on it was down-stairs in the room where the mother and Billy and the baby stayed in the daytime. Now there was nobody in that room, and nobody awake in all the house.

Then the little old woman came again. She listened outside at the door, and all was so quiet that soon she felt quite sure that everybody in that house must be fast asleep. Then she lifted the latch of the door very, very softly, and gave the door a little push. It opened, and she slipped in and stole across the floor on tiptoe, not making the least bit of noise.

She remembered just where the mantelpiece was, so that she could find it in the dark. Soon she was close beside it. Then she rubbed her hand over it, across and across and across, till she was sure every letter of her name was rubbed out. Then she stole out of the house and shut the door behind her just as softly as she did when she came in. There was not any noise at all. The mother and Billy and the baby were all still fast asleep, and did not know that anybody had been in the house.

The old woman laughed to herself and nodded her head as she went back to the wood where she had come from.

"We'll see what we shall see in the morning," she said. "I don't spin for nothing. I'll have that baby sure as anything, so I will!" When the mother woke from her sleep the sun was up. "Oh, I am so glad I have n't any spinning to do to-day!" she said right out loud. "And you won't let that old woman have our baby, either, will you, mother?" asked Billy, from his little bed. "No, child; no, indeed! name? I can't think.

But what 's her

Can you?
But you wrote it on

"No, mother, I can't. the mantel, you know." "Yes, so I did, and we 'll see what it is when we go downstairs. So she 'll have no chance to get my baby away from me. Jump up, Billy. We'll all get dressed and go downstairs and have our breakfast."

The mother was putting on her clothes as fast as she could, for she was in a great hurry to see what that old woman's name was. She dressed herself and the baby, and helped Billy to dress; then they all went downstairs and right to the mantelpiece to look for that queer name.

But in a minute they saw that it was all rubbed out - not one letter of it left.

"Oh, mother, it's all gone!" cried Billy. "Who can have done it?"

"Oh, I don't know, I don't know; and I can't remember that old woman's name!" cried the mother, and the tears ran fast down her face. "Oh, what shall I do? Oh, Billy, Billy, can't you think what it is?"

"No, mother; not a bit. It's such a funny name, how could anybody 'member it?" and the tears came into his eyes too, for he did not want to lose the baby - his only little sister.

Then the mother began to cry out loud, "Oh, that old woman will get my baby—that old woman will get my baby!"

She hugged the baby tight, and said those words over and over, crying hard all the time as she said them.

And Billy and the baby were crying too. They all cried and cried and cried for a long while.

But at last the mother remembered that the children must have some breakfast; so she said, Well, Billy, you'll have to go and look for the cow."

66

"Yes, mother," Billy said, and put on his cap and went.

The cow was not near the house, as she almost always had been before when it was time for her to be milked and fed. So Billy went further and further into the wood looking for her.

He had not found her yet when he heard a very queer noise. He could not tell what it was or where it came from, and he went this way and that way, peeping behind bushes and

trees.

At last he looked up into a big tree, and there among the great branches there was a little old woman with a little spinning-wheel. She was spinning very fast indeed, and singing a song at the same time.

Billy opened his eyes very wide, and looked and looked at her. He had never in all his life seen anything like that sight. He forgot all about the cow, and stood at the foot of the tree looking and listening; and presently he could make out the words of the little old woman's song. This was it:

ers

In one of my school readMcGuffey's third or fourth, I think there was the story of a musical mouse. As a child I read this tale with wondering interest. A little later in life I was to see it verified.

I was a boy of perhaps sixteen when I learned to play a few chords and melodies on the guitar. As I had mastered these for my own amusement, and suspected that my pleasure was not always shared by other members of the family, I often retired to my own upstairs room to enjoy it alone. Here at length I found one listener, at least, who was attracted by my performance. Perhaps his ear for music was not very refined.

In one end of my room there was an old fireplace about which there lived a few mice not many, for we had a band of cats that roamed over the house

at will. One night, as I sat playing, I heard a slight noise on the hearth. Glancing down, I saw a very small and meagerlooking mouse. It was crouched as if ready to spring. It faced me, and its eyes shone like small black buttons. As I stopped playing, it moved its head about uneasily, and seemed uncertain what to do. Presently it ran back into the wall, stopping every few inches as if to listen.

I watched where it had disappeared, and began playing again. In a few moments I saw the glint of its eager eyes. Then it crept out, little by little, crouching in its former position on the hearth. I played on softly, and sat very still. It crept closer and closer, and pretty soon sat upright, its fore paws crossed, and its head tipped a little to one side, in a pose that was both comic and pathetic. I struck a few

louder chords, and it perked up instantly in an attitude of extreme attention. I mellowed the music, and continued playing. Then it dropped down on all fours, and drew nearer until it reached my foot. Here it hesitated a moment, and looked up at me, or rather at the guitar, eagerly. I sat perfectly still, and made the best music I could produce.

Slowly, very slowly, it climbed up, clinging to my trousers leg. When it had reached my knee it once more sat erect, staring straight ahead. It did not appear to see me at all. I stopped playing for a moment, and it seemed uneasy and half dazed, but did not offer to escape until I finally touched it with my hand. Then it ran away, though with evident reluc

to its den near the fireplace.

The next evening I came prepared with food; but when it crept out again, as it did almost as soon as I began playing, it only nibbled a little at the cheese, and dropped it a moment later to listen. I decided that it was the musical genius of some family of mice, and that food to it was of less importance than the enjoyment of tune and harmony. So far as I know, no other member of its family ever interested itself in my playing. Perhaps the others even deserted. the fireplace and left my little friend alone.

As time passed I grew very fond of this tiny mouse. Sometimes during the day I pushed bits of bread and cheese into its den, and in time it became very tame, and would come out and act in so many cunning ways that I passed many delightful hours in its society. Once I placed it under a glass tumbler, with a

tack beneath the edge to give it air. It did not enjoy its captivity, and at last succeeded in overturning its prison. Sometimes it would scratch itself with its hind foot or with its tiny teeth in a manner that was as interesting as it was amusing. The moment I

I fear the fact of its becoming so adven

turous

brought it at last to a tragic end. Oneevening when I began playing it failed to appear. I played over the

things it had seemed to like best, softly, at first, and then louder, thinking that it might be in some remote part of the wall and out of hearing. of hearing. Still it did not come, though I played over and over all the pieces I knew, sometimes kneeling down and striking the strings close to the entrance of its little house, while I waited eagerly for its appearance. Finally I went to bed discouraged.

Early the next morning I played again in front of its dwelling, but it did not appear. At breakfast I mentioned the matter to my mother. She was silent for a few moments;

then she said:

"If your room door was open yesterday, I am afraid you will not see your little friend any more. I saw 'Pug' coming downstairs during the afternoon."

Pug was our largest gray cat. He was at that moment sleeping contentedly before the fire. I choked down my breakfast as best I could. Then I went to my room and played softly, and cried; for, after all, I was only a boy of perhaps sixteen.