ment, and without quarrelling with each other. Their occupation was a somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted together on the floor by the window, over a heap of broken toys, and a quantity of birds' eggs, or rather egg-shells, for the contents had luckily been abstracted; these shells, they had broken up, and were pounding into small fragments, to what end, I could not imagine; but, so long as they were quiet, and not in positive mischief, I did not care; and, with a feeling of unusual repose, I sat by the fire, putting the finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann's doll, intending, when that was done, to begin a letter to my mother. But, suddenly, the door opened, and the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in.
"All very quiet here! What are you doing?" said he.
"No harm to-day, at least," thought I.
But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to the window, and seeing the children's occupation, he testily exclaimed—
"What in the world are you about?"
"We're grinding egg-shells, papa!" cried Tom.
"How dare you make such a mess, you little d———ls? Don't you see what confounded
