"Yes, dear," said Ruth. "On the bench under the old apple-tree at the end of the orchard: that will be just the place. I will run in for some books, and then we will all go there."

So here they are under the tree; Miss May with a long rod, "to keep roguish children in order," as she says.

Bessie, a little girl of three years, when she sees this, says, "You wouldn't really hurt us with it, would you, Cousin Ruth ?"

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“Oh no, darling!" replied Ruth. "I shall only tingle your fingers a little bit, just for fun."

I think she will have to try it on George's fingers first, for he is slyly pulling Dora's hair as she slips down from the seat, and holds up her hand to know if she may speak. 66 What is it, Dora ?" says the teacher.

"Please, Miss May, I know my lesson," answers Dora. "Very well, dear. Now I will hear you spell. George may begin. Spell bird, George."

"B-w-r-d," says George. "Halloa! there's one on the end of that branch. Wouldn't I like to catch him!"

"For shame, sir!" says Ruth. "Go to the foot of the class. Now, Dora, let me hear you spell it."

"B-i-r-d, bird," Dora says, very promptly.

Then Ruth gives little Bessie the word "cat" to spell. She thinks a minute, and then says,

"C-a-t, pussy," which makes them all laugh.

"You mean cat, darling," Ruth says; "but that is very well for such a little girl."

Then they read and count, and so go on playing, till byand-by a voice from the other side of the fence says suddenly,

“Please, ma'am, may I come to school too? I'll be good." All turn to see whose voice it is, when who should appear but Ruth's father, who is coming to see where they all

are.

"Oh, Uncle John !" the three little ones call out, "how you did startle us!"

"And how funny it would be for a big man to come to school!" says little Bessie, with a merry laugh.

"Do you think I am too big, Bess ?" Uncle John says. "Well, then, come here, and you shall ride to the house on my shoulder, for I hear the dinner-bell ringing."

"Who would have thought it was so late!" says Ruth. "School is dismissed. Pick up your doll, Dora; and, George, bring the books. Haven't we had a nice time?"

"Yes, indeed!" says Dora; "and we've really learned something too."

LITTLE BOY'S POCKET; OR THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER. From Hearth and Home.

Do you know what's in my pottet?

Such a lot of treasure's in it!
Listen, now, while I bedin it.
Such a lot of sings it hold,

And all there is, you sall be told

Every sin dat's in my pottet,

And when, and where, and how I dot it.

First of all, here's in my pottet.

A beauty shell: I picked it up;
And here's the handle of a tup
That somebody has broke at tea;
The shell's a hole in it, you see;
Nobody knows that I have dot it-
I keep it safe here in my pottet.
And here's my ball, too, in my pottet,
And here's my pennies, one, two, fre,
That Aunty Mary gave to me;
To-morrow-day I'll buy a spade,

When I'm out walking with the maid;
I can't put dat here in my pottet,
But I can use it when I've dot it.

Here's some more sins in my pottet!
Here's my lead, and here's my string,
And once I had an iron ring,
But through a hole it lost one day;

And this is what I always say—
A hole's the worst sin in a pottet―
Have it mended when you've dot it.

AUNT MARY'S BULLFINCH.-From the Nursery.

Edith has been to see her aunt Mary's new bird. Aunt Mary brought it from Ger'many. It is a bull'finch.

Aunt Mary's bird is what they call a "pip'ing bull'finch;" by which we mean that it has been taught to pipe or sing

tunes.

Aunt Mary took Edith on her knee, and told her about these pip'ing bull'finches.

“There are men," said Aunt Mary," who spend a great deal of time in teach'ing these birds to sing tunes, and then sell them for a high price.

"It must be fun'ny, must it not? to see a school of bull'finches learn'ing to sing! Shall I tell you how they are taught?

"First of all, they are tak'en when they are quite young, not more than ten days old; and they have great care giv'en to them till they are about two months old, when they grow to be quite tame.

"Soon they begin to whis'tle; and then their master knows it is time to begin to teach them. What does he do then, do you think? Does he fetch out prim'ers and spell'ing-books, and pen'cils and slates? Oh no! noth'ing of the kind.

"He di-vides his lit'tle school into class'es of about six birds in each, and shuts them up in a dark room, where they are left for some time with-out any food. The poor lit'tle birds won'der what it all means, and grow quite sad.

"Then their mas'ter comes in, and begins play'ing over and over one tune on what is called a bird-or'gan; that is, a kind of ti'ny or'gan, the notes of which are very like those of a bull'finch.

"Soon the little birds begin to lis'ten; and after the same air has been played over I am sure I can not tell you how many times, some of the birds try to sing the air.

"As soon as they do this, some food is given to them as a reward, and the light is let in; and so, at last, they begin to find out what their mas'ter wants them to do.

"The same thing goes on day after day for a long time,

till they sing quite bold'ly, and then the class'es are bro'ken up, and each bird is put under the care of a boy, who plays that one tune over all day long, so that the bull'finch may learn it well.

"These little birds remember their teach'ers a long time, and often seem very fond of them.

"In his wild state the bull'finch is quite a good sing'er, and it is fun'ny to watch him while he is sing'ing. He puffs out his feath'ers, and moves about his head, as if try'ing to do his best; but, when he sees some one look'ing at him, he will fly off."

This was the end of Aunt Mary's sto'ry; and then her little bull'finch sang the tune of "Sweet Home." Edith was much pleased, and went home and told her moth'er all about the pip'ing bull'finch.

LITTLE MARY'S BOUQUET.-From the Little Corporal. "To-morrow is little Mary's birth-day," said the gardener, as he examined his flowers. "She must have a nice bouquet."

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To-morrow is little Mary's birth-day," whispered the dowers to one another. 66 To-morrow! to-morrow!"

"My buds are all ready," said the rose.

"So are mine," said the sunflower.

The pansies smiled at the thought, but the sunflower held his head so high that he did not see them.

"I'd rather stand in this garden than be put in the queen's bouquet," said a tall hollyhock.

"I've no flowers to spare for any one," said the moneywort, anxiously counting her buds.

"Don't be a miser," said the ragged robin. "They may have all of mine."

"I would like to go to little Mary," said the mignonette. "My dear child, don't think of such a thing," said a gay tulip, spreading her petals. "You have no beauty."

"I know it," said the mignonette, mournfully.

"Never mind," said the rose; "you have perfume, and some think that better than beauty."

"Ah!" said the tulip.

"Why are you here, pray?" said a pert little lady's-slipper to a bright dandelion, as she gave her a sly kick.

"If it comes to that, why are you here ?" said the dandelion.

"Because I was planted here," said the lady's - slipper. "You are wild, but I came in a paper bag, with my name on it, and was planted by the gardener."

"Perhaps I am a little wild," said the dandelion; "but I was planted here; and, besides, I can tell the time."

"I never heard of a dandelion's being planted," said the lady's-slipper.

"I never heard of a dandelion telling time," said a fouro'clock.

"At all events, I was blown here by some one who wanted to know what time it was."

"Did they find out ?" interrupted the four-o'clock.

"And I thought, as I was here, I might as well grow," continued the dandelion. "I am good to eat, and I can be made into coffee."

"Don't say any thing about time, whatever you do,” said the four-o'clock; "I am the only one who knows about time." "Thyme! thyme !" said the summer savory. "There are plenty of sweet herbs better than thyme."

"What are you quarreling about, you foolish little things ?" said the sunflower. "I can tell time; I go by the

"What will you do to-morrow, when the clouds come over and hide the sun ?" asked a poor-man's-weather-glass at his feet.

"I can guess at it," said the sunflower; "but you must be a very poor-man's-weather-glass to talk of clouds when the sky is so bright."

"I feel it in my fibres," said the weather-glass.

"For pity's sake, can any one tell me if it is four yet?” said the four-o'clock. "Here I have been gossiping, and forgetting all about it.”

“I can see the clock,” said a sweet pea, on tiptoe. "It is half past four."