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teaches a child to notice and observe accurately, and that is a great thing. Drawing-copies and painting-books can now be bought at a trifling cost, and they give a great deal of pleasure to their

owners.

Cutting out pictures is a favourite occupation with children. Illustrations in magazines or papers which are not needed should always be kept for this purpose, for the youngsters will be delighted if they find a roll of pictures ready for them when they are disposed to set to work. Coloured pictures and scraps may be pasted into a blank book; but black and white pictures and large black letters can be cut out for play. An easy way of learning to read and spell is to cut out letters, and then form them into words-taking a long word, such as Constantinople, and trying to find out how long a list of shorter words can be made out of it. It is very amusing to cut various objects out of plain stiff paper. All sorts of figures, cows, dogs, horses, cats, men and women, &c., may be manufactured by drawing the outline on paper, which has been folded double, so that when partially opened the figure will stand. Houses also may be made to stand if side pieces are used which will sustain them. A great many coloured pictures are published nowadays, and almost all children possess these. It is a pity that they should ever be wasted, because they give so much pleasure. Let children paste them neatly into a blank book, and when they are finished send them to one of the large hospitals, and they will delight the children who have to suffer pain and weariness.

Odds and ends of wool or yarn may be knitted together to make shawls and wraps for poor people. Paper pillows also may be made of old letters and circulars by the little ones. These pillows are very cool and comfortable for the sick, and I have been told that many invalids prefer them to all other kinds of pillows. Letter-paper only should be used for this purpose, and it should be torn across singly into pieces half an inch wide. If a quantity were torn at once the paper might collect in lumps. For the same reason the gummed parts and postage-stamps must be thrown away-they would make the pieces stick together-and the pieces should be crimped up three or four at once, to make them keep separate, as otherwise the pillow would not be light. When a quantity of paper is thus collected it can be sewn into a calico bag, shaped like a pillow.

I once knew some little girls who asked their mother to give them all the old stockings and socks which were not to be worn any more, and when she consented, they set to work and carefully mended them. They did not enjoy the work very

much, for I should think there are very few children who would choose to darn stockings for the sake of the pleasure of it; but they wanted to give the stockings away. They had seen some poor children who were almost stockingless, and whose poor little red feet and hands were swollen and painful with chilblains, and they knew that the old stockings, if well mended, would keep the feet of these little ones as warm and dry as would bran new ones. So they asked nurse to show them how to mend, and they kept on patiently darning backwards and forwards until the stockings were strong and whole, and then they gave them to the children. If you could have seen how pleased they were, I think you would have hunted up all the old stockings you could lay your hands on, and darned away until they were as whole as new, then given them away also.

Toys for sick children may be made by mounting figures of dogs, cows, or other animals on strong cardboard. Rag dolls and animals made of rag are very much liked by the poor little ones who seldom have a toy which they can call their own, and therefore think a great deal of any that come in their way. Children who have beautiful dolls, with eyes that open and shut, and dolls' houses handsomely furnished, can have no idea how much a little child who has to lie all day on a sick-bed will think of a rag doll.

There are some very good women, called Bible women, who work among the poor, and who are very glad to take charge of old clothing or gifts which may be sent to them. They are in London, as well as in many large towns; and if you can mend any clothes in this way, and will send them to these good women, they will see that they are given to people who need them sorely.

There is nothing out of the way in these employments which I have named. They are possible to every child, and other ways are possible also, which you will think of when you begin to work, for one thing will make you think of another. Only whatever else, children, don't be idle. Time is too precious to be wasted, and you are sure to be miserable if you are doing nothing.

As you grow older you will be able to do very much more than you can now. I have tried to show, in a book called "What Girls Can Do," a few of the ways in which older girls can do good work. That, however, is for your elder sisters; it is not intended for little folk. Yet even children may, while young, get into the way of being busy and useful, which will certainly lead to their becoming both helpful and blessed. PHILLIS BROWNE.

Published by Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co., London.

THE STORY OF A SAGACIOUS SQUIRREL.

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for its mischievous propensities than for its wisdom, but instances of sagacity are оссаsionally met with that serve as the exceptions which prove the rule. See the little fellow with his red coat, long bushy tail, and bright eyes, as he nimbly skips from tree to tree, and you have a picture of frolicsome gaiety rather than of sagacity-a feature that is, oddly and absurdly enough, attributed more frequently to "Minerva's bird," the owl. Of course you all know, that nuts form the squirrel's favourite food. Give him a filbert and watch the business-like way he disposes of it. Grasping it in his two fore paws he speedily breaks the shell by means of his sharp incisor or cutting teeth, and then gradually removing the shell, he peels off the coarse brown skin, and at last eats it with considerable zest. He is a dainty little fellow too, in his way, and scarcely ever will he eat the kernel of a nut without first of all stripping it of the outer covering.

A lady tells a story about a squirrel that played great havoc among some filbert-trees that grew in her kitchen-garden. One year there was promise of an unusually large supply of nuts, and the family looked forward with pleasurable feelings to the goodly yield of the favourite dessert of the household, when, to their utter dismay, the nuts, as they reached maturity, were seen to diminish in a rapid and mysterious fashion. The trees seemed to be thinned almost by magic. Near to the garden was a vast plantation of larch and fir trees, which was known to be the haunt of many a squirrel, and it was soon surmised that these active little creatures were the robbers of the nuts, so steps were immediately taken to put a stop to their depredations. One day the lady's husband came indoors and remarked, with a very complacent smile, that he rather thought he had got the better of the squirrels for once, as he had found a heap of filberts which had been put aside ready for removal, and which of course he had carried off. But the gentleman had reckoned without his host, or, at any rate, formed too mean

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an opinion of the squirrel's capacity, for on breaking the nuts they were all found to be bad. doubt the squirrel had tried them, and discovering them to be worthless had placed them aside in a little heap by themselves.

When squirrels are unable to obtain a sufficient supply of nuts and such food-which is the case in the spring-time-they do not hesitate to eat the young shoots, buds, and bark of trees, and they are thus, in forest regions especially, the cause of a vast amount of injury. So destructive are they in this respect that in some countries they are regarded as vermin, and treated accordingly. In Lapland and parts of northern Russia they are killed in very large numbers for the sake of their grey winter skins.

One peculiarity in the squirrel calls for special mention. It spends the winter in a torpid state, lying coiled up in its cell covered by its warm bushy tail. In autumn it gathers nuts, acorns, fircones, and the like, and stores them away in different places, near its dome-shaped nest of twigs, leaves, and moss. When winter has set in it retires to its nest and falls into a long deep sleep, from which, however, it sometimes arouses on very mild days. On such occasions it usually has a merry romp among the naked boughs, then it goes to one of its stores, where it partakes of a hearty meal, after which it withdraws once more to its home for another slumber of several days, or even weeks. This habit is known as hibernation.

As you know, squirrels are often kept as pets, and though they are not so easily tamed as might be imagined, they can become thoroughly domesticated. In certain quarters of the globe they are actually turned to account, being lodged in treadmill cages which are made to "work" by the movements of the unfortunate animal. These cages are too commonly employed for housing tame squirrels, but we feel sure that if the owners only knew that they were inflicting pain upon their pets, they would at once abandon the use of such dwellings. The fact is that though the squirrel likes the treadmill exercise, as such, well enough in its place, it is positive cruelty to subject it always to motion of that kind. The proper cage for a squirrel must therefore be large and roomy, square-shaped for preference, and contain perches and other appliances as well as a treadmill. Such a home leaves the animal free to take what exercise he pleases, and when he pleases, and if you wish to see the caged squirrel happy and lively, you must provide him with such surroundings as will keep up his spirits even under the circumstances of imprisonment.

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THE SILENT
was flitting,

MOONBEAM
without noise or tumult, when
a pert grasshopper sprang
across its way.

"Ha! 'tis well to be you, Miss Moonbeam, creeping and gliding about, like an idle do-nothing as you are, while one half the world is toiling away its very heart's blood-like I do, for instance. I've been shouting myself hoarse, for I know not how long, to help charm the other half into something like good humour." This was the mite's greeting, and it fairly panted, because of the length of its speech, and its self-importance.

"Oh, indeed!" no more, no less, replied the moonbeam, in its quiet self-possession, flitting and wandering among the sleeping flowers, so like little children slumbering.

"And now I must not keep quiet;" and, as if to make good its assertion, the small grasshopper chirped away with all its might.

"Ay, pipe away, and I'll help you; we keep the world going," croaked a frog, in its by no means mellow tenor; while a blind beetle, as children call the buzzing insect of night, droned in its bass, flit

MOONBEAM.

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ting up and halting. Next a nightingale's notes stole along on the breezes, and all the little leaves on the trees clapped their hands as in rapture.

And now, what sounds those small musicians poured out into the quiet night-the grasshopper, the blind beetle, the frog, with many little gnats filling up the chorus, after solo, duet, and the like had been gone through by their more gifted companions. The moonbeam still flitted in calm purity among the sleeping flowers; a sigh wandered by, it might have been the wind, or it might have been from the sprite-like moonbeam, by reason of a yearning desire for gift or endowment it did not possess. Now, a kind little shrew brought bluebell goblets of cooling dew for the singers, and a glowworm lit its lamp to light them. The moonbeam stood apart, in its dreamy, silvery robe, and watched and hearkened; watched to see the many small creatures which came wandering up, squirrels, dormice, beetles, earwigs-oh! quite a crowd hearkened to the strains, which were stirring them, and gathering them together. From afar, like liquid music, came the song of the nightingale, now blending with that of the tiny minstrels, now wandering away, the very essence of melody.

"Well, you little pipers, you're doing a mighty

work in the world,” said an old rat in its ignorance, putting its head out of a hole hard by the moonbeam. "Miss Moonbeam, if you could only make some such sounds, we should believe in you. But just to flit here and there, a silent, silvery nothingwhy, the great world with its solid realities has named dreams and fancies moonshine, by reason of the low esteem in which they hold you." The moonbeam bowed its head.

"I know I'm doing but little in the great work of life; still, I would do more if I could."

The moonbeam's heart was very sad; she did not weep, but panted out more than tears could express of her craving, yearning hope, that she was not really doing nothing during her brief night of service. Tenderly she twined her fingers among the petals of the slumbering flowers, and now a sickly blossom lifted its languid head, and seemed to mutely bless her; now a wee, belated wanderer took courage, and wandered on, cheered and led by her silvery radiance. Oh! it was hard and dreary, this working in silence.

"Too-hoo, hoo-too-hoo! What is all this noise about?" inquired an old owl from a hollow tree, peeping his head therefrom in his nightcap.

"We're charming the world," returned the frog. "Then I wish you'd charm it more like the moonbeam, without all this ado," quoth he.

"Who ever heard of anything done without noise?"

"Who ever heard of anything done with noiseanything great, I mean?"

"Well, what great work is the moonbeam doing?" and the grasshopper laughed-oh! a mocking laugh is that of the grasshopper.

"Ask the question of the earth, growing and blossoming under its gentle influence; nay, I'll put the question myself. Too-hoo, hoo-too-hoo! what great work is the moonbeam doing?" Mr. Owl was the one to shout so as to be heard.

The poor little sprite of a moonbeam quivered now; was it come to this, that her usefulness was to be decided upon? The sweet voice of the nightingale was still thrilling on the midnight air. Ah! now came her song, not an echo of other music, but a living voice with living words.

"She weaves my notes into beautiful thoughts and inspirations, for the solace of weary men."

"She is Nature's healer," whispered the flowers, and many a sick blossom held up petal-like hands to the heavens as in wordless blessing.

"Whir-whir-whir-r-r!" like a mighty chiming of the waves of the sea, came the testimony of the cornfields, from valley and hillside, rolling, rolling in an overwhelming utterance, "Moonbeams prompt and encourage us to grow, silently, calmly,

even as they perform their own mission; because the greatest work is done by littles, without clamour, commotion, or great noise." Overhead the heavens were grandly silent, but a soft voice came stealing down as from the stars.

"Little sister," it said, "you are one with us, shedding a light in a dark place; you there in the narrow circle of earth, we high up in space amid the wonders of the heavens; yet together we are doing, shining, soothing, and guiding alone, as it were, and not half understood. Surely, to work on thus faithfully, whether a small moonbeam or a mighty star, is the grandest work of all." The moonbeam grew sweetly radiant as she heard this.

"Too-hoo! too-hoo! too-hoo! I always said 'much noise, little work' was a true saying, and now it seems I'm not far wrong; I say three cheers for the moonbeam," and the owl tossed up its nightcap, with a hip-hurrah. After this a silence fell.

"Then we'll go home and sing no more," said the grasshopper, dejectedly.

"Nay, there you are going to the other extreme; sing and be happy, and play your part, good folk, only don't look with disdain on quiet souls working on in their own way, nor think there's nothing beautiful in the world save your own work, or a sweet sound but it must be an echo of your own music. Remember what the nightingale said.”

"But are the sounds we make sweet music at all?" questioned the blind beetle.

"Oh well, that's a mere matter of taste; don't worry yourself over that, my friend. To hoot like an owl,' and 'stupid as an owl,' is said among men in a way anything but flattering to me, still I just hoot my best, and catch mice and so on in the cleverest way I can, and I doubt if any do any better than that."

"Well, there's something in doing one's best," croaked the frog.

"Something why, there's everything in it," sang the nightingale, who now winged her way to the spot. "She hath done what she could,' spoken long years ago by One who understands the littles and the great things done by all, is still thrilling the world to its centre; why it is the charm, the inspiration which keeps people from growing faint and weary."

Then the solemn voices of the night swelled on as before, and amid all who wished, waited, and hoped for the morning, there was naught of dissension; no one said this is mine, or thine, in their wistful expectation. But, perhaps, the wee moonbeam, that seemed to be doing nothing, was the most calmly happy of all, glancing up at the bright and shining stars above, and remembering her fellowship with them in their light and their glory.

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