At last he came to a wide moor, where lived some wild ducks; here he lay the whole night, so tired and so comfortless. In the morning the wild ducks flew up, and perceived their new companion. Pray who are you ?" asked they; and our little Duckling turned himself in all directions, and greeted them as politely as possible.

"You are really uncommonly ugly!" said the wild ducks ; "however, that does not matter to us, provided you do not marry into our families." Poor thing! he had never thought of marrying; he only begged permission to lie among the reeds, and drink the water of the moor.

There he lay for two whole days. On the third day there came two wild geese, or rather ganders, who had not been long out of their egg-shells, which accounts for their impertinence. "Hark ye," said they, "you are so ugly that we like you infinitely well; will you come with us and be a bird of passage? On another moor, not far from this, are some dear, sweet wild geese, as lovely creatures as have ever said 'hiss, hiss.' You are truly in the way to make your fortune, ugly as you are."

Bang! a gun went off all at once, and both wild geese were stretched dead among the reeds; the water became red with blood; bang! a gun went off again; whole flocks of wild geese flew up from among the reeds, and another report followed.

There was a grand hunting party: the hunters lay in ambush all around; some were even sitting in the trees, whose huge branches stretched far over the moor. The blue smoke rose through the thick trees like a mist, and was dispersed as it fell over the water; the hounds splashed about in the mud, the reeds and rushes bent in all directions. How frightened the poor little Duckling was; he turned his head, thinking to hide it under his wings, and in a moment a most formidable-looking dog stood close to him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes sparkling fearfully. He opened wide his jaws at the sight of our duckling, showed him his sharp white teeth, and, splash, splash! he was gone,-gone without hurting him.

"Well! let me be thankful," sighed he; "I am so ugly that even the dog will not eat me."

And now he lay still, though the shooting continued among the reeds, shot following shot.

The noise did not cease till late in the day, and even then the poor little thing dared not stir; he waited several hours before he looked around him, and then hastened away from the moor as fast as he could; he run over fields and meadows, though the wind was so high that he had some difficulty in proceeding.

Towards evening he reached a wretched little hut, so wretched that it knew not on which side to fall, and therefore remained standing. The wind blew violently, so that our poor little Duckling was obliged to support himself on his tail, in order to stand against it; but it became worse and worse. He then remaked that the door had lost one of its hinges, and hung so much away that he could creep through the crevice into the room, which he did.

In this room lived an old women, with her tom cat, and her hen; and the cat, whom she called her little son, knew how to set up his back and purr; indeed, he could even emit sparks, when stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, and was therefore called "Cuckoo Short-legs;" she laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved her as her own child.

The next morning the new guest was perceived; the cat began to mew, and the hen to cackle.

"What is the matter?" asked the old woman, looking round; however, her eyes were not good, so she took the young Duckling to be a fat duck who had lost her way. "This is a capital catch,' said she; "I shall now have duck's eggs, if it be not a drake: we must try."

And so the Duckling was put to the proof for three weeks, but no eggs made their appearance.

Now the cat was master of the house, and the hen was the mistress, and they used always to say, "We and the world," for they magined themselves to be not only the half of the world, but also by far the better half. The Duckling thought it was possible to be of a different opinion, but that the hen would not allow. "Can you lay eggs ?" asked she.

"No.'

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'Well, then, you should have no opinion when reasonable persons are speaking."

So the Duckling sat alone in a corner, and was in a very bad humour; however, he happened to think of the fresh air and bright sunshine, and these thoughts gave him such a strong desire to swim again, that he could not help telling it to the hen.

"What ails you ?" said the hen. "You have nothing to do, and therefore brood over these fancies; either lay eggs or purr, then you will forget them."

"But it is so delicious to swim!" said the Duckling; 66 so delicious when the waters close over your head, and you plunge to the bottom!" "Well, that is a queer sort of pleasure," said the hen; "I think you must be crazy. Not to speak of myself, ask the cat-he is the most sensible animal I know-whether he would like to swim, or to plunge to the bottom of the water. Ask our mistress, the old woman,-there is no one in the world wiser than she; do you think she would take pleasure in swimming, and in the waters closing over her head ?" "You do not understand me," said the Duckling.

"What, we do not understand you! So you think yourself wiser than the cat and the old woman, not to speak of myself. Do not fancy any such thing, child, but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown you. Are you not lodged in a warm room, and have you not the advantage of society from which you can learn something? But you are a simpleton, and it is wearisome to have any thing to do with you. Believe me, I wish you well. I tell you unpleasant truths, but it is thus that real friendship is shown. Come, for once give yourself the trouble to learn to purr, or to lay eggs." "I think I will go out into the wide world again,” said the Duckling. Well, go," answered the hen.

So the Duckling went. He swam on the surface of the water, he plunged beneath, but all animals passed him by, on account of his ugliness. And the Autumn came, the leaves turned yellow and brown, the wind caught them and danced them about, the air was very cold, the clouds were heavy with hail or snow, and the raven sat on the hedge and croaked: the poor Duckling was certainly not very comfortable!

One evening, just as the sun was setting with unusual brilliancy, a flock of large, beautiful birds rose from out of the brushwood; the duckling had never seen anything so beautiful before; their plumage was of a dazzling white, and they had long slender necks. They were swans; they uttered a singular cry, spread out their long, splendid wings, and flew away from these cold regions to warmer countries, across the open sea. They flew so high, so very high! and the little ugly Duckling's feelings were so strange; he turned round and round in the water like a mill-wheel, strained his neck to look after them, and sent forth such a loud and strange cry, that it almost frightened himself. Ah! he could not forget them, those noble birds! those happy birds! When he could see them no longer, he plunged to the bottom of the water, and when he rose again was almost beside himself.

The Duckling knew not what the birds were called, knew not whither they were flying, yet he loved them as he had never before loved anything; he envied them not, it would never have occurred to him to wish such beauty for himself; he would have been quite contented if the ducks in the duck-yard had but endured his company the poor, ugly animal!

And the winter was so cold, so cold! The Duckling was obliged to swim round and round in the water to keep it from freezing; but every night the opening in which he swam became smaller and smaller. It froze so that the crust of ice crackled. The Duckling was obliged to make good use of his legs to prevent the water from freezing entirely. At last, wearied out, he lay stiff and cold in the ice.

Early in the morning there passed by a peasant, who saw him, broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and brought him home to his wife.

He now revived. The children would have played with him, but our Duckling thought they wished to tease him, and in his terror jumped into the milk-pail, so that the milk was spilled about the room. The good woman screamed and clapped her hands. He flew thence into the pan where the butter was kept, and thence into the meal-barrel, and out again; and then how strange he looked!

The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children raced with each other trying to catch him, and laughed and screamed likewise. It was well for him that the door stood open; he jumped out among the bushes into the new-fallen snow: he lay there as in a dream.

But it would be too melancholy to relate all the trouble and misery that he was obliged to suffer during the severity of the winter. He was lying on a moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine warmly again, the larks sang, and beautiful spring had returned.

And once more he shock his wings. They were stronger than formerly, and bore him forwards quickly, and before he was well aware of it, he was in a large garden where the apple trees stood in full bloom; where the syringas sent forth their fragrance, and hung their long green branches down into the winding canal. Oh! every thing was so lovely, so full of the freshness of spring! And out of

the thicket came three beautiful white swans. They displayed their feathers so proudly, and swam so lightly, so dightly! The Duckling knew the glorious creatures, and was seized with a strange melancholy.

"I will fly to them, those kingly birds," said he; "they will kill me, because I, ugly as I am, have presumed to approach them: but it matters not; better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry, and to have so much to suffer during the winter!"

He flew into the water and swam towards the beautiful creatures; they saw him and shot forward to meet him. "Only kill me," said the poor animal, and he bowed his head low, expecting death; but what did he see in the water? He saw beneath him his own form, no longer that of a plump, ugly, grey bird-it was that of a swan!

It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard if one has been hatched from a swan's egg.

The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own happiness, and the larger swans swam round him, and stroked him with their beaks.

Some little children were running about in the garden; they threw grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed, "There is a new one!" the others also cried out, "Yes, there is a new swan come!" and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water, and every one said, "The new one is the best, so young and so beautiful!" and the old swans bowed before him. The young swan felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what to do, he was far too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is never proud.

He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and the sun shone so warmly and brightly-he shook his feathers, stretched his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, "How little did I dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised Duckling!"

THE NOBLEMAN AND THRASHER; OR, THE GENEROUS GIFT.

A NOBLEMAN lived in a village of late,
Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;
For he had seven children, and most of them small,
And nought but his labour to support them withal.
He never was given to idle and lurk,
For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,
With his flail, and his bag, and his bottle of beer,
As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.
Thus careful and constant, each morning he went
Unto his daily labour with joy and content;
So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing,
As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning this nobleman, taking a walk,
He met this poor man, and freely did talk;
He asked him (at first) many questions at large,
And then began talking concerning his charge.
"Thou hast many children, I very well know:
Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,
And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,
How can you maintain them as well as you do?"
"I carefully carry home what I do earn,
My daily expenses by this I do learn;
And find it possible, though we be poor,
To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.
"I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,
Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;

No work comes amiss, for I thrash and I plough,

Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.
"My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,
We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke ;
We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,
And do our endeavours to keep us from want.
"And when I come home from my labour at night,
To my wife and my children in whom I delight,
To see them come round me with prattling noise-
Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

"Though I am as weary as weary may be,
The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;
I find that content is a moderate feast,

I never repine at my lot in the least."

Now the nobleman, hearing what he did say,
Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;
His wife and his children he charged him to bring;
In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave,
He went to his wife, who would hardly believe
But this same story himself he might raise;
Yet seeing the ring she was lost in amaze.
Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,
And made them all fine in the best of their clothes;
The goodman, with his goodwife, and children small,
They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report,
All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;
And they at the nobleman's table did dine,
With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.
The feast being over, he soon let them know
That he then intended on them to bestow

A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;
And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.
"Because thou art careful and good to thy wife,
I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;
It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,
Because I beheld thy industrious cares."
No tongue then is able in full to express
The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;
With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground.
Such noblemen-there are but few to be found.

LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS.

"My poor flowers are quite faded!" said little Ida. "Only yesterday evening they were so pretty, and now they are all drooping! What can be the reason of it ?" she inquired of the student, who was sitting on the sofa. He was a great favourite with Ida, because he used to tell her stories, and cut out all sorts of pretty things for her in paper-such as hearts with little ladies dancing in them, high castles with open doors, &c. "Why do these flowers look so deplorable?" she asked again, showing him a bouquet of faded flowers.

"Do you not know ?" replied the student. “Your flowers went to a ball last night, and are tired; that is why they all hang their heads."

"Surely flowers cannot dance!" exclaimed little Ida.

"Of course they can dance! When it is dark, and we are all gone to bed, they jump about as merrily as possible. They have a ball almost every night."

May their children go to the ball, too?" asked Ida.

Yes," said the student, "little daisies, and lilies of the valley." "And where do the prettiest flowers dance ?"

"Have you never been in the large garden in front of the Kensington Palace, the garden so full of flowers? Surely you recollect the swans which came swimming up to you when you threw them crumbs of bread? There you may imagine they have splendid balls."

"I was there yesterday with my mother," said Ida, "but there were no leaves on the trees, neither did I see a single flower. What can have become of them? There were so many in the summer time!" "As soon

"They are now at the palace," answered the student. as the King leaves his summer residence, and returns with all his court to the town, the flowers likewise hasten out of the garden and into the palace, where they enjoy themselves famously. Oh, if you could but see them! The two loveliest roses sit on the throne, and play king and queen. The red cockscombs then arrange themselves in rows before them, bowing very low: they are the gentlemen of the bed-chamber. After that the prettiest among the flowers come in and open the ball. The blue violets represent midshipmen, and begin dancing with the hyacinths and crocuses, who take the part of young ladies. The tulips and the tall orange lilies are old dowagers, whose business it is to see that everything goes on with perfect propriety."

"But," asked the astonished little Ida, "may the flowers give their ball in the King's palace ?"

"No one knows anything about it," replied the student. "Perhaps once during the night the old chamberlain may come in with his great bunch of keys, to see that all is right; but as soon as the flowers hear the jingling of the keys they are quite still, and hide themselves behind the long damask window-curtains. 'I smell flowers here,' says the old chamberlain, but he is not able to find them."

"That is very funny," said Ida, clapping her little hands; "but could not I see the flowers ?"

"To be sure you can see them," returned the student. "You have only to peep in at the window next time you go to the palace. I did so to-day, and saw a long yellow lily lying on the sofa. That was a court lady."

"Can the flowers in the Botanic Garden go there, too? they go so far?" asked Ida.

Can "Certainly, for flowers can fly if they wish it. The pretty red and yellow butterflies, that look so much like flowers, are, in fact, nothing else. They jump from their stalks, move their petals as if they were little wings, and fly about, as a reward for always behaving themselves well; they are allowed, instead of sitting quietly on their stalks, to flutter hither and thither all day long, till wings actually grow out of their petals. You have often seen it yourself. For the rest, it may be that the flowers in the Botanic Garden have not heard what merry-making goes on every night at the palace; but I assure you if, next time you go into the garden, you whisper to one of the flowers that a ball is to be given at night at the palace, the news will be repeated from flower to flower, and thither they will all fly to a certainty. Then, should the curator come into the garden, and find all his flowers gone, he will not be able to imagine what is become of them."

"Indeed!" said Ida; "and, pray, how can the flowers repeat to each other what I say to them? I am sure that flowers cannot speak."

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No, they cannot speak-you are right there," returned the student: "but they make themselves understood by pantomime. Have you never seen them move to and fro at the least breath of air? They can understand each other this way as well as we can by talking."

Ida.

"And does the curator understand their pantomime ?" asked "Oh! certainly. One morning he came into the garden, and perceived that a tall nettle was conversing in pantomime with a pretty red carnaton. Thou art so beautiful,' said he to the carnation, and I love thee so much!' But the curator could not allow such goings on, so he gave a rap at the nettle's leaves, which are its fingers, and in doing so he stung himself, and since then he has never dared to touch a nettle."

Ah, ah!" laughed little Ida, "that was very droll.” "What do you mean by this?" here interrupted the tedious counsellor, who had come on a visit, "putting such trash into the child's head." He could not endure the student, and always used to scold when he saw him cutting out pasteboard figures-as, for instance, a man on the gallows, holding a heart in his hand, which was meant for a heart stealer; or an old witch riding on a broomstick, and carrying her husband on the tip of her nose. He used always to say then as now, "What do you mean by putting such trash into the child's head? It is all fantastical nonsense!"

But still little Ida thought what the student had told her about the flowers was very droll, and she could not leave off thinking of it. She was now sure that her flowers hung their heads because they were tired with dancing so much the night before. So she took them to the pretty little table where her playthings were arranged. Her doll lay sleeping in the cradle, but Ida said to her, "You must get up, Sophy, and be content to sleep to-night in the table-drawer, for the poor flowers are ill, and must sleep in your bed. Perhaps they will be well again by to-morrow." She then took the doll out of the bed, but the good lady looked vexed at having to give up cradle to the flowers.

her

Ida then laid the faded flowers in her doll's bed, drew the covering over them, and told them to lie quite still, while she made some camomile tea for them to drink, in order that they might be well again the next day. And she drew the curtains round the bed that the sun might not dazzle their eyes.

All the evening she thought of nothing else but what the student had told her, and just before she went to bed she ran up to the window where her mother's tulips and hyacinths stood, behind the blinds, and whispered to them, "I know very well that you are going to a ball to-night." But the flowers moved not a leaf, and pretended not

to have heard her.

After she was in bed she thought for a long time how delightful it must be to see the flowers dancing in the palace, and said to herself, "I wonder whether my flowers have been there?" but before she could satisfy herself she fell asleep. During the night she awoke: she had been dreaming of the student and the flowers, and of the counsellor, who told her that they were making game of her. All was still in the room, the night-lamp was burning on the table, and her father and inother were both asleep.

"I wonder whether my flowers are still lying in Sophy's bed ?" said she. "I should very much like to know." She raised herself a little, and looking towards the door, which stood half open, she saw that the flowers and all her playthings were just as she had left them. She listened, and it seemed to her as if some one must be

playing on the pianoforte, but the tones were lower and sweeter than she had ever heard before. "Now my flowers must certainly be dancing," said she. " "Oh, how I should like to see them!" but she dared not get up for fear of waking her father and mother. "If they would only come in here!" Still the flowers did not come, and the music sounded so sweetly. At last she could restrain herself no longer, she must see the dancing. So she crept lightly out of the bed, and stole towards the door of the room. Oh, what wonderful things she saw then! There was no night-lamp burning here; however, it was quite light in the room, for the moon shone brightly through the windows on the floor. All the hyacinths and tulips stood there in two rows, whilst their empty pots might still be seen in front of the windows; they performed figures, and took hold of each other by the long green leaves. At the piano sat down a large yellow lily, which Ida fancied she must have seen before, for she remembered the student's saying that this flower was exceedingly like Miss Laura, and how everyone had laughed at his remark. Now she herself agreed that the lily did resemble this young lady, for she had exactly her way of playing, bowing her long yellow face now on one side, now on the other, and nodding her head to mark the time. A tall, blue crocus now stepped forward, sprang upon the table on which lay Ida's playthings, went straight up to the bed, and drew back the curtains. There lay the sick flowers, but they rose immediately, and greeted the other flowers, who invited them to their dance. The sick flowers appeared quite well again, and danced as merrily as the rest. Suddenly a heavy noise, as of something falling from the table, was heard. Ida cast a glance that way, and saw that it was the rod which she had found on her bed on the morning of Shrove Tuesday, and which seemed desirous of ranking itself among the flowers. It was certainly a very pretty rod, for a wax doll was fixed on the top, wearing a hat as broad-brimmed as the counsellor's, with a blueand-red ribbon tied round it. It hopped upon its three red stilts in the middle of the flowers, and stamped the floor merrily with its feet. It was dancing the Mazurka, which the flowers could not dance; they were too light-footed to stamp.

All at once the wax-doll on the rod swelled out to a giant, tall and broad, and exclaimed in a loud voice, "What do you mean by putting such trash into the child's head? It is all fantastical nonsense!" And now the doll looked as much like the counsellor in his broadbrimmed hat as one drop of water resembles another: her countenance looked as yellow and peevish as his: the paper flowers on the rod, however, pinched her thin legs, whereupon she shrunk upto her original size.

The little Ida thought this scene so droll that she could not help laughing; the ball-company, however, did not notice it, and the rod continued to stamp about, till at length the doll-counsellor was obliged to dance too, whither she would or no, and make herself now thin, now thick, now tall, now short, till at last the flowers interceded for her, and the rod then left her in peace.

A loud knocking was now heard from the drawer in which lay Ida's doll. It was Sophy who made the noise. She put her head out of the drawer, and asked in great astonishment, "Is there a ball here?-why has no one told me of it?"

"Will you dance with me?" asked the nutcrackers. "Certainly you are a very fit person to dance with me!" said Sophy, turning her back upon him. She then sat down on the table, expecting that one of the flowers would come up and ask her to dance, but no one came; she coughed-" hem! hem !" still no one came. Meantime the nutcrackers danced by himself, and his steps were not at all badly made.

As no flowers came forward to ask Sophy to dance, all at once she let herself fall down upon the floor, which excited a general commotion, so that all the flowers ran up to ask her whether she had hurt hereslf. But she had received no injury. The flowers, however, were all very polite, especially Ida's flowers, who took the opportunity of thanking the doll for the comfortable bed in which they had slept so quietly, and then seized her hands to dance with her, whilst all the other flowers stood in a circle round them. Sophy was now quite happy, and begged Ida's flowers to make use of her bed again after the ball, as she did not at all mind sleeping one night in the table-drawer.

But the flowers said: "We owe you many thanks for your kindness, we shall not live long enough to need it; we shall be quite dead by to-morrow; but ask the little Ida to bury us in the garden near her canary-bird, then we shall grow again next summer, and be even more beautiful than we have been this year."

"No, you must not die!" replied Sophy warmly, as she kissed the flowers. Just then the door was suddenly opened, and a number of flowers danced inro the room. Ida could not conceive where these flowers came from, unless from the king's garden. First of all entered two beautiful roses, wearing golden crowns, then followed

stocks and pinks, bowing to the company on all sides. They had also a band of music with them; great poppies and peonies blew upon pea-shells till they were quite red in the face, whilst blue and white campanulas rang a merry peal of bells. These were followed by an immense number of different flowers, all dancing; violets, daisies, lilies of the valley, narcissuses, and others, who all moved so gracefully that it was delightful to see them.

At last these happy flowers wished one another "good night;" so little Ida once more crept into bed to dream of all the beautiful things she had seen.

The next morning, as soon as she was up and dressed, she went to her little table to see if her flowers were there. She drew aside the bed-curtains-yes! there lay the flowers, but to-day they were much more faded then yesterday! Sophy, too, was lying in the drawer, but she looked uncommonly sleepy.

"Can you not think of something to say to me?" asked little Ida of her; but Sophy made a most stupid face, and answered not a syllable.

"You are not at all good!" said Ida; "and yet all the flowers let you dance with them." She them chose out from her play-things a little pasteboard box with birds painted on it, and therein she placed the faded flowers. "That shall be your coffin," said she," and when my cousins come to see me, they shall go with me to bury you in the garden, in order that next summer you may bloom again, and be still more beautiful than you have been this year."

The two cousins, of whom she spoke, were two lively boys, called James and Alfred. Their father had given them two new crossbows, which they brought with them to show to Ida. She told them of the poor flowers that were dead, and were to be buried in | the garden. Then there was a funeral procession. The two boys walked in front with their bows slung across their shoulders, and little Ida followed carrying the dead flowers in their pretty coffin. A grave was dug for them in the garden. Ida kissed the flowers once more, then laid the box down in the hollow, and James and Alfred shot arrows over the grave with their cross-bows, for they had neither guns nor cannon.

THE DUSTMAN.

SATURDAY.

"Now may I have some stories ?" asked little Edward, as soon as the Dustman had put him to sleep.

"We shall have no time for them this evening," said the Dustman, spreading his picture-umbrella over him. "Look at these Chinese!" The umbrella resembled a large willow pattern plate, with blue trees and pointed bridges; little Chinese men and women stood nodding their heads among them.

"By to-morrow morning all the world must be put in order," said the Dustman: "it is a festival day-it is Sunday. I must go to the church-tower, to see whether the little nisses are rubbing the bells, so as to make them ring merrily. I must away to the fields, to see that the winds are sweeping the dust off the grass and leaves. I must take down the stars in order to brighten them. I put them into my apron, but first they must be numbered; and the holes in which they fit up in the sky must be numbered also, that every one may return to its proper place: else they would not sit firmly, and we should have too many falling stars-one coming down after another."

"Listen to me, good Sir Robin," said an old Portrait, which hung by the wall, near where Edward was sleeping. 66 Do you know that I am Edward's great-grandfather? I am much obliged to you for telling the boy stories; but you must not puzzle him. Stars cannot be taken down and brightened; they are bodies like our earth.” Many thanks, old great-grandfather!" said the Dustman; many thanks! Thou art certainly very old, but I am older still! I am an old heathen; the Greeks and Romans call me the God of Dreams. I have been in families of the greatest distinction, and I go there still! I know how to deal with great and small! Now it is thy turn; say what thou pleasest !"

"So one is no longer allowed to speak one's mind!" muttered the old Portrait.

And presently Edward awoke.

SUNDAY.

"GOOD EVENING!" said the Dustman; and Edward nodded his head to him, and jumped up to turn his great-grandfather's portrait to the wall, in order that he might not interrupt them as on yesterday-night.

"Now you shall tell me stories about the five green peas who all lived in one pod; and about the cock courting the hen; and

about the darning-needle, who was so fine that she fancied herself a sewing-needle."

"One may have too much of a good thing!" said the Dustman. "I would rather show you something else; I will show you my brother. He never comes more than once to any one; and whomsoever he visits, he takes on his horse, and tells him a story. He knows only two stories, the one unspeakably delightful, such as no one in the world can imagine; the other so dreadful, so horrible-it is not to be described."

And the Dustman lifted little Edward up to the window, saying, "There is my brother, the other Dustman; he is called Death! You see he is not so frightful as he is represented in picture-books, where he seems to be all bones; no, he wears garments embroidered with silver, it is the gayest of uniforms; a mantle of black velvet flutters over his horse, behind him. See how he gallops!"

And Edward saw the other Dustman ride on, and take old and young with him on his horse: some he placed in front, and others behind; but he always asked first what sort of a journal they had to show.

"Good," they all replied. "Yes, but let me see it," said he; so they were obliged to show it to him; and all those who had "Very good," written in it were put in front of the horse, and heard the story that was so delightful; but those who had "Middling" or "Bad," inscribed in their journals, were obliged to get up behind, and listen to the horrible story. They trembled, and wept; they tried to jump down from the horse's back; but they could not, for they were as firmly fixed on it as if they had grown there.

"Death is a most beautiful Dustman," said Edward: "I am not afraid of him."

"That you should not be," said the Dustman, "only take care to have a good journal to show."

"Ah, this is very instructive!" muttered the great-grandfather's portrait. "It is always useful to give one's opinion." He was now satisfied. These are the stories of Old Robin; perhaps he may tell you more some evening.

THE CAT AND THE FOX.

IT happened one day that a Cat met a Fox in a wood, and thinking him' a very clever fellow, well acquainted with the ways of the world, Pussy spoke in a friendly way to him, saying, "Good-day, dear Master Fox; how do you do? how do you get on, and pray how do you manage to get a living, these hard times?"

The Fox, who was a very proud and consequential fellow, looked at the Cat from head to foot, tail and all, and considered in his mind whether he should condescend to give Pussy an answer or not. At last he said—“Oh, you motley fool, you simpleton, you mouse-catcher, how dare you presume to speak to a gentleman? What does it concern you how I am?-what do you know, what can you do for yourself, what's your best trick, shaver ?" self, when the dogs run after me, by climbing up a tall tree." "My best trick, and the only one I know," replied Pussy, is to save my

"Ob! is that all," said Mr. Fox; "why, I have more than a hundred better tricks than that; am up to everything; I am a match for anybody and everybody, I am. I pity you. You are only a Cat. Just come along with me, and I'll show you what a chase I'll lead the hounds, and trick them at last. You shall see, Mouser."

Presently a Huntsman came along with his bright scarlet coat on, and his four hourds with him. As soon as Pussy saw them, she scampered up into a tree, and perched herself upon a little branch, where she was quite concealed by the leaves.

are only fit to catch mice." "What are you afraid of?" said Mr. Fox, "can't you face a dog?-bah! you

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Fox," replied Pussy; "quick, the hounds will have you; open your sack, bring out your cleverest trick."

But before poor Reynard could play his best trick the hounds had caught him, and held him so tight that he screamed with pain.

Oh, Mr. Fox," cried Pussy, when she saw the fate of the Fox; "you have come to grief in spite of your hundred tricks. One good one, like mine, and your life would not have been sacrificed."

THE THIRSTY FLY. Busy, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I; Freely welcome to my cup, Could'st thou sip and sip it up. Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away; Both alike are mine and thine, Ilastening quick to thy decline: Thine's a summer-mine no more, Though repeated to threescore; Threescore summers, when they're gone,

Will appear as short as one.