. “I don’t feel as if I wished to jump any more, do you?”
“No, I don’t feel like jumping,” her brother answered, and he stopped the Flying Machine so that he could see better. “Look, Sis, what causes that yellow blaze down there?”
They both looked over the side of the Flying Machine and saw the Earth bathed in a sheen of gold, with here and there glimpses of brilliant purple showing.
“Oh! I know what it is now!” Janey cried, presently. “A thunder storm has just passed between us and the Earth and the sun is shining on the Clouds. Look! See the lightning?”

A faint rumble came up to them like someone rolling potatoes down a wooden trough, and a vivid streak of blue zigzagged through the yellow of the clouds.
“The purple we see is the Earth in shadow beneath the clouds,” Johnny concluded, after a while.
The children watched the strange sight for a long time
before they decided to go on. Then they looked away for a moment, and when they looked back toward the Earth they could not find it at once. They had traveled so far that the Earth now seemed no larger than a bright Star, and but for the fact that it was almost beneath them they would never have recognized it at all.

Lots of other Stars could be plainly seen now. The Moon had grown to an enormous size; in fact, it almost filled the sky behind them. The children were greatly surprised to see it. They had been watching the Stars in front of them and they had not once turned their heads the other way.
“What is that?” Janey cried suddenly, as she grasped her brother’s arm and pulled one of the rudder strings so that the Flying Machine swung around to face the Moon.
Johnny was so startled at the wonderful sight that he gave the “Stop” spool a twist and brought the Flying Machine to a stop with a jerk.
“It must be the Moon!” said Johnny, in an awed voice, after he had looked at the enormous object in speechless amazement for fully five minutes.
“It is the Moon!” Janey agreed. “See, there is the Man in the Moon’s face as plain as day, and there are mountains and valleys, too. See?”
The Moon, seen from where the children viewed it, was of a pale bluish-greenish tint, except where the rays of the Sun slanted across the mountain peaks and into the deep valleys. It seemed to Johnny and Janey as though they were looking through beautiful blue-green glass down into a dark well; for wherever the Sun did not shine or was not reflected from the mountains into the valleys the Moon’s surface was black—so black that it made the rest of the Moon seem transparent. This seemed to the children very strange.
“Say, Sis,” Johnny exclaimed, “this can’t be the Moon after all! It must be some extra big Star.”
“I believe it is the Moon,” said his sister, “for, you can see the face of the Man in the Moon quite plainly. But it is a great deal larger than it usually is, and it doesn’t look quite as it does from the earth. But see! There are the Man’s eyes and nose and mouth.”
“Yes, I see it now,” Johnny admitted. “But it isn’t exactly the same view we have from the Earth.”
“You are right, Johnny!” said Janey, after a moment. “It isn’t the same view. We must have passed to the other side of the Moon!”

Johnny started the Flying Machine again and steered it toward the Moon. And as they whirled around the side of the Moon the part that resembled a man’s face twisted about until it disappeared.
“I can’t tell whether we are getting closer to the Moon or not!” cried Johnny anxiously.
Presently, however, they saw the face of the Man in the Moon coming around from the other side.
“We must have made a complete circuit of the Moon,” Janey decided. “See, Johnny, the rudder is pulled over to one side! That’s the reason!”
Johnny pulled the rudder string until the Flying Machine was aimed right at the Moon, and they approached it at great speed.
“Slow down, Johnny!” Janey cried, when they could make out all the mountain tops and valleys very distinctly. “It feels too much as if we were falling when we go so fast.”
So Johnny twisted the “Start” spool backwards until they were flying very slowly and seemed to be floating down toward the Moon’s surface as lightly as a feather.

The Flying Machine was still headed directly toward the Moon, and this gave the children the impression that they were falling. But Johnny, by pulling the rudder about occasionally, steered the Flying Machine so that they landed among large mushrooms and strange ferns, instead of on the mountain tops or in the deep valleys they had seen on the other side of the Moon.
For, although the children did not know this, they had passed around the side of the Moon that always faces the Earth and had landed in the Magical Land of Noom.

Written by Thorton Burgess

Shadow the Weasel was a prisoner. He who always had been free to go and come as he pleased and to do as he pleased was now in a little narrow cage and quite helpless. For once he had been careless, and this was the result. Farmer Brown’s boy had caught him in a trap. Of course, he should have known better than to visit the henhouse a second time. He should have known that Farmer Brown’s boy would be sure to do something about it. The truth is, he had yielded to temptation when common sense had warned him not to. So he had no one to blame for his present difficulty but himself, and he knew it.
At first he had been in a terrible rage and had bitten at the wires until he had made his mouth sore. When he had made sure that the wires were stronger than his teeth, he wisely stopped trying to get out in that way, and made up his mind that the only thing to do was to watch for a chance to slip out, if the door of the cage should happen to be left unfastened.
Of course it hurt his pride terribly to be made fun of by those who always had feared him. Happy Jack Squirrel was the first one of these to see him. Farmer Brown’s boy had put the cage down near the foot of the big maple tree in which Happy Jack was living, because Shadow had driven him out of the Green Forest. As soon as Happy Jack had made sure that Shadow really and truly was a prisoner and so quite harmless, he had acted as if he were crazy. Perhaps he was—crazy with joy. You see, he no longer had anything to be really afraid of, for there was no one but Shadow from whom he could not get away by running into his house. Billy Mink was the only other who could follow him there, and Billy was not likely to come climbing up a tree so close to Farmer Brown’s house.

So Happy Jack raced up and down the tree in the very greatest excitement, and his tongue went quite as fast as his legs. He wanted everybody to know that Shadow was a prisoner at last. At first he did not dare to go very close to the cage. You see, he had so long feared Shadow that he was still afraid of him even though he was so helpless. But little by little Happy Jack grew bolder and came very close.
Of course Happy Jack hastened to tell everybody he met all about Shadow, so it wasn’t long before Shadow began to receive many visitors. Whenever Farmer Brown’s boy was not around there was sure to be one or more of the little people who had feared Shadow to come and see him. Somehow it seems as if always it is that way when people get into trouble. You know it is very easy to appear to be bold and brave when there is nothing to be afraid of. Of course that isn’t bravery at all, though many seem to think it is.

Now what do you think that right down in their hearts all these little people who came to see Shadow the Weasel hoped they would see? Why, they hoped they would see Shadow afraid. Yes, Sir, that is what they hoped. But they didn’t and that is where they were disappointed. Not once did Shadow show the least sign of fear. He didn’t know what Farmer Brown’s boy would do with him, and he had every reason to fear that if he was not to be kept a prisoner for the rest of his natural life, something else would happen. But he was too proud and too brave to let anyone know that any such fear ever entered his mind. Whatever his faults, Shadow is no coward. He boldly took bits of meat which Farmer Brown’s boy brought to him, and not once appeared in the least afraid, so that, much as he disliked him, Farmer Brown’s boy actually had to admire him. He was a prisoner, but he kept just as stout a heart as ever.

When the little people of the Green Forest and Green Meadows who fear Shadow the Weasel found that he was a prisoner, many of them took particular pains to visit him when the way was clear, just to tell him that they were not afraid of him and that they were glad that he was a prisoner. Shadow never said a word in reply. He was too wise to do that. He just turned his back on them. But all the time he was storing up in his mind all these things, and he meant, if ever he got free again, to make life very uncomfortable for those whose silly tongues were trying to make him more miserable than he already felt.

But these little people didn’t stop to think of what might happen. They just took it for granted that Shadow never again would run wild and free in the Green Forest, and so they just let their tongues run and enjoyed doing it. Perhaps they wouldn’t have, if they could have known just what was going on in the mind of Farmer Brown’s boy. Ever since he had found Shadow in the trap which he had set for him in the henhouse, Farmer Brown’s boy had been puzzling over what he should do with his prisoner. At first he had thought he would keep him in the cage the rest of his life. But somehow, whenever he looked into Shadow’s fierce little eyes and saw how unafraid they looked, he got to thinking of how terrible it must be to be shut up in a little narrow cage when one has had all the Green Forest in which to go and come.

He remembered that after all Shadow was one of Old Mother Nature’s little people, and that he must serve some purpose in Mother Nature’s great plan. Bad as he seemed, she must have some use for him. Perhaps it was to teach others through fear of him how to be smarter and take better care of themselves and so be better fitted to do their parts. The more he thought of this, the harder it was for Farmer Brown’s boy to make up his mind. But if he couldn’t keep him as a prisoner, what could he do?

He was scowling down at Shadow one morning and puzzling over this when a happy idea came to him. “I know what I’ll do!” he exclaimed and without another word he picked up the cage with Shadow in it and started off across the Green Meadows, which now, you know, were not green at all but covered with snow. Happy Jack watched him out of sight. He had gone in the direction of the Old Pasture. He was gone a long time, and when he did return, the cage was empty.
Happy Jack blinked at the empty cage. Then he began to ask in a scolding tone, “What did you do with him? What did you do with him?”
Farmer Brown’s boy just smiled and tossed a nut to Happy Jack. And far up in the Old Pasture, Shadow the Weasel was once more free. It was well for Happy Jack’s peace of mind that he didn’t know that.

Taking things for granted doesn’t do at all in this world. To take a thing for granted is to think that it is so without taking the trouble to find out whether it is or not. It is apt not only to get you yourself into trouble, but to make trouble for other people as well. Happy Jack saw Farmer Brown’s boy carry Shadow the Weasel away in a cage, and he saw him bring back the cage empty. What could he have done with Shadow? For a while he tried to get Farmer Brown’s boy to tell him, but of course Farmer Brown’s boy didn’t understand Happy Jack’s language.
Now Happy Jack knew just what he would like to believe. He would like to believe that Farmer Brown’s boy had taken Shadow away and that he would never see him again. And because he wanted to believe that, it wasn’t very hard to believe it. There was the empty cage. Of course Farmer Brown’s boy wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of trapping Shadow unless he intended to get rid of him for good.

“He’s gotten rid of him, that’s what he’s done!” said Happy Jack to himself, because that is what he would have done if he had been in Farmer Brown’s boy’s place. So having made up his mind that this is what had been done with Shadow, he at once told all his friends that it was so, and was himself supremely happy. You see, he felt that he no longer had anything to worry about. Yes, Sir, Happy Jack was happy. He liked the house Farmer Brown’s boy had made for him in the big maple tree close by his own house. He was sure of plenty to eat, because Farmer Brown’s boy always looked out for that, and as a result Happy Jack was growing fat. None of his enemies of the Green Forest dared come so near to Farmer Brown’s house, and the only one he had to watch out for at all was Black Cat. By this time he wasn’t afraid of her; not a bit. In fact, he rather enjoyed teasing her and getting her to chase him. When she was dozing on the doorstep he liked to sneak up very close, wake her with a sharp bark, and then race for the nearest tree, and there scold her to his heart’s content. He had made friends with Mrs. Brown and with Farmer Brown, and he even felt almost friends with Bowser the Hound. Sometimes he would climb up on the roof of Bowser’s little house and drop nutshells on Bowser’s head when he was asleep. The funny thing was Bowser never seemed to mind. He would lazily open his eyes and wink one of them at Happy Jack and thump with his tail. He seemed to feel that now Happy Jack was one of the family, just as he was.

So Happy Jack was just as happy as a fat Gray Squirrel with nothing to worry him could be. He was so happy that Sammy Jay actually became jealous. You know Sammy is a born trouble maker. He visited Happy Jack every morning, and while he helped himself to the good things that he always found spread for him, for Farmer Brown’s boy always had something for the little feathered folk to eat, he would hint that such goodness and kindness was not to be trusted, and that something was sure to happen. That is just the way with some folks; they are always suspicious.
But nothing that Sammy Jay could say troubled Happy Jack; and Sammy would fly away quite put out because he couldn’t spoil Happy Jack’s happiness the least little bit.

Sammy Jay chuckled as he flew across the snow-covered Green Meadows on his way to his home in the Green Forest. He chuckled and he chuckled. To have heard him you would have thought that either he had thought of something very pleasant, or something very pleasant had happened to him. Once he turned in the direction of Farmer Brown’s house, but changed his mind as he saw the Black Shadows creeping out from the Purple Hills, and once more headed for the Green Forest.
“Too late to-day. Time I was home now. It’ll keep until to-morrow,” he muttered. Then he chuckled, and he was still chuckling when he reached the big hemlock tree, among the thick branches of which he spent each night.

“Don’t know what started me off to the Old Pasture this afternoon, but I’m glad I went. My, my, my, but I’m glad I went,” said he, as he fluffed out his feathers and prepared to tuck his head under his wing. “It pays to snoop around in this world and see what is going on. I learned a long time ago not to believe everything I hear, and that the surest way to make sure of things is to find out for myself. Nothing like using my own eyes and my own ears. Well, I must get to sleep.” He began to chuckle again, and he was still chuckling as he fell asleep.
The next morning Sammy Jay was astir at the very first sign of light. He waited just long enough to see that every feather was in place, for Sammy is a bit vain, and very particular about his dress. Then he headed straight for Farmer Brown’s house. Just as he expected he found Happy Jack Squirrel was awake, for Happy Jack is an early riser.

“Good morning,” said Sammy Jay, and tried very hard to make his voice sound smooth and pleasant, a very hard thing for Sammy to do, for his voice, you know, is naturally harsh and unpleasant. “You seem to be looking as happy as ever.”
“Of course I am,” replied Happy Jack. “Why shouldn’t I be? I haven’t a thing to worry about. Of course I’m happy, and I hope you’re just as happy as I am. I’m going to get my breakfast now, and then I’ll be happier still.”
“That’s so. There’s nothing like a good breakfast to make one happy,” said Sammy Jay, helping himself to some suet tied to a branch of the maple tree. “By the way, I saw an old friend of yours yesterday. He inquired after you particularly. He didn’t exactly send his love, but he said that he hoped you are as well and fat as ever, and that he will see you again some time. He said that he didn’t know of anyone he likes to look at better than you.”
Happy Jack looked flattered. “That was very nice of him,” he said. “Who was it?”
“Guess,” replied Sammy.
Happy Jack scratched his head thoughtfully. There were not many friends in winter. Most of them were asleep or had gone to the far away southland.
“Peter Rabbit,” he ventured.
Sammy shook his head.
“Jimmy Skunk!”
Again Sammy shook his head.
“Jumper the Hare!”
“Guess again,” said Sammy, chuckling.
“Little Joe Otter!”
“Wrong,” replied Sammy.
“I give up. Who was it? Do tell me,” begged Happy Jack.
“It was Shadow the Weasel!” cried Sammy, triumphantly.

Happy Jack dropped the nut he was just going to eat, and in place of happiness something very like fear grew and grew in his eyes. “I—I don’t believe you,” he stammered. “Farmer Brown’s boy took him away. I saw him take him.”
“But you didn’t see what he did with Shadow,” declared Sammy, “He took him ‘way up in the Old Pasture and let him go, and I saw him up there yesterday. That’s what comes of guessing at things. Shadow is alive and well. Well, I must be going along. I hope you’ll enjoy your breakfast.”
And with this, off flew Sammy Jay.
As for Happy Jack, he worried for a little while, but as Shadow didn’t come, and there was nothing else to worry about, little by little Happy Jack’s high spirits returned, until he was as happy as ever.

It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many years of service and now was to retire with a pension. It was this very evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. Its feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theater who is dancing for the last time and knows that on the morrow she will be in her room, alone and forgotten.
The lamp had very great anxiety about the next day, for it knew that it had to appear for the first time at the town hall to be inspected by the mayor and the council, who were to decide whether it was fit for further service; whether it was good enough to be used to light the inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory. If the lamp could not be used for one of these purposes, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry to be melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and it wondered very much whether it would then be able to remember that it had once been a street lamp.

Whatever might happen, it seemed certain that the lamp would be separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family it looked upon as its own. The lamp had first been hung up on the very evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon the duties of his office. Ah, well! it was a very long time since one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had some little pride in those days; she condescended to glance at the lamp only when she passed by in the evening—never in the daytime. But in later years, when all of them—the watchman, the wife, and the lamp—had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaning it and keeping it supplied with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest; they had never cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.

This was the lamp’s last night in the street, and to-morrow it must go to the town hall—two very dark things to think of. No wonder it did not burn brightly. How many persons it had lighted on their way, and how much it had seen! As much, very likely, as the mayor and corporations themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however, for the lamp was good and honorable and would not willingly do harm to any one, especially to those in authority. As one thing after another was recalled to its mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness. At such moments the lamp had a conviction that it would be remembered.

“There was a handsome young man, once,” thought the lamp; “it is certainly a long while ago, but I remember that he had a little note, written on pink paper with a gold edge. The writing was elegant, evidently a lady’s. Twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at me with eyes that said quite plainly, ‘I am the happiest of men!’ Only he and I know what was written on this, his first letter from his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I remember; it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing to another! A funeral passed through the street. A young and beautiful woman lay on a bier decked of garlands of flowers, and attended by torches which quite overpowered my light. All along the street stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the procession. But when the torches had passed from before me and I could look around, I saw one person standing alone, leaning against my post and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at me.”

These and similar memories occupied the old street lamp on this the last time that its light would shine. The sentry, when he is relieved from his post, knows, at least, who will be his successor, and may whisper a few words to him. But the lamp did not know its successor, or it might have given him a few hints respecting rain or mist and might have informed him how far the moon’s rays would reach, and from which side the wind generally blew, and so on.
On the bridge over the canal stood three persons who wished to recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought it could give the office to whomever it chose. The first was a herring’s head, which could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest. The third was a glowworm, and how he found his way there the lamp could not imagine; yet there he was, and could really give light as well as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring’s head declared most seriously, by all they held sacred, that the glowworm only gave light at certain times and must not be allowed to compete with them. The old lamp assured them that not one of them could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp, but they would believe nothing that it said. When they discovered that it had not the power of naming its successor, they said they were very glad to hear it, for the old lamp was too old and worn out to make a proper choice.

At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the street and through the air-holes of the old lamp. “What is this I hear?” it asked. “Are you going away to-morrow? Is this evening the last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell gift. I will blow it into your brain, so that in future not only shall you be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the past, but your light within shall be so bright that you will be able to understand all that is said or done in your presence.”
“Oh, that is really a very, very great gift,” said the old lamp. “I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down.”
“That is not likely to happen yet,” said the wind. “I will also blow a memory into you, so that, should you receive other similar presents, your old age will pass very pleasantly.”
“That is, if I am not melted down,” said the lamp. “But should I, in that case, still retain my memory?”
“Do be reasonable, old lamp,” said the wind, puffing away.

At this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. “What will you give the old lamp?” asked the wind.
“I can give nothing,” she replied. “I am on the wane, and no lamps have ever given me light, while I have frequently shone upon them.” With these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that she might be saved from further annoyances. Just then a drop fell on the lamp from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that it was a gift from those gray clouds and perhaps the best of all gifts. “I shall penetrate you so thoroughly,” it said, “that you will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, can crumble into dust in one night.”

But this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind thought so, too. “Does no one give any more? Will no one give any more?” shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a bright, falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind it.
“What was that?” cried the herring’s head.
“Did not a star fall? I really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born personages try for the office we may as well go home.”
And so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully strong light all around.

“This is a glorious gift,” it said. “The bright stars have always been a joy to me and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever could shine, though I have tried with my whole might. Now they have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will enable me to clearly see everything that I remember, as if it still stood before me, and to let it be seen by all those who love me. And herein lies the truest happiness, for pleasures which we cannot share with others are only half enjoyed.”
“That sentiment does you honor,” said the wind; “but for this purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you, your peculiar faculties will not benefit others in the least. The stars have not thought of this. They suppose that you and every other light must be a wax taper. But I must go down now.” So it laid itself to rest.
“Wax tapers, indeed!” said the lamp; “I have never yet had these, nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being melted down!”

The next day—well, perhaps we had better pass over the next day. The evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather’s chair; and guess where! Why, at the old watchman’s house. He had begged as a favor that the mayor and corporation would allow him to keep the street lamp in consideration of his long and faithful service, as he had himself hung it up and lighted it on the day he first commenced his duties, four and twenty years ago. He looked upon it almost as his own child. He had no children, so the lamp was given to him.
There lay the lamp in the great armchair near the warm stove. It seemed almost to have grown larger, for it appeared quite to fill the chair. The old people sat at their supper, casting friendly glances at it, and would willingly have admitted it to a place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar two yards below ground, and had to cross a stone passage to get to their room. But within, it was warm and comfortable, and strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat. On the window seat stood two curious flowerpots, which a sailor named Christian had brought from the East or West Indies. They were of clay, and in the form of two elephants with open backs; they were filled with earth, and through the open space flowers bloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the kitchen garden. The other, which contained a beautiful geranium, they called their flower garden. On the wall hung a large colored print, representing the Congress of Vienna and all the kings and emperors. A clock with heavy weights hung on the wall and went “tick, tick, tick,” steadily enough; yet it was always rather too fast, which, however, the old people said was better than being too slow. They were now eating their supper, while the old street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather’s armchair near the stove.

It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned round. But after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp and spoke of what they had both gone through together—in rain and in fog, during the short, bright nights of summer or in the long winter nights, through the drifting snow storms when he longed to be at home in the cellar. Then the lamp felt that all was well again. It saw everything that had happened quite clearly, as if the events were passing before it. Surely the wind had given it an excellent gift!

The old people were very active and industrious; they were never idle for even a single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would bring out some books, generally a book of travels which they greatly liked. The old man would read aloud about Africa, with its great forests and the wild elephants, while his wife would listen attentively, stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants which served as flower pots. “I can almost imagine I am seeing it all,” she said.
Ah! how the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in it, for then the old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as it did itself; the lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, and whole herds of elephants treading down bamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.

“What is the use of all my capabilities,” sighed the old lamp, “when I cannot obtain any wax lights? They have only oil and tallow here, and these will not do.” One day a great heap of wax-candle ends found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burned, and the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So there were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put a little piece in the lamp.
“Here I am now, with my rare powers,” thought the lamp. “I have faculties within me, but I cannot share them. They do not know that I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change them into noble forests or, indeed, to anything else they might wish.”
The lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a corner, where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as lumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved it. One day—it was the watchman’s birthday—the old woman approached the lamp, smiling to herself, and said, “I will have an illumination to-day, in honor of my old man.” The lamp rattled in its metal frame, for it thought, “Now at last I shall have a light within me.” But, after all, no wax light was placed in the lamp—only oil, as usual.

The lamp burned through the whole evening and began to perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure all its life. Then it had a dream; for to one with its faculties, dreaming was not difficult. It dreamed that the old people were gone and that it had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted down. This caused the lamp quite as much anxiety as on the day when it had been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the town hall. But though it had been endowed with the power of falling into decay from rust when it pleased, it did not make use of this power. It was therefore put into the melting furnace and changed into an elegant iron candlestick, as elegant as you could wish to see—one intended to hold a wax taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a nosegay, in the center of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was to stand on a green writing table in a very pleasant room, where there were many books scattered about and splendid paintings on the walls.

The owner of the room was a poet and a man of intellect. Everything he thought or wrote was pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark forests, sometimes in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea, with the clear, blue sky above, or at night in the glittering stars.
“What powers I possess!” said the lamp, awakening from its dream. “I could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must not be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone; they keep me bright and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the picture of the Congress, in which they take so much pleasure.” And from that time it felt at rest in itself, and not more so than such an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.

Written by Thornton Burgess

Isn’t it strange how hard it seems to be for some boys to go to bed at the proper time and how much harder it is for them to get up in the morning? It was just so with Farmer Brown’s boy. I suppose he wouldn’t have been a real boy if it hadn’t been so. Of course, while he was sick with the mumps, he didn’t have to get up, and while he was getting over the mumps his mother let him sleep as long as he wanted to in the morning. That was very nice, but it made it all the harder to get up when he should after he was well again. In summer it wasn’t so bad getting up early, but in winter—well, that was the one thing about winter that Farmer Brown’s boy didn’t like.
On this particular morning Farmer Brown had called him, and he had replied with a sleepy “All right.” and then had rolled over and promptly gone to sleep again. In two minutes he was dreaming just as if there were no such things as duties to be done. For a while they were very pleasant dreams, very pleasant indeed. But suddenly they changed. He was being chased in his dream. He couldn’t see what it was behind him but he felt he had to run. In his dream he ran and ran. Then he tripped and fell, and couldn’t get back up. He could feel something coming closer and closer.
With a yell, Farmer Brown’s boy woke up and sprang out of bed. For a minute he couldn’t think where he was. Then with a sigh of relief he realized that he was safe in his own snug little room with the first Jolly Little Sunbeam creeping in at the window to wish him good morning and chide him for being such a lazy fellow. A thump and a scurry of little feet caught his attention, and he turned to see a Gray Squirrel running for the open window. It jumped up on the sill, looked out, then jumped down inside again, and ran over to a corner of the room, where he crouched as if in great fear. It was clear that he had been badly frightened by the yell of Farmer Brown’s boy, and that he was still more frightened by something he had seen when he looked out of the window.
A great light broke over Farmer Brown’s boy. “Happy Jack, you little rascal, I believe you are the thing that scared me so!” he exclaimed. But what is wrong? You look so frightened.”

He went over to the window and looked out. A movement in the big maple tree just outside caught his attention. He saw a long, slim white form dart down the tree and disappear. He knew who it was. It was Shadow the Weasel.
“So that pesky Weasel has been after you again, and you came to me for help,” said he gently, as he coaxed Happy Jack to come to him. “This is the place to come to every time. Poor little chap, you’re all of a tremble.” He gently stroked Happy Jack as he talked, and Happy Jack let him.
“Breakfast!” called a voice from downstairs.
“Coming!” replied Farmer Brown’s boy as he put Happy Jack on the table by a dish of nuts and began to scramble into his clothes.
Happy Jack didn’t dare go home. Can you think of anything more dreadful than to be afraid to go to your own home? Why, home is the dearest place in the world, and it should be the safest. Just think how you would feel if you should be away from home, and then you should learn that it wouldn’t be safe for you to go back there again, and you had no other place to go. It often happens that way with the little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest. It was that way with Happy Jack Squirrel now.
You see, Happy Jack knew that Shadow the Weasel is not one to give up easily. Shadow has one very good trait, and that is persistence. He is not easily discouraged. When he sets out to do a thing, usually he does it. No, he isn’t easily discouraged. Happy Jack knows this. No one knows it better. So Happy Jack didn’t dare to go home. He knew that any minute of night or day Shadow might surprise him there. He more than half suspected that Shadow was at that very time hiding somewhere along the way ready to spring out on him if he should try to go back home.

He had stayed in the room of Farmer Brown’s boy until Mrs. Brown had come to make the bed. Then he jumped out of the window into the big maple tree. He wasn’t quite sure of Mrs. Brown yet. She had kindly eyes. They were just like the eyes of Farmer Brown’s boy. But he didn’t feel really acquainted yet, and he felt safer outside than inside the room while she was there.
“Oh dear, oh dear! What shall I do?
I have no home, and so
To keep me warm and snug and safe
I have no place to go!”
Happy Jack said this over and over as he sat in the maple tree, trying to decide what was to be done.
“I wonder what ails that Squirrel. He seems to be doing a lot of scolding,” said Mrs. Brown, as she looked out of the window. And that shows how easy it is to misunderstand people when we don’t know all about their affairs. Mrs. Brown thought that Happy Jack was scolding, when all the time he was just frightened and worried and wondering where he could go and what he could do to feel safe from Shadow the Weasel.
Because he didn’t dare to go back to the Green Forest, he spent most of the day in the big maple tree close to Farmer Brown’s house. The window had been closed, so he couldn’t go inside. He looked at it longingly a great many times during the day, hoping that he would find it open. But he didn’t. You see, it was opened only at night when Farmer Brown’s boy went to bed, so that he would have plenty of fresh air all night. Of course Happy Jack didn’t know that. All his life he had had plenty of fresh air all the time, and couldn’t understand how people could live in houses all closed up.

Late that afternoon Farmer Brown’s boy, who had been at school all day, came whistling into the yard. He noticed Happy Jack right away. “Hello! You back again! Isn’t one good meal a day enough?” he exclaimed.
“He’s been there all day,” said his mother, who had come to the door just in time to overhear him. “I don’t know what is bothering him.”
Then Farmer Brown’s boy noticed how unhappy Happy Jack looked. He remembered Happy Jack’s fright that morning.
“I know what’s the matter!” he cried. “It’s that Weasel. The poor little chap is afraid to go home. We must see what we can do for him. I wonder if he will stay if I make a new house for him. I believe I’ll try it and see.”
Certainly things couldn’t look much darker than they did to Happy Jack Squirrel as he sat in the big maple tree at the side of Farmer Brown’s house, and saw jolly, round, red Mr. Sun getting ready to go to bed behind the Purple Hills. He was afraid to go to his home in the Green Forest because Shadow the Weasel might be waiting for him there. He was afraid of the night which would soon come. He was cold, and he was hungry. Altogether he was as miserable a little Squirrel as ever was seen.
He had just made up his mind that he would have to go look for a hollow in one of the trees in the Old Orchard in which to spend the night, when around the corner of the house came Farmer Brown’s boy with something under one arm and dragging a ladder. He whistled cheerily to Happy Jack as he put the ladder against the tree and climbed up. By this time Happy Jack had grown so timid that he was just a little afraid of Farmer Brown’s boy, so he climbed as high up in the tree as he could get and watched what was going on below. Even if he was afraid, there was comfort in having Farmer Brown’s boy near.

For some time Farmer Brown’s boy worked busily at the place where the branch that Happy Jack knew so well started out from the trunk of the tree towards the window of Farmer Brown’s boy’s room. When he had fixed things to suit him, he went down the ladder and carried it away with him. In the crook of the tree he had left the strange thing that he had brought under his arm. In spite of his fears, Happy Jack was curious. Little by little he crept nearer. What he saw was a box with a round hole, just about big enough for him to go through, in one end, and in front of it a little shelf. On the shelf were some of the nuts that he liked best.
For a long time Happy Jack looked and looked. Was it a trap? Somehow he couldn’t believe that it was. What would Farmer Brown’s boy try to trap him for when they were such good friends? At last the sight of the nuts was too much for him. It certainly was safe enough to help himself to those. How good they tasted! Almost before he knew it, they were gone. Then he got up courage enough to peep inside. The box was filled with soft hay. It certainly did look inviting in there to a fellow who had no home and no place to go. He put his head inside. Finally he went wholly in. It was just as nice as it looked.
“I believe,” thought Happy Jack, “that he made this little house just for me, and that he put all this hay in here for my bed. He doesn’t know much about making a bed, but I guess he means well.”
With that he went to work happily to make up a bed to suit him, and by the time the first Black Shadow had crept as far as the big maple tree, Happy Jack was curled up fast asleep in his new house.

Happy Jack Squirrel was happy once more. He liked his new house, the house that Farmer Brown’s boy had made for him and fastened in the big maple tree close by the house in which he himself lived. Happy Jack and Farmer Brown’s boy were getting to be greater friends than ever. Every morning Happy Jack jumped over to the window-sill and then in at the open window of the room of Farmer Brown’s boy. There he was sure to find a good breakfast of fat hickory nuts. When Farmer Brown’s boy overslept, as he did sometimes, Happy Jack would jump up on the bed and wake him. He thought this was great fun. So did Farmer Brown’s boy, though sometimes when he was very sleepy he pretended to scold, especially on Sunday mornings when he did not have to get up as early as on other days.

Of course, the Black cat had soon discovered that Happy Jack was living in the big maple tree, and she spent a great deal of time sitting at the foot of it and glaring up at him with a hungry look in her eyes. Several times she climbed up in the tree and tried to catch him. At first he had been afraid, but he had soon found out that the Black cat was not at all at home in a tree as he was. After that, he rather enjoyed having her try to catch him. It was almost like a game. It was great fun to scold at her and let her get very near him and then, just as she was sure that she was going to catch him, to jump out of her reach. After a while she was content to sit at the foot of the tree and just glare at him.
Happy Jack had only one worry now, and this didn’t trouble him a great deal. It was possible that Shadow the Weasel might take it into his head to try to surprise him some night. Happy Jack knew that by this time Shadow must know where he was living, for of course Sammy Jay had found out, and Sammy is one of those who tells all he knows. Still, being so close to Farmer Brown’s boy gave Happy Jack a very comfortable feeling.

Now all this time Farmer Brown’s boy had not forgotten Shadow the Weasel and how he had driven Happy Jack out of the Green Forest, and he had wondered a great many times if it wouldn’t be a kindness to the other little people if he should catch Shadow and take him out of the forest. But you know he had given up trapping, and somehow he didn’t like to think of setting a trap, even for such a mischief-maker as Shadow. Then something happened that made Farmer Brown’s boy very, very angry. One morning, when he went to feed the chickens, he found that Shadow had visited the henhouse in the night and three of his best chickens were missing. That decided it. He felt sure that Shadow would come again, and he meant to give Shadow a surprise. He looked until he found the little hole through which Shadow had gotten into the henhouse, and there he set a trap.
“I don’t like to do it, but I’ve got to,” he said. “It is time that something was done to get rid of him.”

The very next morning Happy Jack saw Farmer Brown’s boy coming from the henhouse with something under his arm. He came straight over to the foot of the big maple tree and put the thing he was carrying down on the ground. He whistled to Happy Jack, and as Happy Jack came down to see what it was all about, Farmer Brown’s boy grinned. “Here’s a friend of yours you probably will be glad to see,” he said.
At first, all Happy Jack could make out was a kind of wire box. Then he saw something white inside, and it moved. Very suspiciously Happy Jack came nearer. Then his heart gave a great leap. That wire box was a cage, and glaring between the wires was Shadow the Weasel! He had been caught! Right away Happy Jack was so excited that he acted as if he were crazy. He no longer had a single thing to be afraid of. Can you understand why he was so excited?

In the corner of the barnyard was a pile of manure which was to be put upon the garden and plowed in. This would make the ground better for all the good things growing in it, but now it was waiting behind the high board fence, and many happy insects lived in it. There were big Bugs and little Bugs, fat Bugs and slim Bugs, young Bugs and old Bugs, good Bugs and—well, one does not like to say that there were bad Bugs, but there were certainly some not so good as others.
Among all these, however, there were none who worked harder or thought more of each other than the Tumble-bugs. One couple, especially, were thrifty and devoted. They had been married in June, when each was just one day old. June weddings were the fashion among their people.

Mr. Tumble-bug believed in early marriages. “I have known Tumble-bugs,” he said, “who did not marry until they were two days old, but I think that was a great mistake. Each becomes so used to having his own way that it is very hard for husband and wife to agree on anything. Now Mrs. Tumble-bug and I always think alike.” Then he smiled at Mrs. Tumble-bug and Mrs. Tumble-bug smiled at him. They were nearly always together and busy. Perhaps it was because they worked together every day that they cared so much for each other. You know that it makes a great difference, and if one had worked all the time while the other was playing, they would soon have come to care for other things and people.

One hot summer morning, Mrs. Tumble-bug said to her husband, who was just finishing his breakfast, “I have found the loveliest place you ever saw for burying an egg-ball. Do hurry up! I can hardly wait to begin work.”
Mr. Tumble-bug gulped down his last mouthful and answered, “I’m ready now.”
“Follow me then,” she cried, and led the way over all sorts of little things which littered up the ground of the barnyard. No Horse was there just then, and she felt safe. Mr. Tumble-bug followed close behind her, and a very neat-looking couple they made. Both were flat-backed and all of shining black. “We do not dress so showily as some Bugs,” they were in the habit of saying, “but black always looks well.” And that was true. Although they spent most of their days working in the earth, they were ever clean and shining, with smiling, shovel-shaped faces.

“There!” said Mrs. Tumble-bug, as she stopped for breath and pointed with her right fore-leg to the ground just ahead of her. “Did you ever see a finer place?” She could point in this way, you know, without falling over, because she had five other legs on which to stand. There are some very pleasant things about having six legs, and the only tumbling she and her husband did was part of their work.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Mr. Tumble-bug. “And the ground is so soft that it will not tire you very much to dig in it.” He did not have to think whether it would tire him, because he never helped in that part of the work. His wife always liked to do that alone.

Then both Tumble-bugs scurried back to the manure heap. “I cannot see why some of our neighbors are so silly,” said she. “There is a Beetle now, laying her eggs right in this pile. She will leave them there, too, and as likely as not some hungry fellow will come along before the sun goes down and eat every one of them. She might much better take a little trouble, put her egg in a mass of food, and roll it away to a safe place. When my children hatch out into soft little Grubs, I intend they shall have a chance to grow up safely and comfortably. Such Beetles do not deserve to have children.”
“Well, they won’t have many,” said her husband. “Perhaps only a small little family of twenty or thirty.”

“Now,” exclaimed Mrs. Tumble-bug, “We must get to work. Help me roll this ball of manure. I have laid an egg in it while we were talking, so that time was not wasted.”
Together they rolled a ball which was bigger than both of them when it started, and grew larger and larger as they got it away from the heap and the dust of the ground stuck to it and crusted it over.

Mrs. Tumble-bug stood on top of the ball, and, creeping far out on it, pulled it forward with her hind feet, while he stood on his head behind it and pushed with his hind legs. Of course if Mrs. Tumble-bug had not been climbing backward all the time, the ball would have rolled right over her. To pull forward with part of your legs and climb backward with all of them at the same time, and that when your head is a good deal lower than your heels, is pretty hard work and takes much planning. Mrs. Tumble-bug had very little breath for talking, but she did not lose her temper. And that shows what an excellent Bug she was. “Harder!” she would call out to Mr. Tumble-bug. “We are coming to a little hill.”

Then Mr. Tumble-bug, who, you will remember, had to stand on his head all the time, and really did the hardest part of the work, would brace himself more firmly and push until it seemed as though his legs would break. He could never see just where they were going unless he let go of the ball, and Mrs. Tumble-bug did not believe in turning out for anything.

“What if there is a hill?” she often said. “Can’t we go over it?” And over it they always went, although they might much more easily have gone around it. Mrs. Tumble-bug did not want anybody to think she was afraid of work, and she knew her husband would have a chance to rest while she was burying the ball. Once in a while, when the ball came down suddenly on the farther side of a twig or chip, it rolled quite on top of her, and Mr. Tumble-bug would be greatly alarmed. Some people thought this served her quite right for insisting that they should go over things instead of around them. Still, one hardly likes to say a thing like that.

If it were much of a hill, she would climb down from the ball and talk with him. Then they would put their shovel-shaped heads together under the back side of the ball, and, pushing at the same time, send it over. “Two heads are better than one,” they would say, “and this needs a great deal of head-work.”

At last the ball had reached the spot where they intended to have it buried. Both were hot and tired. “Many legs make light work,” said Mrs. Tumble-bug, as she carefully cleaned hers before eating dinner, “and if there is anything I enjoy, it is finishing a good job like this!”

Mr. Tumble-bug sighed heavily and said he thought he would go for a walk with some of his friends that afternoon. “All work and no play would make me a dull Bug,” he said. Then he called out “Good-by” to his wife, and told her not to work too hard.
Mrs. Tumble-bug looked after him lovingly. “Now, isn’t he good?” she said to herself. “There are not many Bugs who will help their wives at all, and most of them never look at an egg, much less see to getting it well placed.” And that is true, for the Tumble-bugs are the model Bug fathers.

Now, indeed, Mrs. Tumble-bug was at her best. She hurried down her dinner, taking mouthfuls which were much too large for good manners, and began plowing the earth around the ball as it lay there. She plowed so deep that sometimes she was almost buried in the loose earth. At last she came up, took a good look around, knocked some grains of dust off her shining back, then dived in again upside down, and pulled the ball in after her by holding it tightly with her middle legs. All the time she was kicking the earth away with her two hind legs and her two front ones, which were stout diggers, so that little by little she sank deeper into the ground.
She made a much larger hole for the ball than it really needed. “I might just as well, while I am about it,” she said. “And I should so dislike to have anyone think I am afraid of work.”
At last she finished and crawled away, covering the place neatly over, so that nobody could see where she went in or out. “There!” she said. “Now I am ready to play.”

A stray Chicken came along and she hurried under a chip to be safe. The Chicken was lost and calling to his mother. “Mother!” he cried. “Mother Hen, I want to get home and go to sleep under your wings.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Tumble-bug. “Is it time for Chickens to go to sleep?” She looked through a crack in the fence and across the lawn to the big house. The shadows lay long upon the short grass. “It certainly is,” she said. “And here I have spent all day burying that egg properly. I think it is very strange that I cannot get more time for rest and play.” So she had to eat her supper and go straight to bed to get rested for the next day’s work.

Mrs. Tumble-bug did not understand then, and perhaps never will learn, that if she would stop doing things in the hardest way and begin doing them in the easiest way, she might get a great deal of work done in a day and still have time to rest. If one were to tell her so, she might think that meant laziness, but it would not, you know. It is always worthwhile to make one’s head save one’s feet, and when a single head could save six feet it would certainly be worthwhile. Still, although Mrs. Tumble-bug never dreamed of such a thing, she probably enjoyed work about as much as her neighbors enjoyed play.

Written by Thornton Burgess

Somehow Happy Jack’s day had been spoiled. He knew that he had no business to allow it to be spoiled, but it was, just the same. You see, he had been all puffed up with pride because he thought himself a very bold fellow because he had really been inside Farmer Brown’s house. He couldn’t help feeling quite puffed up about it. But when he told Tommy T the Chickadee about it, Tommy had said, “Pooh! I’ve done that often.”

That was what had spoiled the day for Happy Jack. He knew that if Tommy T said that he had done a thing, he had, for Tommy always tells the truth and nothing but the truth. So Happy Jack hadn’t been so dreadfully bold, after all, and had nothing to brag about. It made him feel quite put out. He actually tried to make himself feel that it was all the fault of Tommy T, and that he wanted to get even with him. He thought about it all the rest of the day, and just before he fell asleep that night an idea came to him.
“I know what I’ll do! I’ll dare Tommy to go as far inside Farmer Brown’s house as I do!” he went to sleep to dream that he was the boldest, bravest squirrel that ever lived.

The next morning when he reached the tree close by Farmer Brown’s house, he found Tommy T already there, flitting about impatiently and calling his loudest, which wasn’t very loud, for you know Tommy is a very little fellow, and his voice is not very loud. But he was doing his best to call Farmer Brown’s boy. You see, there wasn’t a single nut on the window-sill, and the window was closed. Pretty soon Farmer Brown’s boy came to the window and opened it. But he didn’t put out any nuts. Tommy T at once flew over to the sill, and to show that he was just as bold, Happy Jack followed. Looking inside, they saw Farmer Brown’s boy standing in the middle of the room, holding out a dish of nuts and smiling at them. This was the chance Happy Jack wanted to try the plan he had thought of the night before.
“I dare you to go way in there and get a nut,” he said to Tommy T. He hoped that Tommy would be afraid.

But Tommy wasn’t anything of the kind. “Dee, dee, dee! Come on!” he cried, and flitted over and helped himself to a cracked nut and was back with it before Happy Jack could make up his mind to jump down inside. Of course now that he had dared Tommy T, and Tommy had taken the dare, he just had to do it too. It looked a long way in to where Farmer Brown’s boy was standing. Twice he started and turned back. Then he heard Tommy T chuckle. That was too much. He wouldn’t be laughed at. He just wouldn’t. He scampered across, grabbed a nut, and rushed back to the window-sill, where he ate the nut. It was easier to go after the second nut, and when he went for the third, he had made up his mind that it was perfectly safe in there, and so he sat up on a chair and ate it. Presently he felt quite at home, and when he had eaten all the nuts he wanted, he ran all around the room, examining all the strange little things.

This was a little more than Tommy T could make up his mind to do. He wasn’t afraid to fly in for a nut and then fly out again, but he couldn’t feel easy inside a house like that. Of course, this made Happy Jack feel good all over. You see, he felt that now he really did have something to boast about. No one else in all the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows could say that they had been all over Farmer Brown’s boy’s room as he had. Happy Jack swelled himself out at the thought. Now everybody would say, “What a bold fellow!”

Very few people can be all puffed up with pride without showing it. Happy Jack Squirrel couldn’t. Just to have looked at him you would have known that he was feeling very, very good about something. When he thought no one was looking, he would actually strut. And it was all because he considered himself a very bold fellow. This was a new feeling for Happy Jack. He knew that all his neighbors considered him rather timid, and many a time he had envied, actually envied Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox and Unc’ Billy Possum and even Sammy Jay because they did such bold things and had dared to visit Farmer Brown’s dooryard and henhouse in spite of Bowser the Hound.
But now he felt that he dared do a thing that not one of them dared do. He dared go right into Farmer Brown’s house and make himself quite at home in the room of Farmer Brown’s boy. He felt that he was a tremendously brave fellow. You see, he quite forgot one thing. He forgot that he had found out that love destroys fear, and that though it might look to others like a very bold thing to walk right into Farmer Brown’s house, it really wasn’t bold at all, because all the time he knew that no harm would come to him. It had been brave of him to go in at that open window the first time, because then he had been afraid, but now he wasn’t afraid, and so it was no longer either brave or bold of him.

Tommy T the Chickadee knew all this, and he used to chuckle to himself as he saw how proud of himself Happy Jack was, but he said nothing to any one about it. Of course, it wasn’t long before others began to notice Happy Jack’s pride. One of the first was Sammy Jay. There is very little that escapes Sammy Jay’s sharp eyes. Silently stealing through the Green Forest early one morning, he surprised Happy Jack strutting.
“Huh,” he said, “what are you feeling so big about?”
Like a flash the thought came to Happy Jack that here was a chance to show what a bold fellow he had become. “Hello, Sammy!” he exclaimed. “Are you feeling very brave this morning?”
“Me feeling brave? What are you talking about? If I was as timid as you are, I wouldn’t ever talk about bravery to other people. If there is anything you dare to do that I don’t, I’ve never heard of it,” replied Sammy Jay.
“Come on!” cried Happy Jack. “I’m going to get my breakfast, and I dare you to follow me!”
Sammy Jay actually laughed right out. “Go ahead. Wherever you go, I’ll go,” he declared.

Happy Jack started right away for Farmer Brown’s house, and Sammy followed. Through the Old Orchard, across the dooryard and into the big maple tree Happy Jack led the way, and Sammy followed, all the time wondering what was up. He had been there many times. In fact, he had had many a good meal of suet there during the cold weather, for Farmer Brown’s boy had kept a big piece tied to a branch of the maple tree for those who were hungry.

Sammy was a little surprised when he saw Happy Jack jump over onto the window-sill. Still, he had been on that window-sill more than once himself, when he had made sure that no one was near, and had helped himself to the cracked nuts he had found there.
“Come on!” called Happy Jack, his eyes twinkling.
Sammy Jay chuckled. “He thinks I don’t dare go over there,” he thought. “Well, I’ll fool him.”
With a hasty look to see that no danger was near, he spread his wings to follow Happy Jack on to the window-sill. Happy Jack waited to make sure that he really was coming and then slipped in at the open window and scampered over to a table on the farther side of the room and helped himself from a dish of nuts there.

When Sammy saw Happy Jack disappear inside he gave a little gasp. When he looked inside and saw Happy Jack making himself quite at home, he gasped again. And when he saw a door open and Farmer Brown’s boy enter, and still Happy Jack did not run, he was too upset for words. He didn’t dare stay to see more, and for once in his life was quite speechless as he flew back to the Green Forest.

Which is worse, to have a very beautiful dream never come true, or to have a bad dream really come true? Happy Jack Squirrel says the latter is worse, much worse. Dreams do come true once in a great while, you know. One of Happy Jack’s did. It came true, and it made a great difference in Happy Jack’s life. You see, it was like this:
Happy Jack had had so many things to think of that he had almost forgotten about Shadow the Weasel. Happy Jack hadn’t seen or heard anything of him since Farmer Brown’s boy had chased him into the Green Forest and saved Happy Jack’s life. Since then life had been too full of pleasant things to think of anything so unpleasant as Shadow the Weasel. But one night Happy Jack had a bad dream. Yes, Sir, it was a very bad dream. He dreamed that once more Shadow the Weasel was after him, and this time there was no Farmer Brown’s boy to run to for help. Shadow was right at his heels and in one more jump would catch him. Happy Jack opened his mouth to scream, and—woke up.

He was all a shake with fright. It was a great relief to find that it was only a dream, but even then he couldn’t get over it right away. He was glad that it was almost morning, and just as soon as it was light enough to see, he crept out. It was too early to go over to Farmer Brown’s house; Farmer Brown’s boy wouldn’t be up yet. So Happy Jack ran over to one of his favorite lookouts, a tall chestnut tree, and there, with his back against the trunk, high above the ground, he watched the Green Forest wake as the first Sunbeams stole through it. But all the time he kept thinking of that dreadful dream.

A little spot of black moving against the white snow caught his sharp eyes. What was it? He leaned forward and held his breath, as he tried to make sure. Ah, now he could see! Just ahead of that black thing was a long, slim fellow all in white, and that black spot was his tail. If it hadn’t been for that, Happy Jack very likely wouldn’t have seen him at all. It was Shadow the Weasel! He was running swiftly, first to one side and then to the other, with his nose to the snow. He was looking for breakfast.
Happy Jack’s eyes grew wide with fear. Would Shadow find his tracks? It looked as if Shadow was heading for Happy Jack’s house, and Happy Jack was very glad that that bad dream had woken him and he had come out. Otherwise he might have been caught in his own bed. Shadow was almost at Happy Jack’s house when he stopped abruptly with his nose to the snow and sniffed eagerly. Then he turned, and with his nose to the snow, started straight toward the tree where Happy Jack was. Happy Jack waited to see no more. He knew now that Shadow had found his trail and that it would need to run.
“My dream has come true!” he sobbed as he ran. “My dream has come true, and I don’t know what to do!” But all the time he kept on running as fast as ever he could, which really was the only thing to do.

Frightened and breathless, running with all his might from Shadow the Weasel, Happy Jack Squirrel was in despair. He didn’t know what to do or where to go. The last time he had run from Shadow he had run to Farmer Brown’s boy, who just happened to be near, and Farmer Brown’s boy had chased Shadow the Weasel away. But now it was too early in the morning for him to expect to meet Farmer Brown’s boy. In fact, jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had hardly kicked his bedclothes off yet, and Happy Jack was very sure that Farmer Brown’s boy was still asleep.
Now most of us are creatures of habit. We do the thing that we have been in the habit of doing, and do it without thinking anything about it. This is why good habits are such a blessing. Happy Jack Squirrel is just like the rest of us. He has habits, both good and bad. Of late, he had been in the habit of getting his breakfast at Farmer Brown’s house every morning, so now when he has began to run from Shadow the Weasel he just naturally ran in the direction of Farmer Brown’s house from force of habit. In fact, he was halfway there before he realized in which direction he was running.

Right then a thought came to him. It gave him a wee bit of hope, and seemed to help him run just a little faster. If the window of Farmer Brown’s boy’s room was open, he would run in there, and perhaps Shadow the Weasel wouldn’t dare follow! How he did hope that that window would be open! He knew that it was his only chance. He wasn’t quite sure that it really was a chance, for Shadow was such a bold fellow that he might not be afraid to follow him right in, but it was worth trying.

Along the stone wall beside the Old Orchard raced Happy Jack to the dooryard of Farmer Brown, and after him ran Shadow the Weasel, and Shadow looked as if he was enjoying himself. No doubt he was. He knew just as well as Happy Jack did that there was small chance of meeting Farmer Brown’s boy so early in the morning, so he felt very sure how that chase was going to end.

By the time Happy Jack reached the dooryard, Shadow was only a few jumps behind him, and Happy Jack was pretty well out of breath. He didn’t stop to look to see if the way was clear. There wasn’t time for that. Besides, there could be no greater danger in front than was almost at his heels, and so, without looking one way or another, he scampered across the dooryard and up the big maple tree close to the house. Shadow the Weasel was surprised. He had not dreamed that Happy Jack would come over here. But Shadow is a bold fellow, and it made little difference to him where Happy Jack went. At least, that is what he thought.

So he followed Happy Jack across the dooryard and up the maple tree. He took his time about it, for he knew by the way Happy Jack had run that he was pretty nearly at the end of his strength. “He’ll never get out of this tree,” thought Shadow, as he started to climb it. He fully expected to find Happy Jack huddled in a little heap somewhere near the top. Just imagine how surprised he was when he discovered that Happy Jack wasn’t to be seen. He rubbed his little red eyes, and they grew angrier and redder than before.
“Must be a hollow up here somewhere,” he muttered. “I’ll just follow the scent of his feet, and that will lead me to him.”

But when that scent led him out on a branch the tip of which brushed against Farmer Brown’s house Shadow got another surprise. There was no sign of Happy Jack. He couldn’t have reached the roof. There was no place he could have gone unless—. Shadow stared across at a window open about two inches.
“He couldn’t have!” muttered Shadow. “He wouldn’t dare. He couldn’t have!”
But Happy Jack had. He had gone inside that window.

Written by Thornton Burgess

Happy Jack Squirrel hadn’t slept very well. He had had bad dreams. Ever so many times in the night he had woken up, a very unusual thing for Happy Jack. The fact is, he had something on his mind. Yes, Happy Jack had something on his mind, and that something was Farmer Brown’s boy. He often had had Farmer Brown’s boy on his mind before, but in a different way. Then it had been in the days when Farmer Brown’s boy roamed through the Green Forest and over the Green Meadows looking for animals. Then everybody had Farmer Brown’s boy on their minds most of the time and some of them were afraid of him. But Happy Jack no longer feared him. Love had taken the place of fear in his heart, for had not Farmer Brown’s boy saved him from Shadow the Weasel, and brought him nuts and corn when food was scarce? And now Tommy T had brought word that something was the matter with Farmer Brown’s boy. It was this that was on Happy Jack’s mind and had given him such a bad night.

As soon as it was daylight, Happy Jack scrambled out of bed to look for Tommy T. He didn’t have long to wait, for Tommy is quite as early a riser as Happy Jack.
“Dee, dee, chickadee!
I hope you feel as well as me!”
sang Tommy merrily, as he flitted over to where Happy Jack was looking for his breakfast. The very sound of Tommy’s voice made Happy Jack feel better. One must feel very badly indeed not to be a little more cheerful when Tommy T is about. The fact is, Tommy T packs about so much good cheer in that small person of his, that no one can be downhearted when he is about.
“Hello, Tommy,” said Happy Jack. “If I could make other people feel as good as you do, do you know what I would do?”
“What?” asked Tommy.
“I’d go straight up to Farmer Brown’s house and try to cheer up Farmer Brown’s boy,” replied Happy Jack.
“That’s the very thing I have in mind,” chuckled Tommy. “I’ve come over here to see if you won’t come along with me. I’ve been up to his house so often that he won’t think half so much of a visit from me as he will from you. Will you do it?”
Happy Jack looked a little startled. You see, he never had been over to Farmer Brown’s house, and somehow he couldn’t get over the idea that it would be a very dangerous thing to do. “I—I—do you really suppose I could?” he asked.

“I’m sure of it,” replied Tommy T. “There’s no one to be afraid of but the Black Cat and Bowser the Hound, and it’s easy enough to keep out of their way. You can hide in the old stone wall until the way is clear and then run across to the big maple tree close to the house. Then you can look right in and see Farmer Brown’s boy, and he can look out and see you. Will you do it?”
Happy Jack thought very hard for a few minutes. Then he made up his mind. “I’ll do it!” he said in a very decided tone of voice. “Let’s start right away.”
“Good for you! Dee, dee, good for you!” cried Tommy T, and started to lead the way.

Great things were happening to Happy Jack Squirrel. He was actually on his way to Farmer Brown’s house, and he had a feeling that other things were likely to happen when he got there. Now you may not think that it was anything very great that Happy Jack should be on his way to Farmer Brown’s house. Very likely you are saying, “Hah! that’s nothing!” This may be true, and then again it may not. Suppose you do a little supposing. Suppose you had all your life been terribly afraid of a great giant much larger than you. Suppose that great giant had stopped scaring you and by little deeds of kindness had at last won your love. Suppose you learned that something was the matter with him, and you made up your mind to visit him at his great castle where there were other great giants whom you did not know. Wouldn’t you think that great things were happening to you?

Well, that is exactly the way it was with Happy Jack Squirrel, as he and Tommy T the Chickadee started to go over to Farmer Brown’s house to look for Farmer Brown’s boy. Tommy T had been there often, so he didn’t think anything about it, but Happy Jack never had been there, and if the truth were known, his heart was going pitapat, pitapat, with excitement and perhaps just a little fear. Through the Old Orchard they went, Tommy T flitting ahead and keeping a sharp watch for danger. When they reached the old stone wall on the edge of Farmer Brown’s dooryard, Tommy told Happy Jack to hide there while he went to see if the way was clear. He was back in a few minutes.

“Dee, dee, everything is alright,” he said. “Bowser the Hound is eating his breakfast out back where he can’t see you at all, and the Black Cat is nowhere to be seen. All you have to do is to follow me over to that big tree close to the house, and I will show you where Farmer Brown’s boy is.”
“I—I’m afraid,” confessed Happy Jack.
“Pooh! There’s nothing to be afraid of,” asserted Tommy T in the most positive way. “Don’t worry. Remember how Farmer Brown’s boy saved you from Shadow the Weasel. Come on! Dee, dee, dee, come on!” With that Tommy flew across to the tree close by the house.

Happy Jack scrambled up on the old stone wall and looked this way and looked that way. He couldn’t see a thing to be afraid of. He jumped down and ran a few steps. Then his heart failed, and he scampered back to the old stone wall in a panic. After a few minutes he tried again, and once more fear sent him back. The third time he gritted his teeth, said to himself over and over, “I will! I will! I will!” and ran with all his might. In no time at all he was across the dooryard and up in the big tree, his heart pounding with excitement.
“Dee, dee, dee,” called Tommy T.
Happy Jack looked over to the house, and there sat Tommy on a window-sill, helping himself to the most delicious-looking cracked nuts. The sight of them made Happy Jack’s mouth water. A long branch hung down over the window and almost touched the sill. Happy Jack ventured halfway and stopped. Somehow it seemed very dangerous to go so close to that window.
“Come on! Come on! What are you afraid of?” called Tommy.
With a quick little run and jump he was on the sill, and a second later he was staring in at all the strange things inside. At first he didn’t see anything of Farmer Brown’s boy, but in a few minutes he made him out. He was lying down all covered over except his head. There was something the matter with him. Happy Jack didn’t need to be told that, and a great pity filled his heart. He wanted to do something for Farmer Brown’s boy.

All the way home from his visit to Farmer Brown’s house Happy Jack Squirrel puzzled and wondered over what he had seen. He had peeped in at a window and seen Farmer Brown’s boy lying all covered up, with only his head showing. Happy Jack couldn’t see very well, but somehow that head didn’t look just right. One thing was sure, and that was there was something wrong with Farmer Brown’s boy. He never would have been lying still like that if there hadn’t been.

Happy Jack had been so troubled by what he saw that he had hardly tasted the nuts he had found on the window-sill. “I am going to make him another call to-morrow,” he said when he and Tommy T were once back in the Green Forest.
“Of course,” replied Tommy. “I expected you would. I will be around for you at the same time. You’re not afraid anymore to go up there, are you?”

“No-o,” replied Happy Jack, slowly. The truth is, he was still a little afraid. It seemed to him a terribly venturesome thing to cross that open dooryard, but having done it once in safety, he knew that it would be easier the next time and It was. The next morning he and Tommy T went just as before, and this time Happy Jack scampered across the dooryard the very first time he tried. They found things just as they had been the day before. They saw Farmer Brown’s boy, but he didn’t see them. Tommy T was just going to tap on the window to let him know they were there, when a door inside opened, and in walked Mrs. Brown. It frightened them so that Tommy T flew away without tasting a single nut, and Happy Jack nearly fell as he scrambled back into the tree close by the window. You see, they had never made her acquaintance, and having her walk in so suddenly frightened them terribly. They didn’t stop to think that there was nothing to fear because there was a window between them. Somehow they couldn’t understand that strange stuff that they could see through but which shut them out. If they had seen Mrs. Brown go to the window and put more cracked nuts on the sill, perhaps they would have been less afraid. But they had been too badly frightened to look back, and so they didn’t know anything about that.

The next morning Tommy T was on hand as usual, but he found Happy Jack a little doubtful about paying another visit. He wasn’t wholly over his scare of the day before. It took him some time to make up his mind to go, but finally he did. This time when they reached the tree close by the house, they found a great surprise awaiting them. Farmer Brown’s boy was sitting just inside the window, looking out. At least, they thought it was Farmer Brown’s boy, but when they got a little nearer, they weren’t sure. It looked like Farmer Brown’s boy, and yet it didn’t. His cheeks stuck way out just as Striped Chipmunk’s do when he has them stuffed full of corn or nuts.
Happy Jack stared at him very hard. “My goodness, I didn’t know he carried his food that way!” he exclaimed. “I should think it would be dreadfully uncomfortable.”

If Farmer Brown’s boy could have heard that, he certainly would have tried to laugh, and if he had—well, it was bad enough when he tried to smile at the sight of Tommy T and Happy Jack. He didn’t smile at all but made up an awful face instead and clapped both hands to his cheeks. Happy Jack and Tommy T didn’t know what to make of it, and it was some time before they made up their minds that it really was Farmer Brown’s boy, and that they had nothing to fear. But when they finally ventured on to the sill and, as they helped themselves to nuts, saw the smile in his eyes, though he did not smile with his mouth at all, they knew that it was he, and that he was glad that they had called. Then they were glad too.

But what was the matter with Farmer Brown’s boy? Happy Jack puzzled over it all the rest of the day, and then gave it up.

Every day Happy Jack visited the window sill of Farmer Brown’s house to call on Farmer Brown’s boy, who was always waiting for him just inside the window. In fact Happy Jack had got into the habit of getting his breakfast there, for there were always fat, delicious nuts on the window-sill, and it was much easier and more comfortable to breakfast there than to hunt up his own hidden supplies and perhaps have to dig down through the snow to get them. Most people are just like Happy Jack—they do the easiest thing.
Each day Farmer Brown’s boy looked more and more like himself. His cheeks stuck out less and less, and finally did not stick out at all. And now he smiled at Happy Jack with his mouth as well as with his eyes. You know when his cheeks had stuck out so he couldn’t smile at all except with his eyes. Happy Jack didn’t know what had been the matter with Farmer Brown’s boy, but whatever it was, he was better now, and that made Happy Jack feel better.

One morning he got a surprise. When he ran out along the branch of the tree that led to the window-sill he suddenly discovered something wrong. There were no nuts on the sill! More than this there was something very suspicious looking about the window. It didn’t look just right. The truth was it was partly open, but Happy Jack didn’t understand this, not then, anyway. He stopped short and scolded, a way he has when things don’t suit him. Farmer Brown’s boy came to the window and called to him. Then he put a hand out, and in it were some of the fattest nuts Happy Jack ever had seen. His mouth watered right away. There might be something wrong with the window, but certainly the sill was all right. It would do no harm to go that far.

So Happy Jack nimbly jumped across to the window-sill. Farmer Brown’s boy’s hand with the fat nuts was still there, and Happy Jack lost no time in getting one. Then he sat up on the sill to eat it. My, but it was good! It was just as good as it had looked. Happy Jack’s eyes twinkled as he ate. When he had finished that nut, he wanted another. But now Farmer Brown’s boy had drawn his hand inside the window. He was still holding it out with the nuts in it, but to get them Happy Jack must go inside, and he couldn’t get it out of his head that that was a very dangerous thing to do. What if that window should be closed while he was in there? Then he would be a prisoner.
So he sat up and begged. He knew that Farmer Brown’s boy knew what he wanted. But Farmer Brown’s boy kept his hand just where it was.

“Come on,” he said. “You ought to know me well enough by this time to know that I won’t hurt you or let any harm come to you. Hurry up, because I can’t stand here all day. You see, I’ve just got over the mumps, and if I should catch a cold I might be sick again. Come along now, and show how brave you are.”

Of course Happy Jack couldn’t understand what he said. If he could have, he might have guessed that it was the mumps that had made Farmer Brown’s boy look so like Striped Chipmunk when he has his cheeks stuffed with nuts. But if he couldn’t understand what Farmer Brown’s boy said, he had no difficulty in understanding that if he wanted those nuts he would have to go after them. So at last he gathered up his courage and put his head inside. Nothing happened, so he went wholly in and sat on the inside sill. Then by reaching out as far as he could without tumbling off, he managed to get one of those nuts, and as soon as he had it, he dodged outside to eat it.

Farmer Brown’s boy laughed, and putting the rest of the nuts outside, he closed the window. Happy Jack ate his fill and then scampered back to the Green Forest. He felt all puffed up with pride. He felt that he had been very, very bold, and he was anxious to tell Tommy T the Chickadee, who had not been with him that morning, how bold he had been.
“Pooh, that’s nothing!” replied Tommy, when he had heard about it. “I’ve done that often.”

Written by Sheryl MacLeod

OH! the cupperty-buts! and oh! the cupperty-buts! out in the meadow, shining under the trees, and sparkling over the lawn, millions and millions of them, each one a bit of purest gold from Mother Nature’s mint. Jessy stood at the window, looking out at them, and thinking, as she often had thought before, that there were no flowers so beautiful. “Cupperty-buts,” she had been used to call them, when she was a wee baby-girl and could not speak without tumbling over her words and mixing them up in the strangest fashion; and now that she was a very great girl, actually six years old, they were still cupperty-buts to her, and would never be anything else, she said. There was nothing she liked better than to watch the lovely golden things, and nod to them as they nodded to her; but this morning her little face looked anxious and troubled, and she gazed at the flowers with an intent and inquiring look, as if she had expected them to reply to her unspoken thoughts. What these thoughts were I am going to tell you.

Half an hour before, she had called to her mother, who was just going out, and begged her to come and look at the cupperty-buts.
“They are brighter than ever, Mamma! Do o’ just come and look at them! golden, golden, golden! There must be fifteen thousand million dollars’ worth of gold just on the lawn, I should think.”
And her mother, pausing to look out, said, very sadly,—
“Ah, my darling! if I only had this day a little of that gold, what a happy woman I should be!”
And then the good mother went out, and there little Jessy stood, gazing at the flowers, and repeating the words to herself, over and over again,—
“If I only had a little of that gold!”

She knew that her mother was very, very poor, and had to go out to work every day to earn food and clothes for herself and her little daughter; and the child’s tender heart ached to think of the sadness in the dear mother’s look and tone. Suddenly Jessy started, and the sunshine flashed into her face.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “why shouldn’t I get some of the gold from the cupperty-buts? I believe I could get some, perfectly well. When Mamma wants to get the juice out of anything, meat, or fruit, or anything of that sort, she just boils it. And so, if I should boil the cupperty-buts, wouldn’t all the gold come out? Of course it would! Oh, joy! how pleased Mamma will be!”

Jessy’s actions always followed her thoughts with great rapidity. In five minutes she was out on the lawn, with a huge basket beside her, pulling away at the buttercups with might and main. Oh! how small they were, and how long it took even to cover the bottom of the basket. But Jessy worked with a will, and at the end of an hour she had picked enough to make at least a thousand dollars, as she calculated. That would do for one day, she thought; and now for the grand experiment! Before going out she had with much labor filled the great kettle with water, so now the water was boiling, and she had only to put the buttercups in and put the cover on. When this was done, she sat as patiently as she could, trying to pay attention to her knitting, and not to look at the clock more often than every two minutes.

“They must boil for an hour,” she said; “and by that time all the gold will have come out.”
Well, the hour did pass, somehow or other, though it was a very long one; and at eleven o’clock, Jessy, with a mighty effort, lifted the kettle from the stove and carried it to the open door, that the fresh air might cool the boiling water. At first, when she lifted the cover, such a cloud of steam came out that she could see nothing; but in a moment the wind blew the steam aside, and then she saw,—oh, poor little Jessy!—she saw a mass of weeds floating about in a quantity of dirty, greenish water, and that was all. Not the smallest trace of gold, even in the buttercups themselves, was to be seen. Poor little Jessy! she tried hard not to cry, but it was a bitter disappointment; the tears came rolling down her cheeks faster and faster, till at length she sat down by the kettle, and, burying her face in her apron, sobbed as if her heart would break.

Presently, through her sobs, she heard a kind voice saying, “What is the matter, little one? Why do you cry so?” She looked up and saw an old gentleman with white hair and a bright, cheery face, standing by her. At first, Jessy could say nothing but “Oh! the cupperty-buts! oh! the cupperty-buts!” but, of course, the old gentleman didn’t know what she meant by that, so, as he urged her to tell him about her trouble, she dried her eyes, and told him the sad little story: how her mother was very poor, and said she wished she had some gold; and how she herself had tried to get the gold out of the buttercups by boiling them. “I was so sure I could get it out,” she said, “and I thought Mamma would be so pleased! And now—”

Here she was very near breaking down again; but the gentleman patted her head and said, cheerfully, “Wait a bit, little girl! Don’t give up the ship yet. You know that gold is heavy, very heavy indeed, and if there were any it would be at the very bottom of the kettle, all covered with the weeds, so that you could not see it. I should not be at all surprised if you found some, after all. Run into the house and bring me a spoon with a long handle, and we will fish in the kettle, and see what we can find.”

Jessy’s face brightened, and she ran into the house. If any one had been standing near just at that moment, I think it is possible that they might have seen the old gentleman’s hand go into his pocket and out again very quickly, and might have heard a little splash in the kettle; but nobody was near, so, of course, I cannot say anything about it. At any rate, when Jessy came out with the spoon, he was standing with both hands in his pockets, looking in the opposite direction. He took the great iron spoon and fished about in the kettle for some time. At last there was a little clinking noise, and the old gentleman lifted the spoon.

Oh, wonder and delight! In it lay three great, broad, shining pieces of gold! Jessy could hardly believe her eyes. She stared and stared; and when the old gentleman put the gold into her hand, she still stood as if in a happy dream, gazing at it. Suddenly she started, and remembered that she had not thanked her kindly helper. She looked up, and began, “Thank you, sir;” but the old gentleman was gone.

Well, the next question was, How could Jessy possibly wait till twelve o’clock for her mother to come home? Knitting was out of the question. She could do nothing but dance and look out the window, and look out the window and dance, holding the precious coins tight in her hand. At last, a well-known footstep was heard outside the door, and Mrs. Gray came in, looking very tired and worn. She smiled, however, when she saw Jessy, and said,—
“Well, my darling, I am glad to see you looking so bright. How has the morning gone with my little housekeeper?”

“Oh, mother!” cried Jessy, hopping about on one foot, “it has gone very well! oh, very, very, very well! Oh, my mother dear, what do you think I have got in my hand? What do you think? oh, what do you think?” and she went dancing round and round, till poor Mrs. Gray was quite dizzy with watching her. At last she stopped, and holding out her hand, opened it and showed her mother what was in it. Mrs. Gray was really frightened.

“Jessy, my child!” she cried, “where did you get all that money?”
“Out of the cupperty-buts, Mamma!” said Jessy, “out of the cupperty-buts! and it’s all for you, every bit of it! Dear Mamma, now you will be happy, will you not?”
“Jessy,” said Mrs. Gray, “have you lost your senses, or are you playing some trick on me? Tell me all about this at once, dear child, and don’t talk nonsense.”
“But it isn’t nonsense, Mamma!” cried Jessy, “and it did come out of the cupperty-buts!”

And then she told her mother the whole story. The tears came into Mrs. Gray’s eyes, but they were tears of joy and gratitude.
“Jessy dear,” she said, “when we say our prayers tonight, let us never forget to pray for that good gentleman. I hope he is blessed and rewarded! For if it had not been for him, Jessy dear, I fear you would never have found the ‘Buttercup Gold.’”

Written by Thornton Burgess

Happy Jack knew all about his big neighbors, and he was always on the watch for them. He knew their ways and just where they would be likely to hide and try to catch him. He took the greatest care to look into every such hiding place near at hand before he ventured down out of the trees, and because his neighbors are so big, he never had any trouble seeing them if they happened to be around. So Happy Jack didn’t do much worrying about them. The fact is, Happy Jack wasn’t afraid of them at all, for the simple reason that he knew they couldn’t follow him into his hollow tree.

Having nuts stored away, he would have been perfectly happy but for one thing. That was the fear that Shadow the Weasel might take it into his head to pay him a visit. Shadow can go through a smaller hole than Happy Jack can, and so Happy Jack knew that while he was wholly safe from his other enemies, he wasn’t safe at all from Shadow the Weasel. And this worried him. Yes, Sir, it worried Happy Jack. He hadn’t seen or heard of Shadow for a long time, but he had a feeling that he was likely to turn up almost any time, especially now that everything was covered with snow and ice. But no good comes of worrying. Not a bit of good comes of worrying, and Happy Jack knows it.

“All I can do is to watch out and be careful,” he said, and he dropped the shell of a nut on the head of Reddy Fox, who happened to be passing under the tree in which Happy Jack was sitting. Reddy looked up and showed his teeth. Happy Jack laughed and scampered away through the tree-tops to another part of the Green Forest where he had some very secret stores of nuts.

He was gone most of the day, and when he started back home he was in the best of spirits, for his stores had not been found by anyone else. He was in such good spirits that for once he quite forgot Shadow the Weasel. He was just going to pop into his doorway without first looking inside, a very silly thing to do, when he heard someone calling him. He turned to see Tommy T the Chickadee hurrying towards him, and it was very clear that Tommy was greatly excited.

“Hello, Tommy T! What wrong?” exclaimed Happy Jack.
“Don’t go in there, Happy Jack!” cried Tommy T. “Shadow the Weasel is in there waiting for you!”
Happy Jack turned quite pale. “Are you sure?” he gasped.
Tommy T nodded as if he would nod his head off. “I saw him go in, and he hasn’t come out and I’ve kept watch,” said he. “You better get away from here before he knows you are about.”
That was good advice, but it was too late. Even as Tommy T spoke, a face with red eyes was thrust out of Happy Jack’s doorway. It was the face of Shadow the Weasel.

Happy Jack Squirrel turned tail and ran the instant he caught sight of Shadow the Weasel.
It was the wisest thing he could have done. He hoped with a mighty hope that Shadow would not follow him, but he hoped in vain. Shadow had made up his mind, and he didn’t propose to see Happy Jack run away without trying to catch him. So the instant Happy Jack started, Shadow started after him, stopping only long enough to snarl at Tommy T the Chickadee, because Tommy had warned Happy Jack that Shadow was waiting for him.

But Tommy didn’t mind that threat. Oh, my, no! Tommy didn’t mind it at all. He can fly, and so he had no fear of Shadow the Weasel. But he was terribly afraid for Happy Jack. He knew, just as Happy Jack knew, that there wasn’t a single place where Happy Jack could hide into which Shadow could not follow him. So Tommy flitted from tree to tree behind Happy Jack, hoping that in some way he might be able to help him.

From tree to tree raced Happy Jack, making desperately long leaps. Shadow the Weasel followed, and though he ran swiftly, he didn’t appear to be hurrying, and he took no chances on those long leaps. If the leap was too long to take safely, Shadow simply ran back down the tree, across to the next one and up that. It didn’t worry him at all that Happy Jack was so far ahead that he was out of sight. He knew that he could trust his nose to follow the scent of Happy Jack. He knew Happy Jack would get tired soon.

And this is just what Happy Jack did. He ran and jumped and jumped and ran as fast as he could until he was so out of breath that he just had to stop for a rest. But he couldn’t rest much. He was too scared. He shivered and shook while he got his breath, and never for a second did he take his eyes from his back trail. Soon he saw a slim white form darting along the snow straight towards the tree in which he was resting. So once more Happy Jack ran.

He had to rest more often now, and each rest was shorter than the one before, because Shadow was getting closer. Poor Happy Jack! He had tried every trick he knew, and none of them had fooled Shadow the Weasel. Now he was too tired to run much farther. Then he gritted his teeth and made up his mind that he would not give up. It was just at that very minute that he heard the voice of Tommy T the Chickadee calling to him in great excitement, and somehow, he didn’t know why, a wee bit of hope sprang up in his heart.

It never has been fully decided among the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows just who really did save Happy Jack Squirrel. Some say that Tommy T the Chickadee deserves all the credit, and some say that—just wait. Let me tell you just what happened, and then perhaps you can decide for yourself who saved Happy Jack.

You see, it was this way: Happy Jack had run and run and run and tried every trick he knew to get away from Shadow the Weasel. At last he was so out of breath and so tired that he felt that he couldn’t run any more. He had just made up his mind that he would wait right where he was for Shadow and try to reason with him, when he heard Tommy T calling to him in great excitement.
“Dee, dee, chickadee! Come here quick, Happy Jack! Come here quick!” called Tommy T.
A wee bit of hope sprang up in Happy Jack’s heart. He couldn’t imagine what possible help Tommy T could be, but he would go see. So taking a long breath he started on as fast as he could in the direction of Tommy’s voice. He couldn’t run very fast, because, you know, he was so tired, but he did the best he could. Presently he saw Tommy just ahead of him flying about in great excitement.

“Dee, dee, dee, there he is! Go to him! Go to him, Happy Jack! Hurry! Hurry! Dee, dee, dee, oh, do hurry!” cried Tommy T.
For just a second Happy Jack didn’t know what he meant. Then he saw Farmer Brown’s boy watching Tommy T as if he didn’t know what to make of the little fellow’s excitement.
“Go to him! Go to him!” called Tommy. “He won’t hurt you, and he won’t let Shadow the Weasel catch you! See me! See me! Dee, dee, see me!” And with that Tommy T flew right down on Farmer Brown’s boy’s hand, for you know he and Farmer Brown’s boy are great friends.

Happy Jack hesitated. He knew that Farmer Brown’s boy had tried to make friends with him, and every day since the ice and snow had come had put out nuts and corn for him, but he couldn’t quite forget his fear of him. So now he hesitated. Then he looked back. Shadow the Weasel was only a few jumps behind him. Happy Jack made up his mind, and with a little gasp raced madly across the snow straight to Farmer Brown’s boy and ran right up to his shoulder.

Shadow the Weasel had been so intent on catching Happy Jack that he hadn’t noticed Farmer Brown’s boy at all. Now he saw him for the first time and stopped short. For a minute it looked as if he really meant to follow Happy Jack and try to catch him in spite of Farmer Brown’s boy, and Happy Jack trembled as he looked down into those little red eyes. But Shadow knows when he is well off, and now he knew better than to come a step nearer. So he snarled, and then, as Farmer Brown’s boy took a step forward, leaped to one side and disappeared in the old stone wall.

Very gently and softly Farmer Brown’s boy talked to Happy Jack as he took him to the nearest tree. Then, when Happy Jack was safely up in the tree, he went over to the stone wall and tried to drive Shadow the Weasel out. He pulled over the stones until at last Shadow jumped out, and then Farmer Brown’s boy chased him clear into the Green Forest.
“Dee, dee, dee, what did I tell you?” cried Tommy T happily, as he flew over to where Happy Jack was sitting.
Now who really saved Happy Jack—Tommy T or Farmer Brown’s boy?

After this, of course, Happy Jack and Farmer Brown’s boy became great friends. Farmer Brown’s boy came over to the Green Forest every day to see Happy Jack, and he always had the most delicious nuts in his pockets. At first Happy Jack had been a wee bit shy. He couldn’t quite get over that old fear he had had so long. Then he would remember how Farmer Brown’s boy had saved him, and he would walk right up and take the nuts.

Farmer Brown’s boy would talk to him in the nicest way and that there wasn’t the least thing in the world to be afraid of. Pretty soon Happy Jack began to love Farmer Brown’s boy a little. He couldn’t help it. He just had to love any one who was so kind and gentle to him. It got so that Happy Jack looked forward each day to the visit of Farmer Brown’s boy, and as soon as he heard his whistle, he would hasten to meet him. Some folks were unkind enough to say that it was just because of the nuts and corn he was sure to find in Farmer Brown’s boy’s pockets, but that wasn’t so at all.

At last there came a day when he missed the cheery whistle. He waited and waited. At last he went clear to the edge of the Green Forest, but there was no whistle and no sign of Farmer Brown’s boy. It was the same way the next day and the next. Happy Jack forgot to frisk about the way he usually does. He lost his appetite. He just sat around and moped.
When Tommy T the Chickadee came to call, as he did every day, Happy Jack found that Tommy was worried too. Tommy had been up to Farmer Brown’s dooryard several times, and he hadn’t seen anything of Farmer Brown’s boy.
“I think he must have gone away,” said Tommy.
“He would have come down here first and said good-by,” replied Happy Jack.
“You—you don’t suppose something has happened to him, do you?” asked Tommy.
“I – I don’t know. I don’t know what to think,” replied Happy Jack. “Do you know, Tommy, I’ve grown very fond of Farmer Brown’s boy.”

“Of course. Dee, dee, dee, of course. Everybody who really knows him is fond of him. I’ve said all along that he is the best friend we’ve got, but no one seemed to believe me. I’m glad you’ve found it out for yourself. I tell you what, I’ll go up to his house and have another look around.” And without waiting for a reply, Tommy was off as fast as his little wings could take him.
“I hope, I do hope, that nothing has happened to him,” mumbled Happy Jack, as he pretended to hunt for buried nuts while he waited for Tommy T to come back, and by “him” he meant Farmer Brown’s boy.

Happy Jack very plainly was not happy. He fussed about on the edge of the Green Forest. He just couldn’t keep still. When he thought anybody was looking, he pretended to hunt for some of the nuts he had buried in the fall, and dug holes down through the snow. But as soon as he thought that no one was watching, he would scamper up a tree where he could look over to Farmer Brown’s house and look and look. It was very clear that Happy Jack was watching for some one and that he was anxious, very anxious, indeed.

It was getting late in the afternoon, and soon the Black Shadows would begin to creep out from the Purple Hills, behind which jolly, round, red Mr. Sun would go to bed. It would be bedtime for Happy Jack then, for you know he goes to bed very early, just as soon as it begins to get dark. The later it got, the more anxious and uneasy Happy Jack grew. He had just made up his mind that in a few minutes he would have to give up and go to bed when there was a flit of tiny wings, and Tommy T dropped into the tree beside him.

“Did you find out anything?” asked Happy Jack eagerly, before Tommy had a chance to say a word.
Tommy nodded. “He’s there!” he panted, for he was quite out of breath from hurrying so.
“Where?” Happy Jack fairly shouted the question.
“Over there in the house,” replied Tommy T.
“Then he hasn’t gone away! It’s just as I said, he hasn’t gone away!” cried Happy Jack, and he was so relieved that he jumped up and down and as a result and nearly tumbled out of the tree.
“No,” replied Tommy, “he hasn’t gone away, but I think there is something the matter with him.”
Happy Jack grew very serious. “What makes you think so?” he demanded.
“If you’ll give me time to get my breath, I’ll tell you all about it,” retorted Tommy T.
“All right, only please hurry,” replied Happy Jack, and tried to look patient even if he wasn’t.

Tommy T smoothed out some rumpled feathers and was most provokingly slow about it. “When I left here,” he began at last, “I flew straight up to Farmer Brown’s house, as I said I would. I flew all around it, but all I saw was that horrible Black cat on the back doorsteps, and she looked at me and that she made me dreadfully uncomfortable. I don’t see what Farmer Brown keeps her about for, anyways.”
“Never mind her; go on!” interrupted Happy Jack.
“Then I flew all around the barn, but I didn’t see anyone there but Bully the English Sparrow, and he wanted to pick a fight with me right away.” Tommy looked very indignant.
“Oh, Never mind him, go on!” cried Happy Jack impatiently.

“After that I flew back to the big maple tree close by the house,” continued Tommy. “You know Farmer Brown’s boy has kept a piece of suet tied in that tree all winter for me. I was hungry, and I thought I would get a bite to eat, but there wasn’t any suet there. Sammy Jay had managed to get it untied and had carried it all away. Of course that made me angry, and twice as hungry as before. I was trying to make up my mind what to do next when I happened to look over on the window sill, and what do you think I saw there?”
“What?” demanded Happy Jack eagerly.
“A lot of cracked hickory nuts!” declared Tommy. “I just knew that they were meant for me, and when I was sure that the way was clear, I flew over there. They tasted so good that I almost forgot about Farmer Brown’s boy, when I just happened to look in the window. You know those windows are made of some strange stuff that looks like ice and isn’t, and that you can see right through.”
Happy Jack didn’t know, for he never had been near enough to see, but he nodded, and Tommy T went on.
“There were strange things inside, and I was wondering what they could be when all of a sudden I saw him. He was lying down, and there was something the matter with him. I tapped on the window to him and then I hurried back here.”

It was not very many nights after Big Brother had tumbled from the maple-tree, when he and the other children were invited to a Raccoon party down by the pond. The water was low, and in the small pools by the shore there were many fresh-water clams and small fishes, such as Raccoons like best of all.

A family of six young Raccoons who lived very near the pond had found them just before sunrise, when they had to climb off to bed. They knew there was much more food there than they could eat alone, so their mother had let them invite their four friends who lived in the hollow of the oak-tree.

The party was to begin the next evening at moonrise, and the four children who lived in the oak-tree got their invitation just as they were going to sleep for the day. They were very much excited over it, for they had never been to a party.

“I wish we could go now,” said Big Brother.
“Yes, lots of fun it would be now!” answered Little Brother. “The sun is almost up, and there are no clouds in the sky. We couldn’t see a thing unless we shaded our eyes with our fore paws, and if we had to use our fore paws in that way we couldn’t eat.”

“You do eat at parties, don’t you?” asked Little Sister, who had not quite understood what was said.
“Of course,” shouted her brothers. “That is what parties are for.”
“I thought maybe you talked some,” said Big Sister.
“I suppose you do have to, some,” said Big Brother, “but I know you eat. I’ve heard people tell about parties lots of times, and they always begin by telling what they ate. That’s what makes it a party.”
“Oh, I wish it were nighttime and time to go,” sighed Little Brother.
“I don’t,” said Little Sister. “I wouldn’t have any fun if I were to go now. I’d rather wait until my stomach is empty.”

“There!” said their mother. “You children have talked long enough. Now curl down and go to sleep. The birds are already singing their morning songs, and the Owls and Bats were dreaming long ago. It will make night-time come much sooner if you do not stay awake.”
“We’re not a bit sleepy,” cried all the young Raccoons together.

“That makes no difference at all,” said their mother, and she spoke quite sternly. “Cuddle down for the day now, cover your eyes, and stop talking. I’m not saying you must sleep, but you must stop talking.”
They knew that when she spoke in that way and said “must,” there was nothing to do but to listen. So they cuddled down, and every one of them was asleep before you could drop an acorn. Mother Raccoon had known it would be so.

When they awakened, early the next night, each young Raccoon had to make himself look as neat as possible. There was long fur to be combed, faces and paws to be washed, and twenty-three burrs to be taken out of Little Brother’s tail. He began to take them out himself, but his mother found that whenever he got one loose he stuck it onto one of the other children, so she made him sit on a branch by himself while she worked at the burrs. Sometimes she couldn’t help pulling the fur, and then he tried to wriggle away.

“You’ve got enough out,” he cried. “Let the rest go.”
“You should have thought sooner how it would hurt,” she said. “You have been told again and again to keep away from the burrs.” Then she took out another burr and dropped it to the ground.
“Ooh!” he said. “Let me go!”
“Not until I am done,” she answered. “No child of mine shall ever go to a party looking as you do.”

After that Little Brother tried to hold still, and he had time to think how glad he was that he didn’t have any more burrs than he did. If he had gotten more onto himself, he would have had to wait while they were pulled off again, and then they might have been late for the party. If he had been very good, he would have been glad they didn’t have to be hurt as he was. But he was not very good, and he never thought of that.

When he was ready at last, Mother Raccoon made her four children sit in a row while she talked to them. “Remember to walk on your toes,” said she, “although you may stand flat-footed if you wish. Don’t act greedy if you can help it. Go into the water as much as you choose, but don’t try to dive, even if they dare you to. Raccoons can never learn to dive, no matter how well they swim. And be sure to wash your food before you eat it.”

All the young Raccoons said “Yes, Mom,” and thought they would remember every word. The first moonbeam shone on the top of the oak-tree, and Mrs. Raccoon said: “Now you may go. Be good children and remember what I told you. Don’t stay too long. Start home when you see the first light in the east.”
“Yes, Mom,” said the young Raccoons, as they walked off very properly toward the pond. After they were well away from the oak-tree, they heard their mother calling to them: “Remember to walk on your toes!”

Raccoons cannot go very fast, and the moon was shining brightly when they reached the pond and met their six friends. Such frolics as they had in the shallow water, swimming, twisting, turning, scooping up food with their busy fore paws, going up and down the beach, and rolling on the sand! They never once remembered what their mother had told them, and they acted exactly as they had been in the habit of doing every day.

Big Brother looked admiringly at his own tail every chance he got, although he had been told particularly not to act as if he thought himself fine-looking. Little Brother rolled into a lot of sand-burrs and got his fur so matted that he looked worse than ever. Big Sister snatched food from other Raccoons, and no one of them remembered about walking on tiptoe. Little Sister ate half the time without washing her food. Of course that didn’t matter when the food was taken from the pond, but when they found some on the beach and ate it without washing—that was dreadful. No Raccoon who is anybody at all will do that.

The mother of the family of six looked on from a tree nearby. The children did not know that she was there. “What manners!” said she. “I don’t think I will invite them here again.” Just then she saw one of her own sons eat without washing his food, and she groaned out loud. “My children are forgetting too,” she said. “I have told him hundreds of times that if he did that way every day he would do so at a party, but he has always said he would remember.”

The mother of the four young Raccoons was out hunting and found herself near the pond. “How noisy those children are!” she said to herself. “Night people should be quiet.” She tiptoed along to a pile of rocks and peeped between them to see what was going on. She saw her children’s footprints on the sand. “Aha!” she said. “So they did walk flat-footed after all.”

She heard somebody scrambling down a tree nearby. “Good-evening,” said a pleasant Raccoon voice near her. It was the mother of six. “Are you watching the children’s party?” asked the newcomer. “I hope you did not notice how badly my son is behaving. I have tried to teach my children good manners, but they will be careless when I am not looking, and then, of course, they forget in company.”

That made the mother of the four feel more comfortable. “I know just how that is,” she said. “Mine mean to be good, but they are so careless. It is very discouraging.”
The two mothers talked for a long time in whispers and then each went to her hole.

When the four young Raccoons came home, it was beginning to grow light, and they kept close together because they were somewhat afraid. Their mother was waiting to see them settled for the day. She asked if they had had a good time, and said she was glad they got home promptly. They had been afraid she would ask if they had washed their food and walked on their toes. She even seemed not to notice Little Brother’s matted coat.

When they awakened the next night, the mother hurried them off with her to the same pond where they had been to the party. “I am going to visit with the mother of your friends,” she said, “and you may play around and amuse yourselves.”

The young Raccoons had another fine time, although Little Brother found it very uncomfortable to wear so many burrs. They played tag in the trees, and ate, and swam, and lay on the beach. While they were lying there, the four from the oak-tree noticed that their mother was walking flat-footed. There was bright moonlight and anybody might see her. They felt dreadful about it. Then they saw her begin to eat food which she had not washed. They were so ashamed that they didn’t want to look their friends in the eye. They didn’t know their friends were feeling in the same way because they had seen their mother doing the same things.

After they reached home, Big Brother said, very timidly, to his mother: “Did you know you ate some food without washing it?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered; “it is a bother to dip it all in water.”
“And you walked flat-footed,” said Little Brother.
“Well, why shouldn’t I, if I want to?” said she.
The children began to cry: “P-people will think you don’t know any b-better,” they said.

“Oh!” said their mother. “Oh! Oh! So you think that my manners are not so good as yours! Is that it?”
The young Raccoons looked at each other in a very uncomfortable way. “Ah, We suppose we don’t always do things right ourselves,” they answered, “but you are grown up.”
“Yes,” replied their mother. “And you will be one day soon.”

For a long time nobody spoke, and Little Sister cried quietly. Then Mrs. Raccoon spoke more gently: “The sun is rising,” she said. “We will go to sleep now, and when we awaken to-morrow night we will try to have better manners, so that we need not be ashamed of each other at parties or at home.”

Long after the rest were dreaming, Big Sister nudged Big Brother and woke him. “I understand it now,” she said. “She did it on purpose.”
“Who did what?” he asked.
“Why, our mother. She was rude on purpose to let us see how it looked.”
Big Brother thought for a minute. “Of course,” he said. “Of course she did! Well she won’t ever have to do it again for me.”
“Nor for me,” said Big Sister. Then they went to sleep.

Written by Thornton Burgess

“Let me go! Let me go!” yelled Happy Jack, as he backed out of the hollow stump faster than he had gone in, a great deal faster. Can you guess why? I’ll tell you. It was because he was being pulled out. Yes, Sir, Happy Jack Squirrel was being pulled out by his big, bushy tail.

Happy Jack was more frightened than hurt. To be sure, it is not at all comfortable to have one’s tail pulled, but Happy Jack wouldn’t have minded this so much had it not been so unexpected, or if he could have seen who was pulling it. And then, right inside Happy Jack didn’t feel a bit good. Why? Well, because he was doing a dreadful thing, and he knew that it was a dreadful thing. He had broken into somebody’s storehouse to steal. He was sure that it was Striped Chipmunk’s storehouse, and he wouldn’t admit to himself that he was going to steal, actually steal. But all the time, right down deep in his heart, he knew that if he took any of those hickory nuts it would be stealing.

But Happy Jack had been careless. When he had made the doorway big enough for him to crawl inside, he had left his tail hanging outside. Some one had very, very softly stolen up and grabbed it and begun to pull. It was so sudden and unexpected that Happy Jack yelled with fright. When he could get his wits together, he thought of course Striped Chipmunk had come back and was pulling his tail. When he thought that, he got over his fright right away, for Striped Chipmunk is such a little fellow that Happy Jack knew that he had nothing; to fear from him.

So as fast as he could, Happy Jack backed out of the hole and whirled around. Of course he expected to face a very angry little Chipmunk. But he didn’t. No, he didn’t. Instead, he looked right into the angry face of his other cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel. And Chatterer was angry! Oh my, my, how angry Chatterer was! For a minute he couldn’t find his voice, because his anger fairly choked him. And when he did, how his tongue did fly!

“You thief! You robber! What are you doing in my storehouse?” he shrieked.
Happy Jack backed away hurriedly, for though he is much bigger than Chatterer, he has a very wholesome respect for Chatterer’s sharp teeth, and when he is very angry, Chatterer is a great fighter.

“I—I didn’t know it was your storehouse,” said Happy Jack, backing away still further.
“It doesn’t make any difference if you didn’t; you’re a thief just the same!” screamed Chatterer and rushed at Happy Jack. And what do you think Happy Jack did? Why, he just turned tail and ran, Chatterer after him, crying “Thief! Thief!” at the top of his lungs, so that everyone in the Green Forest could hear.

Striped Chipmunk sat on a mossy old log, laughing until his sides ached. “Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” laughed Striped Chipmunk, holding his sides. Over in the Green Forest he could still hear Chatterer the Red Squirrel crying “Thief! Thief!” as he chased his big cousin, Happy Jack, and every time he heard it, Striped Chipmunk laughed harder.

You see, Striped Chipmunk had known all the time that Happy Jack was spying on him, and he had had no end of fun fooling Happy Jack by suddenly disappearing and then bobbing into view. He had known that Happy Jack was following him so as to find out where his storehouse was. Then Striped Chipmunk had remembered the storehouse of Chatterer the Red Squirrel. He had filled the pockets in his cheeks with acorns and gone straight over to Chatterer’s storehouse and put them inside, knowing that Happy Jack would follow him and would think that that was his storehouse. And that is just what happened.

Then Striped Chipmunk had hidden himself where he could see all that happened. He had seen Happy Jack look all around, to make sure that no one was near, and then tear open the little round doorway of Chatterer’s storehouse until it was big enough for him to squeeze through. He had seen Chatterer come up, fly into a rage, and pull Happy Jack out by the tail. Indeed, he had had to clap both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Then Happy Jack had turned tail and run away with Chatterer after him, shouting “Thief” at the top of his voice, and this had tickled Striped Chipmunk still more, for he knew that Chatterer himself is one of the greatest thieves in the Green Forest. So he sat on the mossy old log and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Finally Striped Chipmunk wiped the tears from his eyes and jumped up. “My, my, this will never do!” he said.
“Idle hands and idle feet
Never filled a storehouse yet;
But instead, so I’ve heard say,
Into mischief surely get.”

“Here it is almost Thanksgiving and—” Striped Chipmunk stopped and scratched his head, while a funny little pleased look crept into his face. “I wonder if Happy Jack and Chatterer would come to a Thanksgiving dinner,” he muttered. “I believe I’ll ask them just for fun.”

Then Striped Chipmunk hurried home full of his new idea and chuckled as he planned his Thanksgiving dinner. Of course he couldn’t have it at his own house. That wouldn’t do at all. In the first place, the doorway would be altogether too small for Happy Jack. Anyway, his home was a secret, his very own secret, and he didn’t propose to let Happy Jack and Chatterer know where it was, even for a Thanksgiving dinner. Then he thought of the big, smooth, mossy log he had been sitting on that very morning.

“The very place!” cried Striped Chipmunk, and scurried away to find Happy Jack Squirrel and Chatterer the Red Squirrel to invite them to his Thanksgiving dinner.

Striped Chipmunk jumped out of bed very early Thanksgiving morning. It was going to be a very busy day. He had invited Happy Jack the Gray Squirrel, and Chatterer the Red Squirrel, to eat Thanksgiving dinner with him, and each had promised to be there. Striped Chipmunk chuckled as he thought how neither of his guests knew that the other was going to be there. He washed his face and hands, brushed his hair, and ate his breakfast. Then he scurried over to his splendid new storehouse, which no one knew of but himself, and stuffed the pockets in his cheeks with good things to eat. When he couldn’t stuff another thing in, he scurried over to the nice, mossy log on the edge of the Green Forest, and there he emptied his pockets, for that was to be his dining table.

Back and forth, back and forth between his secret storehouse and the smooth, mossy log hurried Striped Chipmunk. He knew that Happy Jack and the Chatterer have great appetites, and he wanted to be sure that there were plenty of good things to eat. And as he scurried along, he sang a little song.
“Thanksgiving comes but once a year,
But when it comes it brings good cheer.
For in my storehouse on this day
Are piles of good things hid away.

Each day I’ve worked from early morn
To gather acorns, nuts, and corn,
Till now I’ve plenty and to spare
Without a worry or a care.
So light of heart the whole day long,
I’ll sing a glad Thanksgiving song.”

Promptly at the dinner hour Happy Jack appeared coming from one direction, and Chatterer the Red Squirrel coming from another direction. They didn’t see each other until just as they reached Striped Chipmunk’s smooth, mossy log. Then they stopped and scowled. Striped Chipmunk pretended not to notice anything wrong and bustled about, talking all the time as if his guests were the best of friends.

On the smooth, mossy log was a great pile of shining yellow corn. There was another pile of plump ripe acorns, and three little piles of dainty looking brown seeds. But the thing that Happy Jack couldn’t keep his eyes off was right in the middle. It was a huge pile of big, fat hickory nuts. Now who could remain ill-tempered and cross with such a lot of goodies spread before him? Certainly not Happy Jack or his cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel. They just had to smile in spite of themselves, and when Striped Chipmunk urged them to sit down and help themselves, they did. In three minutes they were so busy eating that they had forgotten all about their quarrel and were laughing and chatting like the best of friends.

“It’s quite a family party, isn’t it?” said Striped Chipmunk, for you know they are all cousins.
Whitefoot the Wood Mouse happened along, and Striped Chipmunk insisted that he should join the party. Later Sammy Jay came along, and nothing would excuse him from sharing in the feast, too. When everybody had eaten and eaten until they couldn’t hold another thing, and it was time to think of going home, Striped Chipmunk insisted that Happy Jack and Chatterer should divide between them the big, fat hickory nuts that were left, and they did without once quarreling about it.

“Thanksgiving comes but once a year,
And when it comes it brings good cheer,”
said Striped Chipmunk to himself as he watched his guests depart.

Happy Jack sat up in a chestnut tree, and his face was very serious. The fact is, Happy Jack was doing some very hard thinking. This is so very unusual for him that Sammy Jay stopped to ask if he was sick. You see he is naturally a happy-go-lucky little scamp, and that is one reason that he is called Happy Jack. But this morning he was thinking and thinking hard, so hard, in fact, that he almost lost his temper when Sammy Jay interrupted his thoughts with such a foolish question.

What was he thinking about? Can you not guess? Why, he was thinking about those big, fat hickory nuts that Striped Chipmunk had had for his Thanksgiving dinner, and how Striped Chipmunk had given him some of them to bring home. He was very sure that they were the very same nuts that he had watched grow big and fat in the top of the tall hickory tree and then had knocked down while chasing his cousin, Chatterer. When they had reached the ground and found the nuts gone, Happy Jack had at once suspected that Striped Chipmunk had taken them, and now he felt sure about it.

But all at once things looked very different to Happy Jack, and the more he thought about how he had acted, the more ashamed of himself he grew.

“There certainly must have been enough of those nuts for all of us, and if I hadn’t been so greedy we might all have had a share. As it is, I’ve got only those that Striped Chipmunk gave me, and Chatterer has only those that Striped Chipmunk gave him. It must be that that sharp little cousin of mine with the striped coat has got the rest, and I guess he deserves them.”

Then all of a sudden Happy Jack realized how Striped Chipmunk had fooled him into thinking that the storehouse of Chatterer was his storehouse, and Happy Jack began to laugh. The more he thought of it, the harder he laughed.

“The joke certainly is on me!” he exclaimed. “The joke certainly is on me, and it serves me right. Hereafter I’ll mind my own business. If I had spent half as much time looking for hickory nuts as I did looking for Striped Chipmunk’s storehouse, I would be ready for winter now, and Chatterer couldn’t call me a thief.”

Then he laughed again as he thought how Striped Chipmunk must have enjoyed seeing him pulled out of Chatterer’s storehouse by the tail.
“What’s the joke?” asked Bobby raccoon, who happened along just then.
“I’ve just learned a lesson,” replied Happy Jack.
“What is it?” asked Bobby.
Happy Jack grinned as he answered:
“I’ve found that greed will never, never pay.
It makes one cross and ugly, and it drives one’s friends away.
And being always selfish and always wanting more,
One’s very apt to lose the things that one has had before.”
“Huh!” said Bobby Coon. “Have you just found that out? I learned that a long time ago.”

“Brother Carl, wake up! wake up! Don’t you hear the great bell? Father is ringing the New Year in, don’t you hear it, little Carl? Wake up!”

Tangled-haired little Carl sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and after a few winks opened them wide.
“Is it the wind, brother Hans, that sings so?”
“No, no! It is the great bell; don’t you hear it ring? It is ringing for the New Year.”
“Is father drawing the rope?” asked the little one.
“Of course he is, little Carl; he is waking up the whole world that every one may wish a ‘Happy New Year.’ Come, let us go to the window.”
And the two little fellows crept out of their warm nest onto the cold floor, and over to the window.
“Oh, see, there is father’s lantern in the steeple window!” cried Carl.

It threw its light into the frosty night; the clear stars cut sharp holes in the sky, and the air was so cold it made everything glisten.
A-ring-a-ring, ring! clanged the great bell, and little Hans and Carl knew their father’s arms were making it ring. The strokes were so strong that each one made little half-asleep Carl wink; and the stars seemed to wink back to him each time. He crept closer to Hans, and the two stood still with their arms about each other; the room was quite cold, but they did not mind it, for with each stroke the great bell seemed to ring more beautifully. It seemed so near them, as if ringing right in their ears, and the two little boys stood and listened with beating hearts.

“I saw dear father trim his lantern,” whispered Hans. “He set it near the door before we went to bed, all ready to light when the clock struck twelve. Mother said to him as he put the lantern there, ‘Ring the bell good and strong, dear father, for who knows but this year may bring the great blessing which the Christ-child promised!’ We must watch for it, little Carl.”
And the old bell seemed to speak louder and clearer to the little ones, as they eagerly listened for what it was telling.
“Father says the bell will never ring from the old tower again, for the new one is being built,” said Hans. “And what do you think, brother Carl, our dear mother wept because the old steeple must be broken down, and the dear bell, that is even now a-ringing, must be put into another great tower to ring.”

“Does the great bell know it, brother?”
“No, dear little Carl; but no matter where it is put it will always ring, and be glad to wake the village for the New Year.”
“Will we go and say good-bye to the dear old bell, brother Hans?” whispered little Carl.
“Yes, brother mine; when it is day we will go, for it has rung so many times for us.”
They crept out of the cold into their snug bed again, and the great strokes poured from the window tower long after the little curly heads were full of dreams.

“Wake up, brother Hans! there is the sun.”
This time little Carl was the first to wake. Quickly they were both dressed, and, opening their door noiselessly, they went down the narrow stairs on tiptoe, and then out into the open air.

A swift wind was blowing. It swept over the bare bushes and whirled the snow into the children’s faces, and filled their curly hair with flakes. But the sun was smiling down on them and said: “See what a beautiful day I brought for a New Year’s gift to you!”
And the little ones passed through the church door, that was always open, and into the belfry tower. They knew the way, for father had so often taken them with him.

They came to the long, dark ladder-way; but they did not mind the dark—for they knew the bell was at the top, and they bravely began to climb.

Hans had wooden shoes, so he left them at the foot of the ladder. It is so much easier to climb a ladder with bare feet. Besides, he hardly felt the cold he was such a quick and lively little boy.
Carl went ahead that brother Hans might be more easily able to help him. They climbed, up and up, and the brave big brother talked merrily all the time, to keep little Carl from thinking of the long, long way. Up and up they went. It became darker and darker. Little Carl led on and on, and he was glad that Hans was behind him.

All at once a bright gleam of light greeted them from above, and they knew that soon they would be with the dear old bell.
Through the opening they crept, and there the great bell hung and they stood beneath it. Hans could just touch it, and he felt its long tongue and saw the shining marks on its sides where it had struck in clanging for many, many years.
It was very cold in the belfry. Little Carl tucked his hands under his shirt and gazed at the bell, while Hans explained to him what made the music and the great tolling tones that came from it.

“The whole world loves the great bell, brother Carl,” said Hans. “Mother thinks that last night it rang in the great blessing which the Christ-child had promised.”
“What did the little Christ-child promise, brother?”
“Don’t you remember, little Carl? Mother told us that the Christ-child would send little children a beautiful gift; I think it must be the New Year that he has sent, for that is what the old bell brought to us last night.”
And Hans lifted little Carl, and he kissed the beautiful bell on its great round lip, and the bell was still warm from its long ringing.
And they stood and looked at the bell quietly for a long time. And then they said, “Good-bye, dear great bell,” and they went down the dark ladder again.

Hans put on his wooden shoes at the foot of the ladder, and with flying feet they crossed the church garden, and there stood the dear mother in the door looking for them. She had found their little bed empty, and was just starting out to find them.
“Dear Mother, we have been in the tower to thank the great bell for bringing the New Year,” cried Hans.
“Did the Christ-child send it, Mother?” asked little Carl.
The mother stooped and put her arms about them and kissed them both. As she led them into the room she said, “Yes, my little ones, the Christ-child sends the New Year.”

Written by Thornton Burgess

Happy Jack didn’t look one bit happy. Indeed, Happy Jack looked very unhappy. You see, he looked just as he felt. He had set his heart on having all the big, fat nuts that he had found in the top of that tall hickory tree, and now, instead of having all of them, he didn’t have any of them. Worse still, he knew right down in his heart that it was his own fault. He had been too greedy. But what had become of those nuts?

Happy Jack was thinking about this as he sat with his back against a big chestnut tree. He remembered how hard Peter Rabbit had laughed when Happy Jack and his cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, had been so surprised because they could not find the nuts they had knocked down. Peter hadn’t taken them, for Peter has no use for them, but he must know what had become of them, for he was still laughing as he had gone off down the Lone Little Path.

While he was thinking of all this, Happy Jack’s bright eyes had been wide open, as they usually are, so that no danger should come near. Suddenly they saw something moving among the brown-and-yellow leaves on the ground. Happy Jack looked sharply, and then a sudden thought popped into his head.

“Hi, there, Cousin Chipmunk!” he shouted.
“Hi, there, your own self!” replied Striped Chipmunk, for it was he.
“What are you doing down there?” asked Happy Jack.
“Looking for hickory nuts,” replied Striped Chipmunk, and his eyes twinkled as he said it, for there wasn’t a hickory tree near.

Happy Jack looked hard at Striped Chipmunk, for that sudden thought which had popped into his head when he first saw Striped Chipmunk was growing into a strong suspicion that Striped Chipmunk knew something about those lost hickory nuts. But Striped Chipmunk looked back at him so innocently that Happy Jack didn’t know just what to think.

“Have you begun to fill your storehouse for winter yet?” inquired Happy Jack.
“Of course I have. I don’t mean to let Jack Frost catch me with an empty storehouse,” replied Striped Chipmunk.

“When leaves turn yellow, brown, and red,
And nuts come pitter, patter down;
When days are short and swiftly sped,
And Autumn wears her colored gown,

I’m up before old Mr. Sun
His nightcap has a chance to doff,
And have my day’s work well begun
When others kick their bed clothes off.”

“What are you filling your storehouse with?” asked Happy Jack, trying not to show too much interest.
“Corn, nice ripe yellow corn, and seeds and acorns and chestnuts,” answered Striped Chipmunk. “And now I’m looking for some big, fat hickory nuts,” he added, and his bright eyes twinkled. “Have you seen any, Happy Jack?”

Happy Jack said that he hadn’t seen any, and Striped Chipmunk remarked that he couldn’t waste any more time talking, and scurried away. Happy Jack watched him go, a puzzled little frown puckering up his brows.

“I believe he knows something about those nuts. I think I’ll follow him and have a peep into his storehouse,” he muttered.

Striped Chipmunk was whisking about among the brown-and-yellow leaves that covered the ground on the edge of the Green Forest. He is such a little fellow that he looked almost like a brown leaf himself, and when one of Old Mother West Wind’s Merry Little Breezes whirled the brown leaves in a mad little dance around him, it was the hardest work in the world to see Striped Chipmunk at all. Anyway, Happy Jack Squirrel found it so.

You see, Happy Jack was spying on Striped Chipmunk. Yes, Sir, Happy Jack was spying. Spying, you know, is secretly watching other people and trying to find out what they are doing. It isn’t a very nice thing to do, not a bit nice. Happy Jack knew it, and all the time he was doing it, he was feeling bad. But he said to himself that he just had to know where Striped Chipmunk’s storehouse was, because he just had to peep inside and find out if it held any of the big, fat hickory nuts that had disappeared from under the tall hickory tree while he was quarreling up in the top of it with his cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel.

But spying on Striped Chipmunk isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Happy Jack was finding it the hardest work he had ever undertaken. Striped Chipmunk is so spry, and whisks about so, that you need eyes all around your head to keep track of him. Happy Jack found that his two eyes, bright and quick as they are, couldn’t keep that little elf of a cousin of his always in sight. Every few minutes he would disappear and then bob up again in the most unexpected place and most provoking way.

“Now I’m here, and now I’m there!
Now I am not anywhere!
Watch me now, for here I go
Out of sight! I told you so!”

With the last words, Striped Chipmunk was nowhere to be seen. It seemed as if the earth must have opened and swallowed him. But it hadn’t, for two minutes later Happy Jack saw him flirting his funny little tail in the sauciest way as he scampered along an old log.

Happy Jack began to suspect that Striped Chipmunk was just having fun with him. What else could he mean by saying such things? And yet Happy Jack was sure that Striped Chipmunk hadn’t seen him, for, all the time he was watching, Happy Jack had taken the greatest care to keep himself hidden. No, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be that Striped Chipmunk knew that he was anywhere about. He would just be patient a little longer, and he would surely see that smart little cousin of his go to his storehouse. So Happy Jack waited and watched.

Striped Chipmunk would shout in his shrillest voice:
“Hipperty, hopperty, one, two, three!
What do you think becomes of me?”

Then he would vanish from sight all in the wink of an eye. You couldn’t tell where he went to. At least Happy Jack couldn’t, and his eyes are sharper than yours or mine. Happy Jack was spying, you remember. He was watching Striped Chipmunk without letting Striped Chipmunk know it. At least he thought he was. But really he wasn’t. Those sharp twinkling eyes of Striped Chipmunk see everything. You know, he is such a very little fellow that he has to be very wide-awake to keep out of danger.

And he is wide-awake. Oh, my, yes, indeed! When he is awake, and that is every minute of the daytime, he is the most wide-awake little fellow you ever did see. He had seen Happy Jack the very first thing, and he had guessed right away that Happy Jack was spying on him so as to find out if he had any of the big, fat hickory nuts.

Now Striped Chipmunk had all of those big, fat hickory nuts safely hidden in his splendid new storehouse, but he didn’t intend to let Happy Jack know it. So he just pretended not to see Happy Jack, or to know that he was anywhere near, but acted as if he was just going about his own business. Really he was just having the best time ever fooling Happy Jack.

“The corn is ripe; the nuts do fall;
Acorns are sweet and plump.
I soon will have my storehouse full
Inside the hollow stump.”

Striped Chipmunk sang this just as if no one was anywhere near, and he was singing just for joy. Of course Happy Jack heard it and he grinned.
“So your storehouse is in a hollow stump, my smart little cousin!” said Happy Jack to himself. “If that’s the case, I’ll find it soon.”

Striped Chipmunk scurried along, and now he took pains to always keep in sight. Happy Jack followed, hiding behind the trees. Pretty soon Striped Chipmunk picked up a plump acorn and put it in the pocket of his right cheek. Then he picked up another and put that in the pocket in his left cheek. Then he crowded another into each; and his face was swelled so that you would hardly have guessed that it was Striped Chipmunk if you had chanced to meet him. My, my, he was a funny sight! Happy Jack grinned again as he watched, partly because Striped Chipmunk looked so funny, and partly because he knew that if Striped Chipmunk was going to eat the acorns right away, he wouldn’t stuff them into the pockets in his cheeks. But he had done this very thing, and so he must be going to take them to his storehouse.

Off scampered Striped Chipmunk, and after him stole Happy Jack, his eyes shining with excitement. Pretty soon he saw an old stump which looked as if it must be hollow. Happy Jack grinned more than ever as he carefully hid himself and watched Striped Chipmunk scramble up on the old stump, looked this way and that way, as if to be sure that no one was watching him, then with a flirt of his funny little tail he darted into a little round doorway. He was gone a long time, but by and by out he popped, looked this way and that way, and then scampered off in the direction from which he had come. Happy Jack didn’t try to follow him. He waited until he was sure that Striped Chipmunk was out of sight and hearing, and then he walked over to the old stump.

“It’s his storehouse sure enough,” said Happy Jack.

Happy Jack Squirrel stood in front of the old stump into which he had seen Striped Chipmunk go with the pockets in his cheeks full of acorns, and out of which he had seen him come with the pockets of his cheeks quite empty.

“It certainly is his storehouse, and now I’ll find out if he is the one who got all those big, fat hickory nuts,” muttered Happy Jack.

First he looked this way, and then he looked that way, to be sure that no one saw him, for what he was planning to do was a dreadful thing, and he knew it. Happy Jack was going to turn burglar. A burglar, you know, is one who breaks into another’s house or barn to steal, which is a very, very awful thing to do. Yet this is just what Happy Jack Squirrel was planning to do. He was going to get into that old stump, and if those big, fat hickory nuts were there, as he was sure they were, he was going to take them. He tried very hard to make himself believe that it wouldn’t be stealing. He had watched those nuts in the top of that tall hickory tree so long that he had grown to think that they belonged to him. Of course they didn’t, but he had made himself think they did.

Happy Jack walked all around the old stump, and then he climbed up on top of it. There was only one doorway, and that was the little round hole through which Striped Chipmunk had entered and then come out. It was too small for Happy Jack to even get his head through, though his cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, who is much smaller, could have slipped in easily. Happy Jack sniffed and sniffed. He could smell nuts and corn and other good things. My, how good they did smell! His eyes shone greedily.

Happy Jack took one more hasty look around to see that no one was watching, then with his long sharp teeth he began to make the doorway larger. The wood was tough, but Happy Jack worked with might and main, for he wanted to get those nuts and get away before Striped Chipmunk should return, or any one else should happen along and see him. Soon the hole was big enough for him to get his head inside. It was a storehouse, sure enough. Happy Jack worked harder than ever, and soon the hole was large enough for him to get wholly inside.

What a sight! There was corn! and there were chestnuts and acorns! and there were a few hickory nuts, though these did not look so big and fat as the ones Happy Jack was looking for! Happy Jack chuckled to himself, a big, greedy chuckle, as he looked. And then something happened.

“Oh! Oh! Stop it! Leave me alone!” yelled Happy Jack.