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Boys and Girls - M 1
For Woman’s Work.
“FEED MY LAMBS.”
Once on a time there lived a boy,
Brim full of mischief, (just like you I)
And if vou listen, a story I’ll tell;
’Twill be about him, and every word
true I
■Where “Mamma’ - went, he was bound
to go;
—Like Mary’s lamb, of old —
So one bright morn he followed to church
Tn his “nighty”! I’ve been told.
The aged grandsire and youthful mamma,
At the altar rail were kneeling.
When pattering down the carpeted aisle
Came titiv footsteps stealing.
Nearer and nearer, with never a fear
Thev came, and his prattling the while—
“ Make room, Mamma! Don’t you see I’s
here !”•-
Was received with a quiet smile.
’Twas a hallowed sight!— as he knelt between,
With his sunny curls of gold—
While Grandpa and Mamma, on either side,
A little hand did hold.
All went very well—fora minute or two!
Then—what do you think he said ?
•Tm hungry, Mamma; he's a stingy man,
He didn’t give me any bread!’’
The bird-like voice was clear and sweet,
It sounded all over the church ,
The rippling echoes seemed to meet
And waft it from perch to perch ;
It filled every nook, and quickly it flew,
From sleeper way up to rafter !
While good Dr. B—— with twinkling eyes—
Strove in vain to suppress the laughter!
Cora Glover Lyle.
For Woman’s Work.
BONIFACE.
The Bed Calf.
BY MRS. 8. C. HAZLETT-BEVIS.
4*T WAS an odd name to call him, and we
••• did not do so until he was about half
X grown; but, in enumerating his good
* deeds, and knowing him to be a bene
factor, if we were to give him any name at
all this was the most suitable, and he cer
tainly deserved it.
Os course we shortened it to “Bonny,’
but when we spoke of him outside, it was
always as “Boniface,” (especially to stran
gers,) with a certain gravity and tender
ness in voice and manner.
We all called him “Bossy” from his
birth, until we changed his name, as I
must tell you.
I remember so well the morning, early
in April, that father called us up to see
the new calf, and how hurriedly we chil
dren got into our garments, and hastened
out to the great stable at the f jot of the
orchard, and how fragrant the spring air
was with apple blossoms.
There were three of us—two girls and a
boy, and we rushed down the pith bare
headed, laughing and shouting to each
other, to see who should reach the open
door first.
Mother had preceded us, and she stood
by father’s side, both looking with pride
at our new acquisition.
‘ Isn’t he a big fellow?’’ I beard father
say, and mother answered in her quaint,
sweet way,“He is certainly the largest and
handsomest calf for his age, I ever saw.”
He was truly a noble fellow, and stood
looking at us all with evident wonder and
surprise pictured in his big, round, black
eyes.
His coat was a dark red, and there was
not a speck of any other color—save bis
eyes—visible anywhere. His mother, who
stood quietly by, slowly eating the warm
“mash,” that had been prepared for her,
was black and white. She was a very in
telligent animal, and Boniface inherited it.
After we had long looked upon the calf,
and patted him, to which he and his moth
er made no objection, we returned to the
house and to breakfast.
The new calf was a theme for many
days, and we were allowed to pet him to
our hearts’ content.
Father permitted him to run in the pas
ture with his mother for a few days, and
then he turned him into a small, grassy
enclosure, shaded with trees, where he was
“monarch of all he surveyed,” and he
seemed to enjoy it hugely.
f L
No one ever dared tease him, for my
parents were very particular in such mat
ters, so he was a very gentle, amiable
fellow.
The first that we began to notice of his
peculiarly sagacious qualities was when
the chickens would fly over into his pas
ture at feeding time; instead of running at
them, as I have often seen calves do, to
frighten them away, he would step back a
little distance, and then, by degrees, slow
ly approach,—showing a willingness to
share his meal with them—until they grew
so tame that some of them roosted on his
back at night, and one old hen nestled up
against his body, between his front and
back legs, with her little brood safely
tucked under her wings. The house cat
was often found lying by his side, and
Rover, the dog, and he were good friends.
But his greatest feat of intelligence, sagac
ity and generosity, was the saving of my
little brother’s life.
It was a beautiful September evening
and the “chore boy” was leading the cow
down to the river to drink. As he passed
the enclosure where the calf was still kept
—although now about six months old—
the gate not being very secu ’ely fastened,
the big calf pushed it open and walked
out. He paused for an instant, threw up
his head and looked about him; then,
catching sight of his mother, he bellowed
loudly, and kicking up his heels, he bound
ed after her.
We were eating supper at the time;
hearing the commotion, father left the
table, and the children followed.
Little Harold, aged two, was out in the
front yard ; theories, “The calf’s out, the
calf’s out,” reached his ears, and seeing
Anna, my sister, and I running towards
the river, he followed through the front
gate, which we had forgotten to fasten.
In our excitement and ha c te, we did not
notice him, until we heard mother’s anx
ious voice calling him.
The cow was lowing lustily, the calf bel
lowing and acting as if he were “possessed,”
running here and there and creating a
general furore.
In the midst of it all we heard a shrill
baby laugh, and saw little Harold, almost
at the river’s b ink. His back va? to
wards it, and just as mother appeared over
the brow of the hill, and Anna and I ran
towards ’ im, he tumbled backwards into
the swift water.
For an instant we were nearly panic
stricken. The cow had broken away from
John, faher was shouting, mother
screamed, and one and all rushed toward
the river—but the calf was ahead.
The tiny form sank out ofsigbt, then
arose, and at that instant the big red cal!
rushed into the water. The river was very
deep, and the animal had to swim. He
swam directly towards the limp little body,
and as it rose for the third and last time,
he reached it, grabbed the drenched cloth
ing in his teeth, and turning, came to the
shore.
We were all standing in the water’s
edge but father, who had thrown off his
coat and boots, and was up to his arm pits,
intending to swim out to Harold. Mother
sobbed aloud as father took the dripping
form from the calf’s teeth.
“You blessed creature,” said mother
through her tears, and we little girls hug
ged him when he came ashore.
■Bessie, ’ the cow, came aud rubbed her
nose over him, and licked him, and
“mooed” over him as though she were
preud of him. Then as lather hurried to
the house with his dripping burden, the
animals followed quietly behind with the
rest of us.
Little Harold was soon revived, and the
next day, was just ut> well as ever. Then
we named the tail “Bmiface.” Father
would never sell him; he lived to be fif
teen years old, kind and gentle to the.hißt
WOMAN’S WORK.
For Woman’s Work.
HOW BOYAL SETTLED THE
QUESTION.
BT LEANDER 8. KEYSER.
~ TELL you, he’s my dog I”
“He’s not, Chief; he belongs to
o me I”
The first speaker was a large, burly
looking man, with shaggy beard, small,
gleaming eyes and beetling brows; while the
second speaker was a lad of fourteen,
rather light and slender for his age.
The dispute took place in the station
house before the chief of police, who looked
very grand in the boy’s eyes, with his
dark-blue uniform and the silver star
shining on his breast. Yet Neal Broad
come—for that was the boy’s name—
summed up all his courage, and repeated
stoutly:
“The dog’s mine, sir; I’m sure he is.”
The innocent cause of the dispute was a
handsome Irish setter. The man who
claimed him, held him by a stout rope, and
declared that he had raised him from a
pup.
But I am getting ahead of my story.
In order that you may understand the pre
cise situation, I must go back something
over a year to a bright morning of spring.
Neal and his little brother, Alfred—usual
ly called “Doc”—were walking briskly
along a winding country road. They
lived in the suburbs of the city, and had
been sent by their parents on an errand
to some of their country relatives. What
a pleasant day it was!
“Just listen!” cried Neal in delight, on
the way home. “Just listen to the songs
of those bobolinks! Four of ’em singing
at once with all their might 1 See ’em fly
up and circle in the air while they sing!
Oh, isn’t it beautiful ?”
“Sounds as if they had some sort o’ harp
in their throats,” was the younger brother’s
comment. “There are some other birds
singing on the fence—”
“Grass-finches,” said Neal; knowingly.
“They sing purty, too—but hold on.
what’s that?” exclaimed Doc, interrupting
himself and looking around in surprise!
“That’s not a bird. It must be a—”
“Sounds like a pup whining.’’
‘ Where is it, d’ you s’pose?”
‘lt must be right over there in the
woods. Let’s go and see.”
They hurried into the woods, and had
gone only a few rods when they saw a
small pup creeping laboriously along the
side ot the road and whining pitifully.
He was very lean and so weak that he
could scarcely stand on his feet. Indeed,
when Neal sprang toward him and touched
him slightly with his hand, the little ani
mal fell over on his back from sheer weak
ness.
“Poor fellow!” said Neal. “Some hard
hearted person has left him here in the
woods to starve to death.”
“Let’s take him home, Neal,” coaxed
Doc, stooping down and stroking the dog’s
back.
“I’m afraid Pa and Ma wouldn’t like
it.”
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“But we can’t let him starve, can we?
That’d be—be—”
“Cruel, you mean, Doc. Well, you car
ry the basket, and I’ll carry the dog.”
A half hour later the boys arrived at
home with their little canine waif, and
soon had given him a refreshing supper of
milk and bread. He looked so pretty in
spite of his half starved condition, and
there was such an appealing gleam in his
eyes, the boys’ parents could not resist
their entreaties to let him stay and become
a member of the family. When they
found that he was a full-blooded Irish
setter, their objections were entirely over
come.
It was surprising how rapidly the dog
grew, and what a docile, affectionate pet
be became. He conceived a special love
for little Doc, and many were the romps
the boy and dog had together in the yard
on pleasant summer days. His young
masters taught him many cunning tricks.
Little thought had they, when they be
friended the poor dog, of the service he
would do them and their parents, in return
for their kindness. He had been in their
home for nearly a year, and had endeared
himself in many ways to every member of
the family. It was more in irony than
anything else that Neal called him Royal
when he was still a lean little pup.
One evening the Broadcomes had gone
to bed as usual, and were sleeping very
soundly. It was about midnight when
Mrs. Broadcome was awakened by a queer,
prolonged howl. At first she could not
think what it was. Then it was repeated.
“Why, that must be Royal,” she
thought. “But I never heard him howl
like that before.”
She wakened her husband. Then that
strange, prolonged, appealing howl was
repeated several times in quick succession.
First it came from the rear of the house,
then from the side, and then from the
front. Every time it became louder and
more importunate. At length the dog, as
if in desperation, rushed upon the front
veranda and sprang with all his might
against the door, striking the handle of
the door-bell and causing its clear, sharp
peal to echo through the house.
“There’s something wrong,” exclaimed
Mr. Broadcome, bounding out of the bed
and putting on his clothes as quickly as
he could.
He rushed down stairs and opened the
front door. Royal sprang up at him with
a glad cry, and then dashed around the
walk, toward the rear of the house, look
ing back as much as to say, “Come this
way!” Mr. Broadcome followed with
beating pulses. Oi turning the corner,
he stopped in dismay.
“Good heavens! the summer kitchen’s
on fire!” he exclaimed.
At such times of peril and excitement
men are often endowed with almost super
human strength. Mr. Broadcome sprang
with all his might against the door, and
broke the bolt. Running to the foot of
the stairs, he informed the rest of the fam
ily of the fire, and then flew to thi kitch
en, adjusted a piece of hose to the hydrant,
and turned the stream upon the fire., which
(.Concluded on 16 th page.)