But _you_ don't mind that, though you're little as me; He always stoops down, or you sit on his knee When you're chums.

We go for long walks--he says, "Now for a hike!"-- With beautiful talks about things that I like; Some folks do not care about beetles and toads And little green snakes that you find in the roads, But we're chums.

Sometimes mother gets into trouble with me; She tells him about it, and he says, "I see!"

His arm gets around me, and pretty soon, then, I'm telling him I'll never do it again, 'Cause we're chums.

We tell all our secrets, and when things go bad And worry-lines come in his face, I look glad And get him a-laughing, and smooth them away.

He says, "Little Partner, it's your turn today!"

So we're chums.

A TOUCH OF NATURE

A little maid upon my knee Sighs wearily, sighs wearily; "I'm tired out of dressin' dolls, And havin' stories read," says she.

"There _is_ a book, if I could see, I should be happy, _puffickly_!

My mamma keeps it on a shelf-- 'But _that_ you cannot have,' says she!"

"But here's your Old Man of the Sea, And Jack the Giant!" (Lovingly I tried the little maid to soothe.) "The _interestin'_ one," says she,

"Is that high-up one!--seems to me The fings you want just has to be Somethin' you hasn't got; and _that's_ The interestin' one!" says she.

A LESSON IN NATURAL HISTORY

"Now who can tell," the teacher said, "Who the five members be (The one who knows may go to the head) Of the cat family?"

"I guess I know as much as that,"

Cried the youngest child in glee; "The father cat and the mother cat, And the baby kittens three!"

PICTURE-BOOK TIME

Whenever the rain-drops come pattering down, And the garden's too dripping for play, Whenever poor nursie's determined to frown, Or mother dear's just gone away, Then up to the nursery book-shelves we climb, For trouble time's always a picture-book time!

When some one's been naughty, and some one is sad, When the new walking bear will not go, When the kitten is lost or the puppy is bad, When Mary hates learning to sew, Then up to the nursery book-shelves we climb, For trouble time's always a picture-book time!

And there in the pictures the world seems so gay, And everything always goes right.

The gardens are sunny, the children at play, There's seldom a picture-book night.

No wonder we love to sit cosily curled, Forgetting our woes in the picture-book world.

The dear, merry pages! we know them so well, And when they are folded away, Our troubles have vanished as if by a spell, And nothing is wrong with the day.

The nursery book-shelves are easy to climb, And no time is better than picture-book time!

HANNAH G. FERNALD.

THE TOPSY-TURVY DOLL

Topsy-Turvy came to me On our last year's Christmas tree.

She is just the queerest doll, Much the strangest of them all.

Now you see her, cheeks of red, Muslin cap upon her head, Bright blue eyes and golden hair, Never face more sweet and fair.

Presto! change! She's black as night, Woolly hair all curling tight, Coal-black eyes, thick lips of red, Bright bandanna on her head.

She's not two, as you'd suppose, When Topsy comes, Miss Turvy goes.

Perhaps it's as it is with me.

Sometimes another child there'll be, And mother says, "Where is my Flo?

I wish that naughty girl would go."

REBECCA DEMING MOORE.

POOR OLD BOOKS

The poor old books that n.o.body reads, How lonely their days must be!

They stand up high on the dusty shelves, Waiting and wishing, beside themselves,-- And n.o.body cares but me.

They have no pictures, they are no good, But I'd read them through, if I only could.

The poor old books! They are fat and dull, Their covers are dark and queer; But every time I push the door, And patter across the library floor, They seem to cry, "Here, oh here!"

And I feel so sad for their lonely looks That I hate to take down my picture-books.

The nice new books on the lower shelves Are giddy in gold and red; And they are happy and proud and gay, For somebody reads in them every day, And carries them up to bed.

But when I am big I'm going to read The books that n.o.body else will heed.

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.

SYMPATHY

Sometimes the world's asleep so soon When all the winds are still, That I can see the little moon Come peeping o'er the hill.

It looks so small and scared and white, The way I feel in bed When I have just put out the light And covered up my head.

It half seems wishing it had stayed, And half creeps softly out.

"Dear moon," I say, "don't be afraid!

No bogies are about."