Hopeful
A FEW days ago my little nephew—a boy who has just attained his fourth birthday—and I were sitting in a room all alone. I had told him previously that all the naughty things he did God saw and wrote down in His big book, and if, when God looked at His big book on the last day, He found his page (Oswald's) covered with black marks of the naughty things he had done, then he couldn't go to heaven. This had served to keep him good a few moments, but soon he forgot and was naughty again. So I at once reminded him of what I had said, and added, "God has put that down in His big book, you know." For a moment his little face clouded over. Then it brightened, and with an eager look in his eyes, he asked, with many inquiring nods of the head, "Has God's pencil got any rubber on it?"
A Useful Game
MILDRED, having tired of her little brother, called a neighbor's little girl in to play "dolls" with her.
John, however, persistently sought their company.
"Sister," said he, "can't I play something?"
"Yes, John; go in the back room and play you're dead for an hour and a half."
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Astronomical
"WHAT are you doing, Mister Man?"
Said little Walter Gray.
"Why, now, my son, it's only this,—
A case of Milky Weigh!"
Just Cause
FRANCES, a worthy colored woman, having been forced to leave her brutal husband, often threatened to obtain a "divo'ce."
One day, however, she surprised her mistress with this information:
"Miss Marion, I understan' dat dat hus- ban' o' mine is gwine ter git a divo'ce from me, down in Virginia, an' ef he wants it I'm a-gwine ter let him git it."
"What in the world can he get a divorce from you for?" indignantly asked Miss Marion.
"I dun'no' egzactly, but I heerd for sixteen dollars." J. T. O.
The Call
WHEN summer bourgeons on the hill,
And in the river fishes leap;
When Jo the ploughman slumbers till
The drowsy birds begin to peep,—
Then we'll away,
To seek the spirit of the day
In woodland deep.
Where bees are crooning merrily,
And honey oozes in the cell,
Where cocks are calling cheerily,
And lambkins romp, and bullocks dwell,
There let us go,
That we may raise the veil and know
Dame Nature well.
Where barnyard clamor ebbs apace,
And Bet the milkmaid fills her pail.
The while she turns to scan the place
If Jo the ploughman be in hail,—
Ah, let's away!
To dream by night and laugh by day,
Ere life grow stale.
