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Show Jour boys and girls! Little Black Criket. I ,. Lit tie Black Cricket has come round 1 again: I hear him there under the wall "Where the pretty nasturtiums cling and climb. But I do not like him at all. I'm sorry he's como. and I'll -ell you why, r f It's a sign that summer is 'most passed bv So grandmother says, and that long ago When she was a child he came round just so. Little Black Cricket, so some folks say, "J ides in the shade and sweetly sings," i But 1 think it's only a dismal wail He grinds out with his musical wail Somehow it makes me qui.o lonely and sad, I try, but I can't be merry and glad As J was before he came here today, To tell us summer is passing away. Little Black Cricket wise grandmother ; heard. x And said: "Dear, it's time to begin ! To hunt up school things. Now take your bag mnvii, ! So you can be putting them in." i I like nature studies much better than bonks Those lessons I learn in fields and by ! brooks; I The big out-of-doors, where scholars are free To talk and run, is the school-room for me. Little Black Cricket. I wish you'd put off The (.nd of the summer next year. Folks might forget it's the right time - - i'.-'k- school, I'nless with your grind you appear. But 1 suppose grandmother wouldn't ap- prove Of your making such a very strange move; She told me today and I ought to give ; heed The school discipline now is just what I J need. Christian Work. i . . This pretty story will give a double ; pleasure to tho.se who can appreciate -; its full me.Tr.inc: The Two Brooks. Once upon a time, high up in a lofty j mountain, there ran a small clear rivu- t let, white as silver and pure as crystal. If it had had any appreciation of tine seenery, its life might have been happy enough, but it was very solitary. It 1 bed no other little brooks to sing and chatter with, and it grew weary of the ! whispering- of the pine trees, of the swoop of the great eagles that built ' their neMs up in the crags, of the sighs of the winds that crept . round the mountain's summit when they were in a plaintive mood, or that quarreled and I whirled alxnut when they were ansry. Nay, it even grew tired of the bright ? f warm sunshine that used to come and I try to oilier it up, and it would be cap- ; tious and fretful. Then, wh.-n the shadows of night gathered close and dark on hill and valley, it sluddered and crept on padly through the long: night. Now, at the foot of the mountain there stretched a wide and fertile plain: gardens bright with flowers, fruitful fields and homesteads with sheep and cattle, poultry an-d pigs, made the landscape land-scape cheery and bright: but what was above all tantalizing to the little brook was the sight of another stream, far away in the distance, that shone and sparkled with wonderful brightness in the lap of the green meadows through which it' ran. Daily and hourly the mountain brook looked at its brother of the plain, with a weary longing to descend de-scend from its perch and gambol in pleasant companionship through the fields. ' "It is so lonely up here." it muttered; "and 1 am so tired of hearing these old pines and larches gossip eternally about their vouth, and moan and complain com-plain like old ghosts. I am weary of them altogether, that is the truth. I. poor little helpless bmok that ( am I must live and die un here alone, I suppose, sup-pose, lean neither "do any good to any-. any-. body nor amuse myself, whilst as for mv cousin down yonder, he looks as cheery and active as a swallow, and sees no end of society." j Brooks can see a long way off, and this one grew still more fretful at what he sawin the distance. " "Just look," he cried to himself; "there is a whole party of merry cnil-dien cnil-dien paddling about in him. splashing each ther.. and 1.'inS- Oh, if 1 but had them here, uuldn't I play and dame about them! But here I must fit-.p, wretehed little brook that I am, and move eternally over the sharp stones and slippery moss that are so c-xtremolv unpleasant at ray back, and never gets a step further than the ' ' marshy ground that lies always in wait for me down yonder, and sucks me up whether 1 will or no. As for my bright pretty cousin, why, a swallow-told swallow-told me one day that he saw him tun- ing a mill-wheel ,and as busy as a bee. Oh, dear!" . Now what may, perhaps, seem the most singular part of my story, is that that same blight stream whose ooarsa t in spring ran through violets and prim- ! rows, who basked lazily in summer un- i der shady trees, and (as seemed to its j mountain cousin more enviable than f all) was able with its life current to -J render useful service this identical J brook was wont to grumble much m I the same strain as its distant relatue. "A pretty idpa." it cried one da. I "that I am never to knor- peace ana I quietness, never to feel the delight or . doing nothing. Upon my word, I nve I a great mind to run away altogether, jf and then how would the world go on I I should like to know? The miller cou d ' not turn his wheel, so the peoPle wOUl(? I have no bread; the women could not f t ash the clothes; the cows would get j . i , 1 . no water to drink and must die, when good-bye to milk and butter, cream and cheese; there would be a pretty standstill with a vengeance!-Oh, I am a most important stream! And yet at times I should like to change places with my cousin up yonder, though I have heard that now and then he has but a dull time of it. "But how gloriously quiet his life is! No noisy children to come and disturb one just as one settles down to an afternoon af-ternoon nap; no quacking ducks, no croaking frogs, no men with horses, or women with washing and endless chatter; chat-ter; in short, nothing to disturb the current of his tU'ughts. I should like to change places with him sometimes, and know what rest means." Now, these discontented remarks of both brooks were overheard by a very tender-hearted and sensible friend of theirs, who. having frequented the globe with his three brothers for an' infinite number of centuries, had seen many strange changes, and. in fact, knew a thing or two. This wise friend was the west wind, who, after much reflection, re-flection, determined on a little conversation conver-sation with the mountain stream, which seemed likely to fall into a melancholy mel-ancholy frame of mind from pure inaction. in-action. Without more ado he rushed up the hills, and sat down quite out of breath by the side of a rivulet, who was dozing in the sunshine. He had strange things, to tell, and wise with the wisdom of many g t erations, did not rouse the brook too suddenly, but began gently with a little ripple on the ir-eft of the water. "Ah, how pleasant that light stream is!" murmured the stream. "I really was almost asleep. Why, I do bslieve it is my old friend, the west wind always al-ways a welcome visitor." "Yes, little one, it is I. I have been wandering in such busy scenes, thai I come to you for rest and quiet." "Rest and quiet with a vengeance, retorted the brook; "I get enough of that and to spare; unlike my distant j cousin down there, whose life is all gaiety and pleasure." "Well," said the west wind; "that is I one way of looking at it, to be sure, but I perhaps you will hardly believe that I he grumbles quite as much as you do. He says the children fidget him, an (A ( make him muddy, that the ducks and frogs disturb him: indeed, he finds fault all round, and wishes he could change with you, you look so bright, and yet so quiet." "Now that really is quite a 'new light to put on it," said the brook, meditatively, medita-tively, "and told me by anyone but yourself, I should say it was a joke; but I know you are to be depended on. So there may be two sides to the question ques-tion of a quiet life; but there can bo no doubt of his usefulness, while I am of no use at all." The west wind smiled gravely, and was quite still for a few moments, then it rippled up again through the pines and on the stream, as if it '.vere laughing laugh-ing ouietly. arid said: "Well, little friend, and whence do you suppose the busy brook yonder springs?" "Oh, I really don't know. Out of the earth, of course." "Ah. but before that, don't you know-that know-that the rivers run among the hills, that they must start from the heights and run down, down, ever towards the p-rear nnd wide sea?" ' "Well, yet, I suppose they do:' but what is that to me stuck up here?" I "Let us say no more about that. I then." answered the west wind, "but if you are not, too tired, tell me what be-! be-! comes of you when you have run out I your day up here." "Oh, I cannot say exactly, except that I get away into that marshy bog yonder, yon-der, and it sucks me up, and I know-nothing know-nothing more." "Well, now," said the west wind, "to think that I can tell you more of your history than you know yourself! But, to be sure, I have unusual advantages; balloons are not to be compared to me no, nor birds, either, though they see and know things never dreamt of in man's philosophy. Now, listen. The marsh, as you say, sucks you up, and you know- nothing more. In fact, you might almost say you die. as humans die, and that there the likeness ends. But I can tell you that it goes further, that you do not cease any more than they, but that you spring forth with renewed life and renewed activity, and far greater powers of usefulness. That sparkling stream down yonder that you envy so much is none other but your self, sprung out of the marshy ground, and rushing down to the plain with I help of man and beast, down , to the very life which you so desire up in this your quiet birthplace." The stream lay almost motionless with surprise. "Can this indeed be true?" it murmured mur-mured at last. . "But if I am unconscious uncon-scious of it. and run on up here, weary of" the monotony, and if what I have believed to be my cousin of the plain is weary of the unrest of his life, what good shall this that you tell me do to either of us?" "There is a remedy for that." replied re-plied the west wind, "and the remedy is patience. Any trial patiently borne is sure to be mitigated; it is in the order of things that it should be so, and your deliverance is, I believe, now-close now-close at hand. Just as I swept up here, I passed sundry humans, exploring hither and thither, below the great bog, surveying, as they call it, and talking of draining the marsh, and that, vou know, would But, hush, here they come." Even as the west wind spoke a party of men clambered up the steep ascent, and stopped beside the stream. "Why, this is the very place." said one, who appeared to be the leader; "and it is just as we were told in the village down belowv They say that even in the greatest drought this little stream never runs dry a veritable fountain in the desert, if we can only connect it with the lower water." ' "Well," said another, "then it is just what is wanted at M ," naming a city many miles off, "to say nothing of all the villages round. This is certainly certain-ly the most valuable of the hill streams we have seen, and if we can once drain the marsh, and so fill a great reservoir, there will be a blessed end of summer drought and water famine in the country coun-try round. The sooner we set about it the better." No more was said or done then, and the exploring party soon returned by , the way they came, while the mountain moun-tain brook awoke to new hopes and possibilities. I "Surely," said the west wind, "you j are. indeed, a lucky stream. You ' would have been fortunate if the change you so desire were far off, but now that it is close at hand your patience pa-tience will have but short exercise. So, farewell for the present. I go to tell your other se'f that you sha'l soon combine; com-bine; that when he is weary and cross, , you shall soothe him with the story of the hills and their thousand beauties; while, as for you, if you ever grow discontented dis-contented as you ripple quietly along up here, all you need to do will be to run swiftly down, and in the river of the plain fulfill your desire of activity to your heart's content. Farewell." i Frances M. Simpson, in Catholic Union j and Times. Good Night In. the IuTorning. An absent- minded professor was sit. ting at his desk writing one evening, when one of his children entered. "What do you want? I can't be disturbed dis-turbed now." "I only want to say good-night." "Never mind now; tomorrow morning morn-ing will do as well." Danny's father, who is a farmer and stockgrower, took several carloads of hogs, reared on his own farm, to Chicago, Chi-cago, where . he sold them to a great pork-packing firm. While in Chicago Danny's father received the following letter from the little boy: "Dear Papa: Did you see Mr. Armor kill the big fat hog with the black tale and didn't he think it was a buster? I was sorry to see the hogs leave the farm, and you most of all. "Your loving son, DANNY." "Johnny," called the lady in Chicago, run around to the cigar store and see if the score's in yet." "I'm surprised," remarked her visitor, "to see you take so much interest in baseball. I don't even understand the game." "Neither do I, dear. But you see I want to ask George for a little pin money. If the Chicago team won. I'll ask him the minute he gets to the door. If they lost, I'll ask him tomorrow, or maybe day after." It is told that a grandfather, well known in the English house of commons, com-mons, was chatting amicably with his little granddaughter, who was snugly ensconsed in his knee. "What makes your hair so white, grandpa?" the little miss queried. - j "I am very old, my dear; I was in the ark," replied his Lordship, with a painful pain-ful disregard of the truth. "Oh, are you Noah?" "No." "Are you Shem then?" "No. I am no Shem." ' "Are you Ham?" "No." "Then," said the little one, who was fast nearing the limit of her biblical j knowledge, "you must be Japhet." A negative reply was given to this query i also, for the old gentleman inwardly j wondered what the outcome would be. "But, grandpa, if you are not Noah, or Shem, or Ham, or Japhet, you must be a beast." Whenever there was to be an examination exami-nation at school little Sammy generally had a sudden attack of illness, j This time, however, his memory turn, i ed traitor, and he found himself an un-j un-j willing victim. The questions were unusually hard that day, and Sammy felt that he was doomed. His only hope was that the teacher would not call him up, but even this began to vanish, and when at last he heard his name Sammy arose with the air of a martyr. "Now, Sammy," began the teacher, "I want you to tell me in which battle Lord Nelson was killed." Sammy was in despair, but he must prove himself equal to the emergency. "Did you say Lord Nelson?'-he asked cautiously. "Yes." "Which battle?" "Yes. In which battle was he killed?" "Wall," said Sammy with apparent surprise at such an easy question "I 'spect it must ed b'en his last." ' |