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blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, "Fresh fish!" And hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air.

What cares the world for that? But, well-a-day! we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe.

Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocketbook, or of a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession, far and near.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. What saith the people's orator?

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Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five years old, in a blue silk frock and white apron, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother—”

Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. Oh, my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand! Well, let us hasten homeward; and, as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the world, you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again.

U'ni şon, Pär ti ăl'i tieş, Mặn da rin, a

DEFINITIONS.-Im'pulse, incentive, motive. Mys'te ry, something not well understood. At tire', dress. En tiçe', draw away from. Mõr'al ize, make moral reflections. Jos'tles, knocks against. in the same time. Pon'der ous, very heavy. Spruce, active. likings. Tōmeş, volumes. Sa'ber, a curved sword. Chinese officer. E there al, airy. Gaudi lý, gayly. Jungles, dense thickets. Mū ĕz'zin, a Mohammedan crier of the hour of prayer. Mosque, a Mohammedan place of worship.

NOTES. This selection is from "Twice-Told Tales," a collection of stories and sketches first published in 1837.

"Peter Parley" was the pen-name of Samuel G. Goodrich, the writer of a large number of popular books, many of them for children. The Juvenile Miscellany was a child's paper, published at the time this story was written.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
“Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise,

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

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Where he was once a child.

They shall all bloom in the fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;

'Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

DEFINITIONS.—Sheaves, bundles of grain. To'ken (pro. tō'kn), a souvenir, that which is to recall some person, thing, or event. Transplănt'ed, removed and planted in another place.

THE SICK SCHOLAR.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

I.

The schoolmaster had scarcely arranged the room in due order, and taken his seat behind his desk, when a white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door, and stopping there to make an awkward bow, came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. The whiteheaded boy then put an open book, much thumb-worn, upon his knees, and, pushing his hands into his pockets, began counting the marbles with which they were filled.

Soon afterward another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him a red-headed lad, and after him two more with white heads, and then one with a flaxen poll, and so on until there were about a dozen boys in all, with heads of every color but gray, and of ages from four years old to fourteen years or more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way from the floor when he sat upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered, foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.

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At the top of the first form the post of honor in the school was the vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of pegs on which the hats and caps were hung one peg was left empty. No boy thought of touching seat or peg, but many a one, as the remembrance of their delicate playmate came to mind, looked from the empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered to his idle neighbor behind his hand.

Then began the hum of learning the lessons and getting them by heart, the sly whispers, the stealthy game,

and all the noise and drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, vainly trying to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little sick friend. But it was plain that his thoughts were wandering from his pupils, and being drawn more and more to the willing scholar whose seat was vacant. None knew this better than the idlest boys, whose misconduct became greater and more daring-eating apples under the master's eye, pinching each other in sport or malice, and cutting their names in the very legs of his desk.

The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast his eyes upon the page. If the master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to what was going on, the room became suddenly silent, and no eyes met his but wore a thoughtful and deeply humble look; then, as he again became lost in thought, the noise broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.

Oh, how some of those idle rogues longed to be outside, and how they looked at the open door and window, as if they half intended to rush violently out, plunge into the woods, and be wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool rivers and some shady bathing place beneath willow trees, with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting that sturdy boy, who sat fanning his flushed face with a spelling book, wishing himself a whale, or a fly, or anything but a boy at school on that hot, sunny day!

Heat! Ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest the door gave him an opportunity to sneak quietly into the garden and drive his companions to madness by dip

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