CHAPTER I.

“It’s a shame!” she said, “just a burning shame, the way you are treated by those children. The idea of your being down on your knees mopping up the musses which they have made, on purpose to vex you. If I were you, Sophia, I wouldn’t endure it another day. It is a wonder to me that their father permits such a state of things. Henry and I were speaking of it last night.”

“Their father doesn’t know the half that goes on,” Mrs. Moore said, speaking quickly in defence of her husband. “What is the use? We live in an uproar all the time, as it is. And after all, Emma, they are his children.”

“I don’t care. You are his wife. You owe something to your self respect. Henry thinks so too; he thinks it is a shame. Why do you go on the floor and clean after them? Isn’t that girl as able to mop up her dishwater as you are?”

Mrs. Moore wrung the wet, greasy cloth with a nervous grip, letting some of the soiled drops trickle down her arm, in her haste, and answered with eyes that glowed:

“To tell the truth, I would scrub the floor after her all day, for the sake of getting her out of my sight for an hour.”

And this was the help Mrs. Moore received.

THE MISSION OF A GRAY WOOLLEN SOCK.

/* _Volume 14, Number 3._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _November 20, 1886._ */

THE PANSY.

UNCLE WILL’S JACK-KNIFE.

/* GRANDPA sat in his big arm-chair, At the close of a long, bright day, Gathered closely about him Robbie, Martie and Say. “So you want another story! What shall it be to-night?” And Grandpa stroked Say’s shining head Till it glowed in the fading light.

Chorused the sweet-voiced trio, “Tell us something we don’t know: Tell us something that happened Ever so long ago.” “Well,” said Grandpa slowly, “I thought of something to-day, Something that really happened, But ’tis more for the boys than Say—

“Something about my own little boy, Your grave good uncle Will, He preaches to us each Sunday, And the people all keep still. The thing he wanted most to own, When he was a little boy, Was a big jack-knife, with four shining blades, That was his dream of joy.

“And I meant to give him a beauty For a grand birthday surprise; I wanted to see his pleasure, The laugh in his great blue eyes, But I didn’t tell him, of course not, And to get it he saw no way: Once I heard him say so sadly, ‘When I get it I’ll be gray.’

“Now there was a good old carpenter Who lived not far away, And Will used to go quite often, ’Mong the shavings and chips to play— That good old man is in Heaven This many and many a year, But I can see him as plainly now As, children, I see you here.

“Such a knife as my Willie wanted Was always by his side; Sometimes it was under the shavings— Seemed almost in play to hide. Now I must tell you a sad, sad tale: One day my little Will, When the old man went to his dinner, Crept there so sly and still,

“And _stole_ the knife he wanted, And carried it away In his little inside pocket— O sorrowful, sorrowful day! But do you think he was happy? Ah, no! and again, ah, no! He could not use it or show it, And nobody must know.

“So he grew sadder, and sadder, My pitiful little man! And shrank from me and his mother, And was thin and pale and wan, Till one day he told me the story With many a bitter tear, And laid the knife before me, And sobbed on my shoulder, here.

“Then I told him he must carry it, And tell the dear old man How he stole it, and he was sorry. It was hard, but he said, ‘I can.’ Then I told him his Heavenly Father, He had sinned against Him too; And Will asked Him to forgive him, And I think Our Father knew.

“He says that the scent of new shavings; Sickens him in the air, And the sound of their rustle underfoot _To-day_ he cannot bear. That year his birthday present Wasn’t a big jack-knife— I gave him something different; But the lesson was for life.”

Then up spoke the little girlie: “Grandpa, ’twas some for me; I wanted a ribbon for kitty’s neck, And I almost took it, you see. Kitty is white and pretty, And the ribbon was pretty and blue, I wanted to do it, Grandpa, And nobody ever knew.” */

/* “But then, you see you didn’t, My darling little Say; You triumphed over temptation, And that is the very way. Now, little folks, ’tis our bed-time: Robbie and Martie, may you Both grow to be like uncle Will, As noble and as true.” E. B. S. */

THE PEACHES.

I ONCE read a story that I want to tell the Pansies. A man brought some fine luscious peaches to his four boys and their mother. They had never seen any peaches before. That evening, he said, “Well, how did you like the peaches?” The elder answered, “Father, it was lovely; I kept the stone, and shall have a tree for myself some day.”

The father was well pleased with his boy’s thoughtfulness.

Then the youngest said: “I ate mine and threw away the stone; mother gave me half of hers.”

Another spoke up: “I picked up the stone my brother threw away, and ate the kernel. I sold my peach, and will buy a dozen with the money when I go to town.”

“And you, Edmund?” the father asked.

“I took mine to George, who is ill with fever. I laid it on his bed, and came away.”

“Now, who has done the best?” inquired the father.

“Brother Edmund,” they all exclaimed, and his mother embraced him with tears in her eyes.

From this fable you may learn many valuable lessons. The first is Prudence and Carefulness; for, if we all planted stones and trees, we should, like the Spaniards, have a great abundance of the good things of life; and we may likewise learn a lesson of unselfishness, and also be taught to have a kindly consideration for the sick, to whom little attentions are very gratifying.

Each one of us could do something to cheer the many sick-rooms if we faithfully endeavored so to do, and always kept in mind the motto of “The Pansy Society.” Let us take the story of “The Peaches” for our lesson.

/* RINGWOOD. */

MONTEAGLE.

BY PANSY.