136 Lom Seven Years Old.

ers a AE kt et

 

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it—patiently or impatiently, he was. still
obliged to wait till it came. And some things
were very long in coming—the postman, and
his birthday, and half-past twelve when his
lessons were done, and his Ulster from the
tailor’s, and the day to go to the Zoological
Gardens, and a hundred other things more
than he could name. At last he went to his

 

papa and complained. 3

“Come here,” said his papa, instead of
answering him. He walked into the garden,
and crossed the grass to the border. Tom
followed him. Then he drew out a little
packet of paper, inside which lay a heap of
tiny, hard, dry grains.

“Are they for the cocks and hens ?” asked
Tom.

“No,” said his papa; “they are living seeds.
I am going to sow them in the ground, and
in a short time you will see them shoot up out
of the earth into little sprouts of green.”

Tom took one in his hand, and looked at it
closely. It seemed quite hard and dead, and

there was no room for any juicy ‘stalks or