QUEER TOM.

XOM Flossofer was the queerest

I don't think

boy I ever knew. he ever cried. I never saw him. If Fleda found her tulips all rooted up by her pet puppy, and cried, as little girls will, Tom was sure to come round the corner whistling, and say: "What makes you cry? can you cry tulips? do you think every sob makes a root or a blossom? Here, let's try to right them!"

So he would pick up the poor flowers; put their roots into the ground again, whistling all the time; make the bed look smooth and fresh, and take Fleda off to hunt hens' nests in the barn. Neither did he do any differently in his own troubles. One day his great kite snapped the string, and flew away far out of sight. Tom stood still one moment, and then turned round to come home, whistling a merry tune.

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'Why, Tom," said I," aren't you sorry to lose that kite?"

"Yes, but what's the use? I can't take more than a minute to feel bad. 'Sorry' won't bring the kite back, and I want to make another."

Just so when he broke his leg. "Poor Tom," cried Fleda, "you can't play any mo-0-0-0-re!"

"I'm not poor, either. You cry for me; I don't have to do it for myself, and I have a splendid time to whittle. Besides, when I get well, I shall beat every boy in school on the multiplication table; for I say it over and over, till it makes me sleepy, every time my leg aches."

Tom Flossofer was queer certainly, but I wish a great many more people were queer that way.

Wood's Household Magazine.

THE STORY OF A WEEK.

ITTLE battles thou hast won, Little masteries achieved, Little wants with care relieved, Little words in love expressed, Little wrongs at once confessed; Little favours kindly done, Little toils thou didst not shun, Little graces meekly worn, Little slights with patience borneThese shall crown thy pillowed head, Holy light upon thee shed; These are treasures that shall rise Far beyond the smiling skies.

MONKEYS DEMANDING THEIR DEAD.

R. FORBES tells a story of a female monkey who was killed by friends of his, and carried to his tent. Forty or fifty of her tribe advanced with threatening gestures, but stood still when the gentleman presented his gun at them. One, however, who appeared to be the chief of the tribe, came forward, chattering and threatening in a furious manner. Nothing short of firing at him seemed likely to drive him away; but at length he approached the tent-door with every sign of grief and supplication, as if he were begging for the body. It was given him; he took it in his arms, carried it away, with actions expressive of affection, to his companions, and with them disappeared. It was not to be wondered at that the sportsman vowed he would never shoot another monkey.

THE BUSY BEES.

BY MRS. BATTERSBY.

OME to the garden,

please

mamma," said little Lizzie, one day. "Andrew has told us the bees are going to swarm, and Harry and I want to see them."

"If I do you and Harry must keep at a safe distance, for though the bees that are going to swarm may be too busy to mind you, those in the cther hives will be excited and very probably will sting intruders."

The children promised, and Mrs. Wilson took them to the garden where they escaped being stung, but a little puppy which had followed them unperceived was not SO fortunate. Presently he was seen scampering over the flower-beds as fast as his absurd little bandy limbs could carry him, with his tail between his legs; in and out, and under the bushes; poor Rollo dashed, pursued by his tormentor, and finally he took refuge in the greenhouse, where the bee had him at her mercy, and he was heard howling with pain from her fierce sting which she had driven so far into one of his soft ears that she could not draw it out again, and paid the penalty of getting into such a rage by losing her own life, for if a bee or wasp can pull out its sting it recovers, but if it remains in, the creature dies.

A heap of broken flowerpots ornamented the greenhouse floor, but the children hastened to coax poor little Rollo, and put some bread and soda moistened with water upon his sore ear before they returned to the garden, where they were just in time to see the swarm of bees rising in a cloud from the hive, and settling upon the bough of an apple tree

close by. Old Andrew mounted a ladder and placed a hive, well smeared inside with cream and sugar, over the swarm, saying they would be ready to be moved at nightfall, and a sudden shower of rain having driven the children into the house, they begged their mamma to tell them all she could remember about bees. In the first place Harry wanted to know how the little creatures would begin to work and make the sweet, honey they enjoyed so much at breakfast.

"They collect gum from the horsechestnut and other'sticky' trees, Harry, and knead up the wax which comes in little white flakes from their bodies, and with these two substances, gum and wax they form the beautiful little cells of their combs. Most of these cells they will fill with honey, in others the queen bee's eggs will be placed, for she is both queen and mother to the hive, and the good little working bees are very fond of her, and take the greatest care of her and of her young bees, feeding the little grubs with bee-bread, which they find like dust in the flowers, and which learned people call pollen; with this some cells are filled so that they may have plenty of food stored up for their nurslings, and a clever writer tells us it takes eight or ten journeys to fill one of these cells; but the bees "are up with the lark," and work merrily all day long, humming their little songs as they toil on cheerfully through the bright sunshiny days.

By-and-by the hive is quite full of honey and wax and bee bread, and to make room a new swarm will set off, headed as usual by the queen bee, to form another colony of their own.

"Are there not some bees that do not work, mamma?" said Lizzie.