now, and if I say a word about it I'll be trotted or fed, and I would rather have catnip tea. I'll tell you who I am. I found out to-day. I heard folks say, "Hush, don't wake up Emeline's baby," and I suppose that pretty, white-faced woman over on the pillow is Emeline.

No, I was mistaken, for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob's baby, and looked at me, and said I was a "funny little toad, and looked just like Bob." He smelt of segars, and I'm not used to them. I wonder who else I belong to. Yes, there's another one-that's "Gamma." Emeline told me, and she took me up and held me against her soft cheek, and said, "It was Gamma's baby, so it was." I declare I do not know who I do belong to; but I'll holler, and maybe I'll find ont.

There comes Snuffy with catnip tea. The idea of giving babies catnip tea when they are crying for information! I'm going to sleep.

They are full of notions. Some persons can tell what a High heads are the best kind.

Heads are of different shapes and sizes. Large heads do not hold the most. man is by the shape of his head. Very knowing people are called long-headed. A fellow that won't stop for anything or anybody is called hot-headed. If he is not quite so bright he is called soft-headed. If he won't be coaxed or turned they call him pig-headed. Animals have very small heads. The heads of fools slant back. When your head is cut off you are beheaded. Our heads are covered with hair, except bald heads. There are barrel-heads, heads of sermons and some ministers used to have fifteen heads to each sermon - pin-heads, heads of cattle, as the farmer calls his cows and oxen, head-winds, drum-heads, cabbage heads, logger-heads, come to a head, heads of chapters, head him off, head of the family, and go ahead - but first be sure you are right; but the worst of all heads are the dead-heads who hang around an editor for free tickets to shows.

LITTLE THINGS.

B. F. TAYLOR.

[Simply and naturally.]

Little marten-boxes of homes are generally the most happy and cosy. Little villages are nearer to being atoms of a shattered Paradise than anything we know of. Little fortunes bring the most content, and little hopes the least disappointment.

Little words are the sweetest to hear. Little charities fly further, and stay the longest on the wing. Little lakes are the stillest, little hearts the fullest, and little farms the best tilled. Little books are the most read, and little songs the most loved. And when nature would make anything especially rare and beautiful, she makes it little-little pearls, little diamonds, little dews, little girls and boys!

DEEDS OF KINDNESS.

LUCY LARCOM.

[In a lively manner.]

Suppose the little cowslip

Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower
I'd better not grow up;"
How many a weary traveller

Would miss its fragrant smell;
How many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell !

Suppose the glistening dew-drops

Upon the grass should say,
"What can a little dew-drop do?
I'd better roll away"

The blade on which it rested,

Before the day was done,

Without a drop to moisten it,

Would wither in the sun.

ر

Suppose the little breezes,

Upon a summer's day,

Should think themselves too small to cool

The traveller on his way;

Who would not miss the smallest

And softest ones that blow,

And think they made a great mistake
If they were talking so?

How many deeds of kindness
A little child may do,
Although it has so little strength,

And little wisdom, too.

It wants a loving spirit,

Much more than strength, to prove

How many things a child may do
For others by its love!

PARK SPARROWS.

BY HENRY ASTEN.

[Recite simply and naturally.]

Dainty, dainty little heads,

Peeping out with merry eyes,
Haste and leave your tiny beds;
Though it blows

And it snows,

You will come and get your breakfast if you're wise.

Well for you, my fly-a-ways,

Now the ground and trees are bare,

That, through all the weary days,

Snug and warm

From the storm,

You are sheltered from the cold and piercing air.

Pretty brownies, you are blest:

Many beggars in the street
Have no home or place of rest;
Sick and sore,

From door to door

They must wander for a bit of bread to eat.

Better days will come again,

When the snow shall pass away,
And the soft and silvery rain

Patters down

On the town;

He who loveth all below will bring the May.

THE HOUSE-MAID.

FANNY FERN.

[To be recited by a little girl dressed as a house-maid, with
broom and duster.]

(Enter, talking.) Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress ever thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times within half an hour I have trotted up stairs to hand her things that were only four feet from her rocking chair. Then there's her son, Mr. George-it does seem to me that a great able-bodied man like him needn't call a poor tired woman up four pairs of stairs to ask, "What's the time of day?" Heigh-ho! It's "Sally, do this," and "Sally, do that!" till I wish I never had been named at all; and I might as well go further back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.

Now, instead of ordering me round so, like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling like, now and then, or ask me how my "rheumatiz" did, or say, "Good morning, Sally," or show some sort of interest in a fellow creature, I could pluck up a bit of heart to work for them A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and wouldn't cost them anything either.

Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can't get a minute

to sew on a string or a button except at night, and then I am so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find my way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are how and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup.

Well, well; one wouldn't think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing room - Miss Clara's diamond ear-rings and mistress' rich dresses. I try to think it is all right, but it is no

use.

To-morrow's Sunday-" day of rest " I believe they call it. Humph! more cooking to be done-more company-more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I haven't heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for that if I lose it? It is a question in my mind. Land of Goshen! I ain't sure I've got a mind. (Bell rings.) There's the bell again.

CHOICE OF HOURS.

MRS. GILMAN.

[To be spoken by two little girls.]

FIRST SPEAKER.

I love to walk at twilight,
When sunset nobly dies,
And see the parting splendor
That lightens up the skies,
And call up old remembrances,
Deep, dim as evening gloom,
Or look to heaven's promises,
Like starlight on a tomb.

SECOND SPEAKER.

I love the hour of darkness,
When I give myself to sleep,
And I think that holy angels

Their watch around me keep.

[Exit.