Part 2

The gardener shut the garden gate, And went to weed the onion-bed: The growing plants stood tall and straight; "But what is this?" surprised he said. Some broken bricks, some stones and sticks, And underneath them, crushed and dead, A large brown toad! "James, Martin, Fred!" He called three little boys, who played Near by, beneath a pear-tree's shade, And sternly asked, "What cruel play Is this you've been about to-day?"

"'Tis very hard we should be blamed, I'm sure!" poor little James exclaimed: "We only killed the toad because An ugly-looking thing he was,-- So very ugly, that we knew He surely would some mischief do. He had great warts upon his back, And curious blotches, greenish black, And darting tongue, and strange flat head"-- "And how he sprawled his legs!" cried Fred. "His mouth," said Martin, "was so wide, It reached far round on either side; And queer winks with his eyes he'd give: We did not dare to let him live. We had to kill that toad because An ugly-looking thing he was."

The gardener gravely shook his head; "It was a heartless act," he said; "And, more than that, you may depend Upon my word, you've killed a friend; For often, at my work, I've found This same toad near me, hopping round, And, watching him, I've learned that he My constant helper used to be,-- A second gardener, with no pay, Who still was busy every day.

"He killed the young potato-bugs, The caterpillars, and the slugs, The beetles striped with yellow lines, That spoil the tender melon-vines, And looked round with his blinking eyes For cabbage-worms and turnip-flies, Low-flying moths with downy wings, And slimy snails in shady nooks. It was the cruellest of things To kill poor Hop Toad for his looks.

"And if, when you shall older grow, You strangers judge by outward show, You'll be as foolish as unjust: In worthless men you'll put your trust, And often sorrow, in the end, For having wronged some honest friend.

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE.

Our Ned is a brave little fellow about eight years old. He is full of fun, and loves to play out of doors in all kinds of weather.

But what little boy can be merry when he has a raging toothache! Ned bore it like a hero; but he had to give up at last, and he was glad to take refuge in his mother's lap, and be a baby again for a while.

With his head pillowed on his mother's breast, the little boy found some relief; but still he was in great pain. His sister stood by, trying to think of some way to help him. Ned could hardly keep from crying; but he said to his mother, "I should like to have you tell me a story."

"What shall it be, darling?" said his mother.

"Tell me about Harry and his dog Jack." This story had been told to Ned when he was a very, very little boy, and a good many times since then. It seemed odd to his mother that he had chosen such an old story. But he wanted to hear it; and so she told it all over again. This is the story:--

"There was once a little boy named Harry, and he had a little dog named Jack. Jack was a queer-looking dog. He was nearly all black; but he had a white tail, and his front-feet were white.

"Harry loved Jack very much, and as he never forgot to feed him, and never teased him, the dog loved Harry very much. When Harry went to school, Jack went too,--not into the schoolroom (for dogs can't learn to read, you know), but into the school-yard, where he played about till Harry came out again. At recess, he used to play with the boys, and have almost as much fun as if he were a boy too.

"The yard wasn't very large, and, when the boys played ball, they would often throw the ball over the fence. Then it was Jack's part of the play to run after the ball. The boys would call, 'Jack, Jack!' and Jack would run under the fence, seize the ball in his mouth, and bring it back to the boys.

"But, one day, the ball rolled off the pavement out into the street. A wagon was passing just then; and Jack was in such a hurry to get the ball, that he ran right in its way, and the wheel went over his leg.

"The boys all ran out to help Jack; and one of them said, 'O Harry! I'm afraid that he is badly hurt; for see, he runs on three legs, and lets the other one hang.' Harry took Jack up in his arms, and said, 'Poor Jack, poor little Jack.' Then he felt very gently of the dog's leg, and found that it was broken.

"Oh, how sorry Harry and all the other boys felt! Harry couldn't keep from crying, and they all said that if little Jack got well they wouldn't send him out after the ball any more.

"As soon as they were back in the yard, Harry ran into the school-house with Jack in his arms, and said to the teacher, 'Please, sir, may I go home now? My poor little dog Jack has broken his leg, and I want to show him to my mother, and try and make it better.' The teacher said, 'Yes, Harry, you are a good boy, and Jack is a good little dog, and you may take him home.' So Harry started at once.

"When Harry's mother saw him coming home, she was afraid he was sick. She ran out to the gate, and said, 'Why, Harry! What makes you come home so early to-day?'--'O mamma!' said Harry, 'my poor little Jack has broken his leg!' Then Harry's mother looked at Jack, and, after thinking a minute said, 'My dear Harry, I am very sorry; but I think we shall have to kill little Jack to save him from suffering. A dog's broken leg cannot be made whole again.'

"Oh, how sad little Harry felt when his mother said that! It made him cry very hard. But in a little while something made him stop crying: and what do you guess it was? Why, he began to think that perhaps his mamma was mistaken when she said that dogs couldn't have their legs mended; and he thought he would go to the doctor who cured him when he was sick, and ask about it.

"So he said, 'Dear mamma, please let me go and ask Dr. Stratton if he won't try to fix Jack's leg.' And his mother said, 'Well, Harry, you may go; but I don't think the doctor will do it.'

"So Harry put on his hat, and went over to Dr. Stratton's. Harry knocked on the doctor's door. 'Come in!' said the doctor. 'Why, Harry! What do you want? Anybody sick at your house?'

"'N-no, sir,' said Harry, 'not exactly anybody, but my little dog Jack has a broken leg, and mamma says you can't mend it; but please try. My dear little dog is such a good dog, and mamma says he will have to be killed. Will you please try?'

"Now, the doctor was a very kind man. He smiled, and said, 'Well, Harry, I never mended a dog's leg; but I'll try for your sake--but won't he bite me?'

"'Oh, no!' said Harry. 'My dog Jack always minds me, and he will do just as I tell him.'

"So the good doctor put on his hat, and went with Harry. When they were in Harry's house, the doctor said that he must have some very smooth pieces of wood. Harry said, 'I think the cover to my broken paint-box would do if it was whittled.' So he brought it, and the doctor said it was just the thing.

"Then the doctor said, 'Now I must have some white cotton-cloth.' Harry's mother gave the doctor an old shirt, and he tore it into strips. Then he said, 'Now, Harry, I am ready.'

"So Harry brought the little dog Jack, and said to him, 'Now, Jack, lie still!' And the good dog didn't move or bite while the doctor set his leg, and bound it up with the pieces of wood and the cloth. Then the doctor said, 'Now, Harry, you must take good care of Jack and keep him in the house till his leg is quite well.'

"'I will,' said Harry. Then he made a nice soft bed and laid Jack in it, and took good care of him, and in a few weeks, what do you think? Jack was well!

"I tell you, the boys were glad to see him back at school; and one of them made a rhyme about him that they used to sing every morning when they saw him coming,--

"'Little dog Jack, he broke his leg; But now he's come back, peg-a-ty-peg!'"

This was the end of the story, and Ned was so quiet that his mother thought he was asleep. But, all of a sudden, he looked up, with a smile, and said, "I'm going out now to have a game of foot-ball."

"Why, what has become of that toothache?"

"All gone," said Ned.

"Why, that is a most wonderful cure. We will go and tell the dentist about it to-morrow."

MRS. HENRIETTA R. ELIOT.

SONG OF THE BIRDS.

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Music by T. CRAMPTON.

1.

Chipper, chipper, chip! come, clear the way! We must be at work to day. See us swiftly fly along, Hear outbursts of merry song; Watch us in our busy flight Glancing in your window bright; Save your bits of yarn for me; Just think what a help 'twould be!

2.

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3.

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