CONTENTS OF NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR.

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THE LITTLE TEACHER.

THE ANT’S DAIRY.

BABY JEAN.

THE FRIENDLY DOG.

Poor Old Whitey! He fell lame, and was turned out in
a little field to starve. And he would have starved, if it
hadn’t been for Milo.

And who was Milo? He was a dog who had lived in the
stable with Old Whitey. They had become great friends.
Each had found the other trusty and kind.

And I think Milo must have reasoned in this way: “Is it
not sad to see my old friend shut up in that barren little
field with nothing to eat? He has nibbled all the grass,
and there is nothing left for him. It is too bad; and I
can’t stand it.”

In the cellar of the stable were some turnips and beets.
What does Milo do but take a long beet in his mouth, and
carry it to Old Whitey, who neighs, as if to say, “Thank
you, old friend.”

Then he gobbles it up, and looks at Milo, as if to say,
“Another, if you please.” Milo trots off, and brings him a
turnip. Oh, how it does relish! Old Whitey begins to
caper, in spite of his lame legs.

Milo kept running to and fro for half an hour, till Old
Whitey had made a good dinner. Then the man who had
shut up the old horse found out what was going on.

He seized a whip, and ran at Milo to punish him. But
it happened that the lady who owned the farm, and who
did not know how Old Whitey had been treated, came back
from the city just at that time to pass a month in the
country.

She saw what was going on, asked what was the matter,
and, when she learned it, said to the man, “The dog is a
better Christian than you are. He shall stay, and you shall
go. Come into the house, and let me pay you your wages.”

Thenceforth Old Whitey was well taken care of; and, as
for Milo, he was petted and praised to his heart’s content.
Cruelty to animals is an act which no good man or child can
he guilty of. I was not sorry to learn that the man who had
tried to starve Old Whitey was dismissed from his place.

CARLO’S BONNET.

Of course Carlo was a dog, and I’ll tell you how he came
to us. As my father was walking up Arch Street, Philadelphia,
one day, with his hands clasped behind him, something
cold and damp was pushed against his fingers. He
turned round quickly, and a beautiful brown-and-white
pointer came to his side, and looked up at him with such
a pleading look in his soft brown eyes, that my father
said, as he patted him on the head, “Poor fellow, are you
lost?”

That was enough for Carlo, as we named him. He had
found a kind master, and my father a faithful friend. Of
course it wouldn’t do to keep the dog without trying to
find his owner: so the next day he was advertised; and,
for several days after, every ring at the bell would make
us children start, and feel afraid that somebody had come to
take him away. But nobody came for him; and we loved
and petted our new-found treasure to the neglect of wooden
horses and dolls, and all our other toys.

Sometimes he would come to the parlor-door with his
feet very wet and muddy from running through the street-gutters.
Then we would say, “O Carlo! what dirty
boots!” He would hang down his head, and go off to the
back-yard, and lick his feet until they were clean, when,
with a bound, and a wag of the tail, he would rush back to
the parlor, quite sure that he would be let in.

But the month of June was coming,—a sorrowful time
for dogs; for the city had ordered that all dogs found on
the streets without muzzles on must be destroyed. At five
o’clock every morning, the wagons used to go through the
streets, and take up all dogs that were not muzzled. So we
had to get a “bonnet,” as we called it, for our pet.

It was made of bright red leather, and really he looked
so handsome in it, that we thought he ought to like to wear
it when he went out for a walk; but he didn’t one bit. He
used to rub his head on the sidewalk, and fuss and squirm,
and, when he didn’t get rid of his bonnet in that way, the
cunning fellow used to hide it when he got home.

We kept it hung up on a high nail in the dining-room;
but one day, when we called Carlo to have his bonnet put
on before he went out, there was no bonnet to be found.
Who could have taken it? I must say Carlo acted very
much like the thief; for he hung his head, and looked
sheepish, when we asked him about it.

We hunted under the chairs and the lounge, in the
closets, in parlor and dining-room, Carlo fussing round
with us, just as if he wanted dreadfully to find it; but
it couldn’t be found. So we went out, and shut the street-door
after us, saying, “Well, Carlo, you can’t go out to
walk, that’s all.”

Those who hide know where to find. When Carlo saw,
that, without his bonnet, there was no walk for him, he
scampered into the basement-kitchen, got out the muzzle
from a pile of old papers in one of the closets, carried it up
stairs, and laid it down on the dining-room floor.

But this was not the last time Carlo hid his red bonnet
and found it again. In all sorts of places he would stow it
away when he came in from his walks. And at last he got
so used to it that when we said, “Now, Carlo, go fetch your
bonnet,” he would dash off and pull it from its hiding-place,
and quietly stand to have it buckled on.

He behaved so well in the streets, that before the dog-season
was over, we used to take his bonnet off, and let him
carry it home in his mouth. One rainy day, when the
water was pouring down the open gutters, and I was hurrying
home, I happened to look round, and there was Carlo
coming along behind me; but his pretty red bonnet was
bobbing along in the gutter, where the sly rascal had
thrown it, hoping, I suppose, that it would be carried down
to the Delaware River.

CHARLEY GOES A-FISHING.

WHAT WE SAW IN THE WOODS.

BABY READING TO HER MOTHER.

NOW, AND THEN.

DRAWING-LESSON.

THE FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER.

Amy Cooper lived in a little fishing-village, not far from
the cliffs of Dover, in England. She was the daughter of
a poor fisherman, who worked hard for his family. Mr.
Cooper was such a good, kind man, that no one could help
loving him. His children loved him dearly; and no one
loved him quite so dearly as his daughter Amy.

She was a thoughtful little girl, and at the time of my
story was twelve years old. She saw that her father’s
health was failing through hard work; and the one great
thought in her mind was, “How can I help my dear father
to earn money for us all?”

This was a hard question, and it was long before Amy
could find an answer. But one day, with her aunt, she
took a long walk to Dover. Here she saw a large hotel,
and many well-clad persons in a pleasant park near by. It
was on this visit to Dover that Amy formed a plan about
which I am going to tell you.

Now it had happened three years before, that a poor
young man of the name of Simpson had been saved from
drowning by Amy’s father. I fear that the young man
had thrown himself into the water because he was sick
of life, but I dare say he was glad enough to be pulled out.

Mr. Cooper took him home, gave him a room and a bed,
and there Mr. Simpson staid for some time. He was what
is called an artist. He had a great talent for drawing with
a pen and ink. He taught Amy to do this. She soon did
it so well, that he said to her, “Keep on trying, my dear,
and it may be a great help to you by and by.”

Sure enough she did keep on trying. Her one thought
was to do so well that she could make money by her art.
Poor Mr. Simpson died after he had staid with the honest
fisherman two years; and his last words to Amy were,
“Keep on practising, my dear: don’t let a day pass without
it. I am sure you will make an artist.”

Amy had followed his advice; and now, when her father
was ill, she resolved to see if she could not turn her art to
account. She made twenty sketches with pen and ink.
They were sketches of fishermen—drawn from life; and
they were done with a spirit and skill that struck every one
with surprise.

Taking the specimens with her, she went to Dover, and
showed them to the ladies and gentlemen. At last one
gentleman, a Mr. Ritson, who was rich, and fond of art, said
to her, “Don’t try to humbug me, little girl. You never
did this work. Come in, and let me test you.”

“Do it,” said Amy, bravely and confidently.

He took her into the reading-room of the hotel, and in
a few minutes she produced a likeness of Mr. Ritson, which
made him cry out, “Bravo, bravo, little girl! You have
done it! Forgive my suspicions. Here is a guinea for
what you have done. Come here to-morrow at this time,
and I will see what I can do to help you.”

Amy, wild with joy, took the money home to her father.
The prosperity of the family was now assured. Mr. Ritson
proved to be a true friend. He showed Amy’s sketches to
a great many persons, and praised them so highly, that she
soon began to have orders.

She continued to improve, and in time became quite a
successful artist. She had as much work as she could do,
and earned more in a month than her father could earn in
a year. He soon got well, and lived to take great comfort
in the fame of his dear little girl.

JOHNNY AND THE TOAD.

THE HEN WHO HELPED HERSELF.

In a city not far from Boston, there once lived a stout
little fellow named Willie Wilkins. He was six years old,
had red cheeks and blue eyes, and such curly hair that
it was always in a tumble, no matter how much it was
brushed.

One summer his mamma took him into the country to
spend a few weeks at a farm-house. The farmer’s wife,
Mrs. Hill, was very glad to have him come, for she had no
girls or boys of her own, to make the house pleasant. She
liked to see Willie running about, and hear his shrill voice
calling after the great house-dog Bruno.

One morning Willie had been as busy as ever at his play:
he had been in the orchard, hunting for ripe apples; he had
been in the barn, looking for hen’s eggs in the sweet hay;
he had been down to the brook, sailing his boat; and he
had played market-man, with Bruno harnessed for a horse.

After all this, the little boy was both tired and hungry:
so he went back to the house, and sat down on the broad
stone steps outside the kitchen-door to rest. Mrs. Hill was
busy in the kitchen, frying doughnuts, and, when Willie saw
what she was doing, he was more hungry than ever. The
doughnuts looked very brown and nice; but Willie was too
bashful to ask for one.

At last Mrs. Hill looked up, and, seeing Willie’s blue eyes
fixed upon her with such an eager gaze, she guessed at
once what he wanted. She gave him a doughnut and a
kiss, and he sat down on the doorstep with the doughnut in
his hand. But he had hardly taken two bites of it, when
a strange thing happened.

Some hens were scratching around in the yard to find
food for themselves and their chickens. Now one old Biddy,
who had a large family to provide for, and who was almost
tired out with hunting for worms, looked at Willie’s doughnut
with a longing eye. She walked close up to the doorstep,
arched her neck, and clucked, asking as plainly as she
knew how for a piece of doughnut. But Willie was too
busy even to look at her.

At last Biddy became impatient. As no notice was taken
of her civil request, she made up her mind to take, without
further asking, what Willie did not seem inclined to give.
She was a little afraid to do it; but her chickens were
teasing for more food, and she was determined to get
enough for them.

So she stepped up beside Willie, snatched the doughnut
out of his hand, and ran away with it as fast as she could.
Her chickens ran after her, screaming for the fine feast
which their mother had stolen for them.

And there sat Willie on the doorstep, his eyes bigger
and bluer than ever, amazed to find himself robbed in this
way by a respectable looking old hen. He did not know
what to do, and was half inclined to cry.

But, when little children are in trouble, there is always
one thing they can do: they can go to their mamma, and
ask her help. Willie thought of this, and trotted off with
a very sober face to tell his mamma this wonderful story of
the hen who helped herself.

THE GREAT JOURNEY.

A WOFUL TALE.

CHAPTER I.

MAKING FRIENDS.

Jane has on a clean apron.
In her hand she has a piece of
cake. She has just taken one
bite when she meets a dog.

“Good dog,” says Jane, “come
let me pat you.” He looks up,
and whines, as much as to say,
“I am glad to see you, Jane.”

CHAPTER II.

RATHER TOO INTIMATE.

“You like me,
don’t you?” says
Jane. “You are
a sweet little pet.
I wonder what
your name is. I
shall name you
Skip. Come up
here, Skip, and let me smooth
your silken hair.”

So Skip springs up, and puts
both of his front paws on little
Jane’s clean apron. Jane is
startled. Does he want to kiss
her, or does he want the cake?
Ah, it is the cake that the sly
rogue wants!

CHAPTER III.

THE END.

Jane is seated on the ground.
She is in tears. Her friend
Skip has left her. Her cake
has gone too. Did Skip snatch
it away from her?

Yes, he did, without giving
her a chance to take a second
bite. And he pushed her down
besides. And he ran away and
left her. Poor little girl! Ungrateful
little dog!

THE BROKEN KITE.

It was a splendid great kite, almost as tall as George
himself. It was a birthday-gift from his grandfather.

George had never owned a kite before; and there never
was a happier boy than he when he went out to fly it for
the first time.

But he came back looking quite sad.

“Why, what is the matter my boy?” said his grandfather.

George held up his kite. There was a large hole in it.
In trying to raise his kite, the little boy, being perhaps
rather clumsy, had got it entangled in a tree. Its beauty
was spoiled, and George had brought it home without
having had the pleasure of seeing it up in the sky.

“Well, well,” said his kind old grandfather, “we will
have it mended and try it again. Better luck next time!”

Carlo, the dog, looked up, as much as to say, “If there
is anything I can do for you, George, call on me.”

But George’s bright little sister Susan, without saying a
word, ran into the house and brought a pot of paste and
some paper. “I’ll mend it for you, George,” said she, “in
three minutes.”

And sure enough, she mended it so neatly that it was as
good as new the next morning, and George took it out
again with a face as merry as ever. He got it up in fine
style this time, and had a grand time flying it.

It went up higher and pulled harder than any kite on
the play-ground. Susan, who often went out with George
to have a share of the fun, was hardly strong enough to
hold it.

One day when Susan was trying to wind up the string,
the stick slipped out of her hands, and away went the kite.
George got it back after a hard chase, but it was torn to
shreds. Susan now looked sad in her turn.

But George only laughed, and said, “Never mind, Susie.
Bring out the old paste-pot again.”

SUMMER GAMES.

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