IN Bologna, an Italian city, there lived an old musician who had a beautiful little boy. He taught him to sing, and play on the harp, but Guido loved drawing better than music, and instead of practicing, made pictures and little figures in clay.

His father thought this was a waste of time, and gave him many whippings, but nothing could prevent the little fellow from drawing. When his paper was taken away, he marked on the walls, and after he had filled them, he drew pictures in the dust.

But Guido’s good luck came at last. His father gave a concert at the palace of a great lord, and Guido went with him. He met there a famous painter, who was so pleased when he saw the boy’s pictures, that he advised his father to let him be an artist.

To his great joy Guido was put in a studio, and studied so well, that when he was thirteen, his master made him teach the other scholars. As the years went by, he became a wonderful painter, and even kings paid the highest prices for his pictures.

The crowning glory of his whole life was his famous painting of Aurora, on the ceiling of a summer-house of a palace in Rome.

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FAST asleep, fast asleep, are these dear little girls;
On the pillow are laid their two heads, full of curls,
And of dreams gay and bright.
Their prayers these sweet little maidens have said,
And their stockings hung up at the head of their bed,
To be filled this glad night.

While they dream their mother sits beside them. While she fills their stockings with gifts, her heart is filled with praise. Her two little girls are both alive and well. It is not many weeks since the elder was very ill. The mother had been very sorrowful at the thought of losing one of her own dear girls.

What queer fancies sick people have! This little girl while ill imagined many things. She thought she was a fairy riding in a little golden carriage driven by two small white kittens, and that the doctor was a giant. She told him he was too big to take a drive with her, he would smash her carriage and kill her kittens. If he would be good, and not make her swallow such horrid stuff, she would change him into a dear little Puck, with a green jacket and a lace ruff.

Sometimes she thought she was an angel flying through the air. She said she was sitting on a horn of the moon, but would fly off soon to a world way off out of sight. That made her mother cry.

Once she very politely asked her father—a very large man—to take a seat on the mantle-piece, as she thought the room was crowded. And once she thought she was a clown in a circus and tried to stand on her head in bed.

She was very ill, but she got well, however. Now it is Christmas Eve.The mother is happy and thankful because there are two little girls instead of one.

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THIS Laplander looks as if he were sitting for his photograph, though I don’t expect photographers ever go to such a cold country as his. Lapland, you know, is in the northern part of Russia, and the people there dress in furs and skins all the time.

To go swiftly over the snow, they wear big shoes like the one the man is holding. These are strapped on the feet, and a Lapland boy skims along faster than any of you can skate.

But think of it—he never tasted a peach or a strawberry in his life. In his cold home only a few small trees and bushes grow. There are no fruits or vegetables, and the only food is the flesh of the reindeer, and fish.

The houses are round huts, with a hole at the top to let the smoke out.

The Laplander’s fortune is in his reindeer, and his only business, the care of large herds of them. A little Lapland baby lies in a cradle made of wood hollowed out and filled with white moss. Pieces of leather are laced across the top, and the mother fastens the cradle to her back when she travels.

Lazy little people who don’t like school should go to Lapland, for there, if a boy knows his A, B, C, he is thought very learned.

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TEHERAN, the Persian cat, was dozing on a rug in the hall. Suddenly her hair stood on end, and her tail grew large. What-ever was that thing coming down-stairs? She had opened her eyes just in time to see at the head of the long flight of stairs some strange animal, with great eyes and long sharp teeth. To her horror, it slid quickly down stairs directly toward her.

It did not take her long to run from the mat and dodge the fierce-looking animal. She turned to look, and there lay the four footed beast, just where she had lain. What could he be, and what was he doing in that house? There he lay quietly. Could he be asleep? Pussy-like, she crawled toward him, ready to spring if he stirred. She walked round him with her back up. No, he wasn’t asleep. His eyes were wide open. Was he lying in wait, ready to spring at her?

Round and round him she walked. Not an ear did he raise, not a whisker did he twitch, not an eyelid did he wink. What a curious fellow!

Had he died of heart disease coming down-stairs so fast? Her eyes opened wider. She pricked up her ears to listen. Not a breath could she hear. Poor fellow, he must be dead.

She grew bolder. She played with his paws, and she pulled his tail. She brushed by his side. How queer! No fat, no bones! She put one paw on his back, two paws, three paws, all four paws. How flat! no heart, no stomach, no insides at all. She sat down on him to think. What was he?

Many a day she thought about him; many a time she played with him; many an hour she watched him. But a puzzled cat she always remained.

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One night—oh, it was dark!—
A bit of birchen bark
Went a-drifting slowly down the stream;
And in this light canoe
Lay the little froggie, who
Imagined he was floating through a dream.

But my! when he awoke
His astonishment he spoke
In language that all froggies understand;
His mouth he opened wide
And he cried, and cried, and cried.
Although, he wasn’t out of sight of land.

The journey soon was oe’r,
And the froggie jumped ashore,
As happy and as frisky as could be;
And on a mossy log,
Sits that now contented frog,
And never, never, wants to go to sea!

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THIS fine-looking boy is going home from his work. His mother is poor. He helps her by selling on the streets the buns that she makes. He calls to the passers-by that he has buns to sell, “Fresh buns! Fresh buns!”

He makes the most money at the railway stations. He goes to the trains and asks the passengers to buy. “Fresh buns! Fresh buns!” They like to buy of him, because he has such a pleasant face and manners and is always so clean. He sells many more buns than he would if his hands or clothes, or baskets were soiled. He sells many more than he would if he looked cross or was crabbed.

You can see that his baskets are empty. He has sold every bun he had; now he is taking home to his mother all the money he received for the buns. He is a great comfort to his mother. Every little boy can be that, but I am afraid there are some little boys who are not.

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THIS is a sad story, as you well know. But sad things take place now and then, and we cannot help it. It is a story about a little boy, named Peter. That was to be his name when he grew up, but now nobody called him anything but Pete.

Pete had had a bad fall when a little baby and it left him with a weak back, so that he could not run and romp like the rest of the small boys. He had toys to play with, but there were not nice or new, and he soon tired of them. What he wanted most of all was a doll. Really? Yes. He was ashamed to let the boys know it for fear they would call him “Sissy,” but deep down in his heart there was a strong desire for a doll to hug, and to hold, and to take to bed with him.

One day a lady came to the house, and somehow she guessed just what kind of boy Pete was. Without saying a word, she took a small shawl off a hook, gave it a fold and a roll, pinned it together and then handed it over to the small boy.

You should have seen Pete’s face! There was not room on it for the broad smile that tried to get there, and finally had to break itself all up into little bits. Oh, how he hugged and loved that doll! and he soon got so he did not mind being seen on the street with it in his arms. There was no danger of breaking it; and it could sit down bea — u — ti — fully.

One day Pete thought he would try to climb a lamp-post. He had seen the other boys do it, and it looked easy, but he would need two hands. So the doll — Matilda Jane — had to sit down on a stoop near by and wait until Pete came back for her.

Well, it was not long; but when Pete got back to the place where Matilda Jane was he could not find her.

She was go —— o —— o —— ne! Somebody had stolen her!

Pete was heart-broken. He cried, and cried, and cried. He should never see his own dear Matilda Jane again! And the worst of it was that he wouldn’t know her if he saw her. Even his mother laughed, and said “Oh, it was only an old shawl. No great loss!”

But Pete’s heart was wrapped up in that shawl and that is what makes this a sad story. He might have other dolls, but none that would take the place of his Matilda Jane.

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DO I look like a happy dog? Do I look like a handsome dog? Do I look like a respectable dog? Is this what the other dogs call fun?

My master is a very kind man. He has brought me up well. I knew he did not like his dogs to stay out all night, nor wander off at any time with vulgar dogs. I had overheard dogs talking about the fun they had when off together. I had been invited a number of times to join them. I had always refused until last night. Then I made up my mind I was going to have some fun too. So quietly slipping away, I ran around the corner and off with the dogs.

Fun? Yes, we did have fun, though an uneasy sneaky feeling would come over me at times to interfere with my happiness. Fun? Yes, but it ended in a fight! Fun? Yes, we did have fun, but I’m not having any now!

One eye nearly gone, one ear half chewed off, a hole in my cheek, a hump on my leg, my master in sorrow, and I in disgrace, to say nothing of my aches and pains. It will some time before I get my good looks back again, or my usual fine gait. Three-legged and one-eyed! Ugh!

Fun? Yes! But if any dog imagines that I think it pays, he is very much mistaken. When I let myself down again to go off with vulgar dogs, no matter what the fun, may I be locked in the asylum for foolish and insane dogs!!

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MY boy Charlie has made a cork boat, and is blowing it about to try and make it sink, but it is a life-boat, and will not go over. Did you ever see a life-boat? and do you know what makes it different from other boats? or why it is so called? Perhaps you don’t know, so I will tell you, for all knowledge is pleasant and useful.

A life-boat is so called because it is useful in saving life. When a ship is in distress, a life-boat can put off from the shore and reach the ship, and then come back laden with the poor people it has saved from drowning, because it can live in a sea where any other boat would just sink and be lost.

“Why is this?” you ask. That is just what I am going to explain. So, stop blowing, Charlie, and come and listen to me.

A life-boat is lined with cork; in other words, it has a compartment or inside casing that is filled with cork, or sometimes with large thin metal air-tight tubes; this is done to make it buoyant, that is, able to keep bounding along the stormy sea instead of sinking to the bottom. For cork will not sink. Stick a sail to it, and blow as Charlie has done, but you will not blow it over easily.

The brave men who man the life-boat must be made safe, too; so they wear cork jackets, and life-belts filled with cork, and take life-buoys with them. A life-buoy is a large round casing filled with cork, with a hole in the middle large enough to slip over a man’s head and shoulders, and it will keep him from sinking to have one on.

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PLAY-FUL kit-tens! see them spring-ing
Light-ly up my fa-vor-ite tree;
Now they spy the ham-mock swing-ing—
In they scram-ble—one, two, three.

For a while they sit de-mure-ly,
In a dain-ty fluffy row,
Then they gaze a-bout—why sure-ly,
There stands pa-tient Spot be-low.

“Come!” I fan-cy they are say-ing,
“See, it is not far to climb:
’Mid the branch-es i-dly sway-ing
We are hav-ing such a time!

“You shall have a wel-come hear-ty
Here with-in the leaf-y shade.
What! you will not join our par-ty?
Sil-ly pup, you are a-fraid!”

But a meek re-proach is ly-ing
In those eyes so brown and large;
One can al-most hear him crying,
“I have mas-ter’s stick in charge!”

Pret-ty, mirth-ful, sau-cy crea-tures—
Let them play their mer-ry part!
How can their light kit-ten-na-tures
Un-der-stand his faith-ful heart?

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