Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, And tears more clothes and spoils more hats, Loses more kites and tops and bats Than would stock a store For a week or more.

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, With his idle hours or his busy days, With his queer remarks and his odd replies, Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, Often brilliant for one of his size, As a meteor hurled From the planet world.

Only a boy, who may be a man If nature goes on with her first great plan-- If intemperance or some fatal snare, Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, Our torment, our joy!

"Only a boy!"

BIRD NEEDLEWORK.

MAY R. BALDWIN.

There is a cla.s.s of workers in India who have always held to needlework, useful and ornamental, through the changes of the long years, and have never had the help of machines.

These workers are "Tailor Birds." Specimens of their handiwork have excited the admiration of many travelers in the country where they are found.

Their needlework is seen in the construction of their nests, which vary in size and appearance.

The beak of the bird answers for a needle; and for thread--and this is the wonderful thing about sewing--they use the silken spiders' webs.

These threads are made secure by fastening them with silken b.u.t.tons, made by twisting the ends. Think of that! spiders' webs for thread!

How marvelous would the work of the fair ladies all over the land seem, if the door screens and the window hangings and the dresses and the laces were decorated with designs worked with spider's web thread!

Sometimes, it is true, these birds use the silk from coc.o.o.ns for their work; and even such common material as bits of thread and wool are used. One traveler states that he has seen a bird watch a native tailor as he sewed under a covered veranda; and, when he had left his work for a while, the watchful bird flew to the place, gathered some of the threads quickly, and then flew away with his unlawful prize to use it in sewing together leaves for his nest.

Imagine one of these bird homes. Could any thing be more fairy-like?

The leaves are joined, of course, to the tree by their own natural fastenings. But who taught the first bird home-maker how to bring the leaves together? And who gave the first lessons in sewing? And how did it come to choose its delicate spider web thread and twist it into strength, and fasten it with silken b.u.t.tons?

The great art leader, John Ruskin, who has written so many books to teach people that all beautiful things have their use, and that things that are not truthful can never be beautiful, would say, I think, that the workmanship upon the tailor bird's nest exactly fitted his idea of the "true and the beautiful," because there is no ornament which has not its use. The silk b.u.t.tons are not placed there for show; they fasten the silken lacing.

We could not say as much for many a fine lady's dress, where dozens of b.u.t.tons that fasten nothing are seen.

HE WAS A GENTLEMAN.

Some amusing stories are told of the wit and wisdom of London school children. A cla.s.s of boys in a Board School was being examined orally in Scripture. The history of Moses had been for some time a special study, and one of the examiners asked,--"What would you say of the general character of Moses?"

"He was meek," said one boy.

"Brave," said another.

"Learned," added a third boy.

"Please, sir," piped forth a pale-faced, neatly dressed lad; "he was a gentleman!"

"A gentleman!" asked the examiner. "How do you make that out?"

The boy promptly replied, in the same thin, nervous voice,--"Please, sir, when the daughters of Jethro went to the well to draw water, the shepherds came and drove them away; and Moses helped the daughters of Jethro, and said to the shepherds,--'Ladies first, please, gentlemen.'"

TIME FOR BED.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

The bells are ringing for bed, Johnnie-- The bells are ringing for bed.

I see them swing, I hear them ring, And I see you nod your head.

The bells are ringing for bed, Johnnie-- They are ringing soft and slow; And while they ring, And while they swing, It's off to bed we'll go.

THE VALUE OF A GOOD NAME.

Samuel Appleton, a distinguished Boston merchant, was once sued for a note, found among the papers of a deceased merchant tailor, and signed with his name. The handwriting was exactly like his own, but he declared it to be a forgery, albeit his own brother said he could not positively say it was not Mr. Appleton's writing, though he believed it could not be genuine. The Judge was against Mr. Appleton, but the jury found a verdict in his favor, because they were confident that nothing could induce him to dispute the payment of a note unless certain that he did not owe it. Some years later Mr. Appleton discovered proof that the actual signer of the note was a ship-master of the same name, who had been dead many years. Thus, the finding of the jury was justified. It was based on his good reputation and it ill.u.s.trates the truth of the proverb, which says: "A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches." The root of Mr. Appleton's good name was his good conduct. He was honest and honorable in all things.

DINGFORD'S BABY.

That little brother of Hetty Dingford was the funniest baby on the coast; and there were a good many of them, right around the river mouth.

Flora thought so too, or rather she looked upon him in the light of a puppy, as she had just raised a small family herself, and the baby had a.s.sociated so much with the little dogs, that she thought she owned him too. She seemed to regard him as her especial charge, and used to rush between him and cattle on the roads, and bark away strollers from the door-yard; but she seemed to love it most on the beach.

Whenever she thought of it, she would leave the other children, in whose charge the baby had been placed, and rush up to the little one, and lick its face all over, and bark with a very funny sound. The baby would pick up a handful of gravel and throw it at the dog, but it never hit him, and then they would both laugh together.

One afternoon, Tony Dingford said he was going a crabbing, and then Hetty and Polly and Janey and the baby all wanted to go and see him off. Janey took a lovely little boat, that had been made for her by her uncle, and Polly took her spade and pail to dig for sh.e.l.ls. Hetty took the baby, and she had to carry him every step of the way, and she was only eight years old; he was a year and a half old and couldn't walk very steady, but he could creep. Oh, how he could get over the ground! He could go sidewise and backwards, like a crab, Tony said. He thought he could talk, too, and such a lot of curious sounds as he used to make. He looked very odd, winking his eyes and sticking his tongue between his four little teeth, and he was up to all sorts of tricks.

After awhile they came to the beach, right opposite the light-house--a most delightful spot, and Hetty proceeded to deposit the baby on the ground, when he came to the conclusion that he didn't want to be put there, and he caught hold of her curly locks and held on for dear life, and screamed like a sea-gull.

This made Hetty cry out, but nothing could induce that baby to let go, until a pail with some sh.e.l.ls changed the current of his thoughts.

Hetty jumped away, and ran with the children, a few steps, to see Tony's boat.

He threw in his basket and crabbing net and then, getting in himself, he pulled out into the bay. The children wandered along, watching Tony as he grew a lessening speck out in the sunshine. It was such fun to jump on the stones, over the water; the sh.e.l.ls looked more beautiful here, because they were wet.

They staid longer than they thought, and on going back, they found the pail and the sh.e.l.ls, but no baby! They called, they looked about, but the baby was gone! Every one of them cried bitter tears; they searched behind rocks and under bushes; his little pink, spotted cap could not be seen, but the marks of his hands and feet showed plainly in the sand, and they led down to the water!

"Oh, baby," said Hetty in her agony, "you may pull out all my hair if you like--where are you?"

"Oo may whack my boat all to pieces, baby--come back to Janey!" said her sister. No sound answered, and the gulls sailed over them, and the blue waters lapped the stones. The tide was rising, as it was past the middle of the afternoon. Nothing was to be done, but to carry the dreadful news to mother.