CHAPTER V.

LIFE ON BOARD THE "PRIDE OF THE WAVE."

When Tim first went on board the steamer which was to be his home, he thought, from the beautiful things he saw around, that he should live in a luxurious manner; but when he was shown the place in which he was to sleep, he learned that the fine things were for the passengers only, and that even comfort had been sacrificed in the quarters belonging to the crew.

He was given a berth in the forecastle, which was anything rather than a pleasant or even a sweet-smelling place, and had it not been that he had the satisfaction of having Tip with him when he went to bed, he would have cried even harder and longer than he did.

Captain Pratt had not made his appearance on the steamer that day; but the steward had told him that his duties as Captain's boy would begin next morning at breakfast, when he would be expected to wait upon the Captain at the table. The last thing Tim thought of that night was how he should acquit himself in what he felt would be a trying position, and the first thing which came into his mind when he awoke on the following morning was whether he should succeed in pleasing his employer or not.

After kissing Tip over and over again, and with many requests to him to be a good dog and not make a noise, Tim tied his pet in his narrow quarters, and then made his own toilet. He really made a good appearance when he presented himself to Mr. Rankin, the steward, that morning. His cheeks were rosy from a vigorous application of cold water and a brisk rubbing, and if he could rely upon his personal appearance for pleasing Captain Pratt, there seemed every chance that he would succeed.

During the time he had been at work the day before, Mr. Rankin took every opportunity to instruct him in his new duties, and that morning the steward gave him another lesson.

It was barely finished when Captain Pratt came into the cabin, and one look at him made Tim so nervous that he forgot nearly everything he had been told to remember.

The Captain's eyes were red, his hands trembled, while he had every symptom of a man who had been drinking hard the day before, and was not perfectly sober then.

Tim had never had any experience with drinking men; but he did not need any explanation as to the causes of the Captain's appearance, and he involuntarily ducked his head when his employer passed him.

"Now, then, what are you skulking there for, you young rascal?" shouted Captain Pratt, as he fell rather than seated himself in his chair.

"I ain't skulkin', sir," replied Tim, meekly.

"Don't you answer me back," cried the Captain, in a rage, seizing the milk pitcher as if he intended to throw it at the boy. "If you talk back to me, I'll show you what a rope's end means."

Tim actually trembled with fear, and kept a bright lookout, so that he might be ready to dodge in case the pitcher should be thrown, but did not venture to say a word.

"Now bring me my breakfast, and let's see if you amount to anything, or if I only picked up a bit of waste timber when I got you."

"What will you have, sir?" asked Tim, timidly, as he moved toward the Captain's chair.

A blow on the side of his head that sent him reeling half way across the cabin served as a reply, and it was followed by a volley of oaths that frightened him.'

"What do you mean by asking me what I'll have before you tell me what is ready? Next time you try to wait upon a gentleman, tell him what there is. Bring me some soda-water first."

This was an order that had not been provided for in the lessons given by Mr. Rankin, and Tim stood perfectly still, in frightened ignorance.

"Come, step lively, or I'll get up and show you how," roared the Captain, his face flushing to a deeper red, as his rage rose to the point of cruelty.

"Please, sir, I don't know where it is;" and Tim's voice sounded very timid and piteous.

"Don't know where it is, and been on board since yesterday! What do you suppose I hired you for? Take that, and that."

Suiting the action to the words, the cheerful-tempered man threw first a knife and then a fork at the shrinking boy, and was about to follow them with a plate, when Mr. Rankin put into Tim's hand the desired liquid.

Tim would rather have gone almost anywhere else than close to his employer just then; but the glass was in his hand, the Captain was waiting for it with a glare in his eye that boded no good if he delayed, and he placed it on the table.

"Now what kind of a breakfast have you got?" shouted Captain Pratt, as he swallowed the liquid quickly.

It was a surprise to himself that he could remember anything just then, but he did manage to repeat the names of the different dishes, and to take the Captain's order.

Although he ran as swiftly as possible from the table to the kitchen, and was served there with all haste, he did not succeed in pleasing the angry man.

"I want you to remember," said that worthy, with a scowl, "that I ain't in the habit of waiting for my meals. Another time, when you are so long, I shall give you a lesson you won't forget."

Tim was placing the dishes of food on the table when the Captain spoke, and he was so startled by the angry words, when he thought he deserved pleasant ones, that he dropped a plate of potatoes.

He sprang instantly to pick them up, but Captain Pratt was out of his chair before he could reach them, and with all his strength he kicked Tim again and again. Then, without taking any heed of the prostrate boy, who might have been seriously injured, he seated himself at the table in perfect unconcern.

Mr. Rankin helped Tim on his feet, and finding that no bones were broken--which was remarkable, considering the force with which the blows had been given--advised him to go on deck, promising that he would serve the Captain.

"But I propose that the boy shall stay here," roared the Captain. "Do you think I'm going to let him sneak off every time I try to teach him anything?"

Tim struggled manfully to keep back the tears that would come in his eyes as he stood behind the Captain's chair, but they got the best of him, as did also the little quick sobs.

The Captain appeared to grow more cheerful as he ate, and although he called upon Tim for several articles, he managed to get along without striking any more blows, contenting himself by abusing the poor boy with his tongue.

It was a great relief to Tim when that meal was ended, and Mr. Rankin told him he could eat his own breakfast before clearing away the dishes.

Tim had not the slightest desire for food then, but he did want some for Tip. Hastily gathering up the bones from Captain Pratt's plate, he ran with them to the bow, where Tip was straining and tugging at his rope as if he knew his master was having a hard time, and he wanted to be where he could help him.

Tim placed the bones in front of Tip, and then kneeling down, he put his arms around the dog's neck as he poured out his woes in his ear, while Tip tried in every way to get at the tempting feast before him.

"I'm the miserablest boy in the world, Tip, an' I don't know what's goin' to become of us. You don't know what a bad, ugly man Captain Pratt is, an' I don't believe I can stay here another day. But you think a good deal of me, don't you, Tip? an' you'd help me if you could, wouldn't you?"

The dog had more sympathy with the bones just then than he had with his almost heart-broken master, and Tim, who dared not stay away too long from the cabin, was obliged to let him partake of the feast at last.

When Tim returned from feeding the dog, Mr. Rankin said all he could to prevent him from becoming discouraged on the first day of service; but he concluded with these words: "I can't advise you to stay here any longer than you can help, for you ain't stout enough to bear what you'll have to take from the Captain. It'll be hard work to get off, for he always looks sharp after new boys, so they sha'n't run away; but when we get back here again, you'd better make up your mind to show your heels."

These words frightened Tim almost as much as what the Captain had said to him, for he had never thought but that he could leave whenever he wanted to. Now he felt doubly wretched, for he realized that he was as much a captive as he had ever been when he lived with Captain Babbige, whose blows were not nearly as severe as this new master's.

The _Pride of the Wave_ made but two trips a week, and each one occupied about two days and a half. This second day after Tim had come on board was the time of her sailing, and everything was in such a state of confusion that no one had any time to notice the sad little boy, who ran forward to pet his dog whenever his work would permit of such loving act.

Among his duties was that of answering the Captain's bell, and once, when he returned from a visit to Tip, Mr. Rankin told him, with evident fear, that it had been nearly five minutes since he was summoned to the wheel-house.

While the steward was speaking, the bell rang again with an angry peal that told that the party at the other end was in anything but a pleasant mood. It did not take Tim many seconds to run to the wheel-house, and when he arrived there, breathless and in fear, Captain Pratt met him at the door.

"So the lesson I gave you this morning wasn't enough, eh?" cried the angry man, as he seized Tim by the collar and actually lifted him from his feet. "I'll teach you to attend to business, and not try to come any odds over me."

Captain Pratt had a stout piece of rope in one hand, and as he held Tim by the other, nearly choking him, he showered heavy blows upon the poor boy's back and legs, until his arm ached.

"Now see if you will remember that!" he cried, as he released his hold on Tim's collar, and the poor child rolled upon the deck almost helpless.

Tim had fallen because the hold on his neck had been so suddenly released, rather than on account of the beating; and when he struggled to his feet, smarting from the blows, the Captain said to him, "Now bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you're back in five minutes, or you'll get the same dose over again."

Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as though they were on fire, and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done from the worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him with. He entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and sobs choking his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart that he made no other sign of suffering.

Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt's method of dealing with boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the boy got the water, "Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you'll come out all right."

Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from there to Tip.

The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside him: "Don't, Tip--don't play now; I feel more like dyin'. You think it's awful hard to stay here; but it's twice as hard on me, 'cause the Captain whips me every chance he gets."

Tip knew from his master's actions that something was wrong, and he licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that Tim's tears came in spite of his will.

He was lying by Tip's side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose, the cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.

"Wha-wha-wha's de matter, honey? Wha' yer takin' on so powerful 'bout?"

Tim paid no attention to the question, repeated several times, nor did he appear to feel the huge black hand laid so tenderly on his head.

"Wha's de matter, honey? Has Cap'en Pratt been eddercatin' of yer?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued: "Now don' take on so, honey. Come inter de kitchen wid ole Mose, an' let him soothe ye up a little. Come, honey, come wid me, an' bring de dorg wid yer."

While he spoke the old colored man was untying the rope which fastened Tip, for he knew the boy would follow wherever the dog was led. And in that he was right, for when Tip went toward the little box Mose called a kitchen, he followed almost unconsciously.

Once inside the place where the old negro was chief, Mose took his jacket off, and bathed the ugly-looking black and blue marks which had been left by the rope, talking to the boy in his peculiar dialect as he did so, soothing the wounds on his heart as he treated those on his body.

"Now don' feel bad, honey; it's only a way Cap'en Pratt has got, an' you must git used to it, shuah. Don' let him fret yer, but keep right on about yer work jest as ef yer didn't notice him like."

Mose bathed the wounds, gave Tip such a feast as he had not had for many a day, and when it was done, Tim said to him: "You're awful good, you are; but I'm afraid the Captain will make you sorry for it. He don't seem to like me, an' he may get mad 'cause you've helped me."

"Bress yer, chile, what you s'pose ole Mose keers fur him ef he does git mad? The Cap'en kin rave an' rave, but dis niggar don' mind him more'n ef he was de souf wind, what carn't do nobody any harm."

"But--" Tim began to say, earnestly.

"Never mind 'bout any buts, honey. Yer fixed all right now, an' you go down in de cabin an' go ter work like a man; ole Mose'll keep keer ob de dorg."

Tim knew he had already been away from his post of duty too long, and leaving Tip in the negro's kindly care, he went into the cabin, feeling almost well in mind, although very sore in body.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

PHIL'S BURGLAR.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

I am Phil Morris, fourteen years old, and the youngest clerk in Covert Savings-Bank. The cashier is my uncle Jack, and he began at the bottom, where I am, when _he_ was a boy. He says that a boy had better grow up with a country bank than go West and grow up with the country. He thinks there's more money in it.

"If there's anything in you," he said one day, "you'll work your way up to be bank president some time." And I guess it's better to be president of a country bank than to be President of the United States. Anyway, you wouldn't have to be shot before folks began to find out that you were doing your level best to keep things straight. Uncle Jack says and does such queer things sometimes that people say he's odd. They tell about his being so wrapped up in our bank that he never had time to hunt up a wife. I notice, though, that when father and mother died, and left me a wee little baby, Uncle Jack found time to bring me up, and give me a good education to boot. Oh, he's as good as gold or government bonds, Uncle Jack is.

We live in rooms over the bank, where old Mrs. Halstead keeps house for us. Underneath, we do the business. There's heaps of money in our two big vaults.

Last summer--and, mind you, this was while _I_ was away on vacation--two men broke into the building. They came up stairs, and into Uncle Jack's room. One had a bull's-eye lantern that he flashed in Uncle Jack's face as he sat up in bed, and the other pointed a big pistol right at his head.

"Tell us where the vault keys are, or I'll shoot you," he said.

"Oh, Uncle Jack," I broke in, when he was telling me about it, "what _did_ you do?"

"What would you have done?" he asked, in his odd way.

"I know what I _wouldn't_ have done," I answered him, straightening up a bit--"I wouldn't have given 'em the keys."

"Ah!" Uncle Jack says, kind of half doubtful, and then went on: "Well, I told them to shoot away. And they knew as well as I did that shooting wouldn't bring them the keys. So when they found they couldn't frighten me, the scoundrels tied me, and went off in a rage, with my watch and pocket-book."

That was last summer. One night along in the fall Uncle Jack started off down town. "It's Lodge night, and I may not be back until late," he said. "You won't mind staying alone--a great boy like you." And of course I said "No."

But somehow, after Mrs. Halstead went to bed, I found I _did_ mind it. I don't know what made me feel so fidgety. Perhaps it was reading about a bank robbery in Bolton, which is the next town to Covert. It was thought to be the work of Slippery Jim, a notorious burglar. And while I was thinking about it, I dozed off in Uncle Jack's easy-chair.

"Ow-w-w!" I sung out all at once. And if you'd woke up of a sudden to see a rough-looking man, with a slouch hat pulled over his eyes, standing right in front of you, you'd have done the same. "What--what do you want here?" I sort of gasped; and I tried to speak so he wouldn't hear my teeth knock together.

"The vault keys--where are they?" he answers, short and gruff. And then he kind of motioned with his hand--I suppose to show the revolver he was holding.

I was pretty badly scared; but all the same, I didn't mean he should have those vault keys, if he shot the top of my head off.

"Come, hurry up," he said, with a sort of grin. And I noticed then that he had red whiskers, and some of his upper front teeth were gone, so that he didn't speak his words plain.

"I should know you anywhere," I thought. "Strategy, Phil Morris," I said to myself, bracing up inside; for a story I'd read about how a lady caught a live burglar came across me like a flash. "Please don't shoot, sir," I began to say, with all sorts of demi-semi-quavers in my voice--"please don't; indeed I'll show you where they're kept." So making believe to shake all over, I took the lamp, and led the way into Uncle Jack's bedroom. "The k-k-k-eys are in th-there, sir," I told him.

You should have seen how my fingers trembled when I pointed to the little store-room that opened out of the chamber. The keys were there, true enough, but I'd like to see any one except Uncle Jack or I find them. I suppose you have heard of such things as secret panels.

The store-room floor is lower than the chamber floor. Many a time, when I haven't been thinking, I've stepped down with a jar that almost sent my backbone up through the top of my head.

"In there, eh?" said my bold burglar, quite cheerful like, and pushed by me to the open door.

I set the lamp down, and my heart began to beat so that I was almost afraid he could hear it. "Now or never," I whispered.

It was all done quicker than you could say "knife." I put my head down like a billy-goat, and ran for the small of his back. "Butted" isn't a nice word, but that's just how I sent him flying headlong into the closet. I heard him go down with a crash that shook Mrs. Halstead's biggest jar of raspberry jam off the shelf.

I didn't stop to take breath until I'd locked the door and barricaded it with Uncle Jack's big mahogany bureau--just as the lady did in the story. Then I breathed--and listened. What I heard made my eyes stick out a bit. First I almost felt like crying. Then I laughed until I did cry. I suppose the excitement made me hystericky. It wasn't ten minutes before I roused up Mr. Simms the constable, and Jared Peters, who lives next door. Mr. Simms brought along an old pepperbox revolver and a pair of handcuffs. Jared Peters had his double-barrel gun, but in his flurry he forgot to load it.

Up stairs we hurried. The two men pulled away the bureau, and Mr. Simms, who was in the army, stationed us in our places.

"Look a-here, you feller," Mr. Simms called out, "the strong arm of the law is a-coverin' of you with deadly weepons. Surrender without resistance.--Phil, yank open the door."

I flung open the door. Jared Peters covered the prisoner with his gun. He was covered with something else too--Mrs. Halstead's raspberry jam, that he'd been wallowing round in. He didn't look proud, though, for all he was so stuck up.

Before he could open his mouth Mr. Simms had him handcuffed and dragged out into the chamber.

"There," he said, with a long breath, "I guess _you_ won't burgle no more right away."

"For goodness' sake, Simms--Peters--don't you know me--Mr. John Morris, cashier of the savings bank." That was what the prisoner said just as soon as he could speak.

Well, I didn't wait any longer. I just bolted for my own room, where I could lie down on the floor. And there I lay laughing until I was purple clear round to my shoulder-blades. Then I went to bed.

"Philip," said Uncle Jack, solemnly, while we were at breakfast next morning, "I should beg your pardon for trying to test your courage in the--the consummately idiotic way I took to do it last night, but"--and he looked pretty sheepish--"I--I think I got the worst of it."

"I think you did, sir," I answered him, choking a bit.

"The disguise was a good one, though," he went on, with a sort of feeble chuckle, "and leaving my false teeth out, changed my voice completely--eh, Phil?"

"Yes, sir--until you hollered out in the closet that it was all a joke, and wanted me to let you out," I answered him, as I got up and edged toward the door.

"Why didn't you let me out then?" roared Uncle Jack, who is rather quick-tempered.

I hope I wasn't impudent. Truly, I didn't intend to be. "Because, Uncle Jack," I said, as I turned the door knob, "I have heard you say more than once that he who can not take a joke should not make one." And as I dodged through the door I heard Uncle Jack groan.

GOOD-NIGHT.

BY W. T. PETERS.

Good-night, happy stars, With your yellow eyes; Good-night, lady moon, In the evening skies; Good-night, dusky world And the boundless deep; I am tired out; It is time to sleep-- Time, time to sleep. Good-night! Good-night!

Good-night, weary boy; It has been decreed That some mysteries Only a child can read; But the sweet child-heart May you always keep, And the stars will be yours, And the boundless deep-- The boundless, boundless deep. Good-night! Good-night!

SEEING THE BIG WORLD.

BY F. E. FRYATT.

Andrew, the florist, set out one fine day for a trip to the wood that lay a mile beyond his greenhouses.

He was a grand old man, who loved all the beautiful things God has scattered over this earth, from the tiny grass blade pushing up through the brown mould, to the mighty oak spreading its branches like a giant in the forest. As he entered the wood he marked how the sunshine, flickering down through the trees, made patches of gold on the green turf, and turned the pebbles in the brook into pearls. Time had not dimmed old Andrew's eye nor dulled his ear, nor had he lived his sixty years without learning to understand the soft voices of nature. As he strolled thoughtfully along he became aware of a gentle murmuring sound proceeding from groups of flowers that seemed to nod and smile when he drew near them. Throwing himself at full length on the turf, he listened; at first he could make nothing out of all the sweet babble poured into his ear, until Jack-in-the-pulpit became spokesman for the occasion.

In a pretty speech Jack told how they had heard of a grand flower show that was soon to come off in the great city, and confessed to the annoyance he and his companions felt at always being neglected on such interesting occasions, closing his long address by praying that the wild flowers might be treated with as much respect as the Pelargoniums, the Gladioluses, and all their other fashionable cousins.

Andrew heard Jack's remarks with a smile that was more sad than merry, marvelling how these innocent creatures, shut up in the heart of the wood, could have heard anything of the show.

"I have it," said he: "some gadding bee, or perhaps a gossiping sparrow, fresh from town, has carried the matter. Well, well, they must learn how profitable is content, and how foolish silly ambitions."

"My pretty dears," sighed the old man, leaning on his spade, and regarding the blossoms, "you will 'never be sorry but once, and that will be always.' As well might a fish try to live on land as you in the stifling city."

So saying, Andrew thrust his spade deep into the rich soil, disengaging the delicate roots that bound the flowers to their sylvan home.

When he had deposited as many Trilliums, Lilliums, Violets, and Anemones in his basket as he desired, the good old man proceeded to a boggy spot in the woods, and brought away with him Lady-slippers, Orchids, Pitcher-plants, Irises, Sundews, and Sweet-cicely, who wished to see the big world too.

Andrew now turned to go home, but, dear me! his work was but half done, for a butterfly, fluttering seaward, carried the news to the pine-barrens, and straightway Pyxidanthera, the beauty, cried out--and the soft sound of her crying came pitifully: "Don't leave me all alone in the pine-barrens; it is too lonely; I too would see the great world at the flower show."

"It is strange that you've never been lonesome before," thought Andrew, stooping down where the wee pink beauty sat on her mossy throne, and lifting her gently into his basket. Nor did his labors end here; for a troop of Daisies in a field near by heard the tidings, and almost burst their green jackets in impatience to be going; nor could he resist the pleadings of a band of young Buttercups, so he kindly added these to the delicate passengers in the wicker car, and hastened on. But once more his fine ear caught the sound of complaining.

Looking toward his right hand, he discovered a group of ancient Dandelions bowing their gray heads to him, and listening, heard them sighing: "Once we had tresses like the sun. Why come so late, so late?"

"Too late! too late!" chimed another voice.

"Ay, ay, too late," replied the old man, trudging on toward his greenhouse, for he had much to do to prepare his rustic beauties for their trip to the city.

"Oh dear," said a young Violet a week after, when they were all flourishing in the greenhouse, "why am I always to be in the shade, and that great Japonica towering above me?"

"And I too," murmured a Wind-flower, flushing faintly.

"Who cares for any of them?" chirruped a Daisy. "Here or there matters not to me."

"_You_ are near the sun, madam," argued an Orchid.

"Be quiet, all of you," roared Jack-in-the-pulpit. "Who'll care for Japonicas and such common folk when _we_ go to town?"

There was common-sense in that, so the wild flowers settled down in silence.

The day before the show there was a fine uproar in the greenhouses. The wild flowers babbled and laughed and danced on their stems for joy. No one knew it but Andrew, and he said nothing.

Such a snipping and binding and showering was kept up all day that when evening came they were glad to fall asleep in their packing boxes, nor did they waken until daybreak, when the men moved them into a large covered van on wheels.

By-and-by they heard a great trampling of hoofs, and a clatter. The horses were being harnessed to the van. Presently, with a jerk, they were off to the wonderful city--the big world they had never seen.

Now began their troubles in true earnest. The ground quaked and trembled beneath them; it was pitchy dark. Would the sun never shine again? Could no one speak a word of encouragement or consolation?

On, and on, and on they kept going, until at last, as nothing fearful happened, they ventured a little conversation.

"What a dash I shall cut at the show!" exclaimed a Turk's Lily.

"And I, in white and pink ribbons!" cried the pine-barren's beauty.

"Be quiet, little vanity," muttered a muffled voice in the corner. "Who will look at you when I am by?"

Andrew knew the great scarlet Amaryllis had spoken, and he said to himself, "We'll see, my fair lady."

The beauty cowered in silence, but a Violet whispered, "Shame!"

When the flowers reached the hall, with its long baize-covered tables, they forgot their troubles, and were greatly pleased. Men were running to and fro, boxes were being opened, and flowers all muffled from top to toe were coming in by the dozens. Here stood a regiment of Azaleas in white hoods and muffs, like a young ladies' boarding-school ready for a winter walk. There stood a company of Lilies with their night-caps on, and yonder a tall object swathed in tissue-paper. "Who can she be?--some grand personage truly," whispered a Daisy.

At that moment came a young man with sharp scissors. He cut off her cloak, and there stood lovely Miss Clereodendron, in white and scarlet from head to foot. "How exquisite!" cried all the flowers together.

But soon they found other wonders. On a table near at hand lay the daintiest sprays of flowering Peach, Almond, and Cherry, bunches of tiny Jonquils, creamy Magnolias, flaming Pirus, and May-apple.

As soon as all the flowers were comfortably settled in their stands and vases, they began to look around, and recognized their neighbors.

"Ha! ha!" laughed Jack-in-the-pulpit; "who expected to see _you_ here?"

"Why not, as well as you, Sir Impudence?" retorted May-apple, sharply.

But by-and-by the visitors came pouring in by the dozens. Beautiful ladies swept by in silks and diamonds and laces; gallant gentlemen came too, with eye-glasses perched on their noses. They did not even look at the wild flowers.

The wild flowers grew troubled, and commenced to murmur; but Jack whispered, "Bide your time."

"_I_ don't envy them," said an Orchid, looking complacently down at her own yellow slippers.

"Nor I," laughed a Daisy, smoothing her satin petticoat.

"If they didn't hold their heads so high, they would see us," murmured a Violet.

But the crowd passed on, drawn by the brilliant beauties of the Cacti, the flames of the Amaryllis Lilies, the purple of the great Pansies.

"They will never come near us," sighed the Violet.

"I faint--I faint!" murmured the Pitcher-plant, dropping her urn.

"Oho! oho! now we shall have a change," cried Jack, as the clock struck three. And sure enough the bright-eyed school-children came trooping in, and caught sight of them.

"Oh, my darling little Violets, where did you come from? And oh, you sweet, sweet Daisies!" cried one yellow-haired lassie.

"And these Buttercups!" screamed another.

"And droll old Jack; who would have thought to see _him_ in town?" chimed a third.

"Tit for tat, Master Jack," whispered May-apple, tartly.

The moment the children recognized the beauties of the wild flowers, every one else did. Old gentlemen with high-bred noses came and peered at them through big spectacles. Young ladies talked of their families, and--oh, horrors!--said they would like to dissect them. Old ladies smiled on them pleasantly, and one, a grandmother, actually shed tears, and said, "I haven't seen their like in fifty years."

But now it began to grow tiresome, this big world they had come to see; the sunlight streamed through the great windows, the tiny blossoms grew faint in the sultry air. When would the hum of speech grow silent, the clouds come brooding above them, and the soft rain-drops patter down?

The flowers grew fainter and fainter. A grand old man is now speaking at the end of the hall; but they can not listen.

"Oh, for a breeze from the pine-barrens!" sighed the beauty.

"Give me to drink the dew of the meadow," moaned the Daisy.

"I die for the woodland shadows," murmured the Violet.

"And I for the sound of cool waters," wept the Lily.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 94, August 16.]

PENELOPE.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.