ALEX. DUKE BAILIE.

She was only five years old, hardly that, but a stout, healthy little creature, full of love and fun, but often hard to manage.

Maggie was her name, but she would call herself nothing but "Davy's girl."

Davy, her brother, a brave, good boy, about fifteen years of age, was all she had to cling to, and she was his only treasure. They were orphans; their father had been drowned, with many other poor fishermen, when Maggie was a wee baby, and the mother, soon after, died, from worry and hard work.

So these two were all alone in the world, but they did not feel lonely, for each one was all the world to the other.

They lived with an old fisherman and his wife, on the sh.o.r.es of the ocean, in New Jersey; and in the inlets and about outside, Davy used to go with the men, in the boats, and help them fish; sometimes he would work in-sh.o.r.e, for the truck farmers; sometimes help to gather the salt hay from the marshes. He would work hard at any thing so as to make money to keep his little sister comfortable and to give her all it was well for her to have.

In winter he would tramp through cold and snow and storms, several miles, to the little town where the school was, and so, every year, he gained a few weeks of instruction.

The people among whom these orphans lived were rough, but kind-hearted, and Davy always had enough work to enable him to earn money sufficient to keep Maggie and himself in the simple way in which every body about them lived.

Whenever he had an idle half-day, or even a few hours, he would take the little girl and his books, and go down to the sh.o.r.e, and getting into one of the boats always to be found drawn up on the sand, he would study hard to learn, for he was anxious to get on in the world, not only for his own, but his sister's sake, and Maggie would take one of the books, and open it, and run her little fat finger over the page, and move her lips, and make believe that she, too, was studying her lessons and she would keep still as a little mouse, until, after a few minutes of nodding, her eyes would close, then her head would drop on Davy's knee, and she would be off--sound asleep, until it was time for him to go.

It happened, one afternoon, as Davy, with Maggie, was going to the boat, which was his favorite place of study, a farmer drove along and asked him if he could not go and help with some work.

They were very near home yet, and when Davy said, "Maggie, will you run right home?" she answered, "'Es;" so the brother saw her start off towards the house, which was in sight, then jumped in beside the farmer, and they drove off.

It was several hours before the boy returned. He went directly home, and as soon as he entered, called, "Maggie!"

"Maggie aint here," said Mrs. Baker, who was busy cleaning up the floor, "she hasn't been here since you took her out with you."

If ever there was a frightened boy, it was Davy, then. He knew how careless his little sister was, and how she loved to go down and splash in the water, and play around the deep pools. He could look, from the door, all along the beach and out on the sea, and there was no sign of his little girl. Mrs. Baker was frightened, too, when he told her all. They ran to the few houses about, and while some of the children had seen Maggie, it was hours before; since then she had disappeared entirely.

It was a terrible blow to the poor boy, and he blamed himself as he thought that perhaps his dear little sister was dead under the great waves, or her body was being washed away far beyond his reach. He ran up and down, everywhere calling her name as loudly as he could, but no answer came.

Almost blind, with the tears in his eyes, he stood still for a moment to think, when he caught sight of a little paper book. He knew it at once; he had made it for Maggie so that she would not soil or tear his own. In a moment he was running as fast as his feet would carry him to the boat on the sand, a considerable distance off; quickly he reached it, and climbed up the side. No Maggie yet.

The great sail lay in a heap before him; he walked around it, and there, all curled up, fast asleep, was his runaway girl.

How his heart did jump for joy as he picked her up, and kissed and petted her.

But Maggie cried, and said he hurt her.

Then he found that in climbing into the boat to "study her lessons,"

she had sprained her ankle, and she had been very miserable all by herself, and cried and called for him until she fell asleep.

The books, all but one, were lying on the other side of the boat, on the sand. Davy never minded them, precious as they were to him, but taking his little sister on his strong back, he carried her home, her arms about his neck and her cheek close to his; and Maggie had to stay in the house, with her foot bandaged, for a week. But Davy never forgot that fright nor left her to herself again until she was much older; and the little girl never thought of disobeying his orders after that. They had both learned a hard lesson.

EARLY TEA.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A CAT PUSHES A PRAM CONTAINING ANOTHER CAT.}]

Five little p.u.s.s.ies Sitting down to tea; Pretty little p.u.s.s.ies, Happy as can be!

Three little p.u.s.s.ies, All in a row, Ranged on the table, Two down below.

Five little p.u.s.s.ies, Dressed all in silk, Waiting for the sugar, Waiting for the milk.

Dear little p.u.s.s.ies, If you would thrive, Breakfast at nine o'clock, Take tea at five.

BONEY.

Boney was not a thin cat by any means, as his name would suggest. He was very stout for his age; this could be explained by the fact that he had always looked out for number one, and had managed to secure a great many nice things to eat in the course of his short life.

His coat, which was striped, gray and black, had an infinite number of shades in it and was so beautiful, that more than one lady wanted to buy him.

Boney was not his whole name. A lovely romance could be written, I've no doubt, out of the adventures of this cat, before Fannie found him, one cold morning, in the summer-house. He was covered with dust and leaves, and moaning piteously. Fannie said,--"p.u.s.s.y, p.u.s.s.y," to him; and he tried to get up and come to her, but he couldn't make any progress, and John Henry came up at that moment, and taking up the cat by the back of the neck, looked at it critically, and said,--"That cat ain't a-going to die--he'll come out all right in a few days; he's been pelted with stones by those children that live at the cross-roads, I think."

Fannie followed her brother into the house with the cat, and he gave it some warm milk, and Fannie covered it up, snug, by the kitchen stove.

It was surprising how soon that p.u.s.s.y got well; and John Henry chose to call him Boneset. The name took in the household, and though Fannie called him "Boney," Boneset was his real name. John Henry bought him a collar, and Fannie would tie a beautiful scarlet ribbon on this, and away they'd go together, down the road to the village post-office.

He'd look very sharply at the meadow-birds flitting over the stone fences, and the yellow b.u.t.terflies on the tall mullen stalks, as if he would say,--"I'll get you any of those you'd like to have, my dear mistress."

But Fannie would say, "Don't think of it, Boney; I would like to have them, but it would be wicked to catch them you know." p.u.s.s.y did not want to give up the sport of hunting them, however, and Fannie would have to take him right up, and carry him until they had pa.s.sed them.

He had such lovely coaxing ways; he knew to a minute when it was lunch time, and he had his in the kitchen, but he would steal up into the dining-room, and pa.s.s round softly to Fannie's place, and pop up into her lap--or, if she were standing up, he'd get upon the table and rub his furry cheek against her shoulder, and shut one eye.

Then Fannie would turn round, and his comical appearance, sitting there with his little pink tongue sticking out between his lips, would make Fannie just jump up and down with laughing.

Of course, he wanted some of Fannie's lunch, and he always got it, and this was the way he managed to get so fat and sleek.

One unfortunate time, Fannie was very sick; the room was darkened, and the doctor came. All the pets were not allowed to come near the room.

It was, oh, so lonesome for Boney. No one petted him like his little mistress, and they didn't put up with his tricks, or laugh at his funny pranks.

The time went by heavily enough, he had not had on any of his ribbons, and he would go and stay away from home for days together, and when he came home just before dark, he had a wild look, as if he had been in rough company.

On a lovely morning in June, Fannie was carried down stairs, to sit in the bay window, in the sunshine, and the ivy hung down its fresh, green leaves.

Boney saw her the first thing. His delight knew no bounds; he rubbed his back against her chair, turned his head around in her robe as it lay on the carpet, and jumped into her lap! And Fannie smoothed his back with her little thin hand.

After a time he went away, and n.o.body thought any thing about him, till dinner-time, when, what should they see coming up the piazza steps, but Boney, with a bobolink in his mouth! He walked right up to Fannie, and laid it down at her feet, and looked up at his little mistress, with such a satisfied, happy expression on his face, as if he would say,--"There, that's the best I could do, and you are welcome to it."

Fannie understood his good intentions, and laughed heartily, and that was the beginning of her recovery.

Pretty soon, she was able to go out again, and she and Boney had the best of times that summer.