IDA’S CHICKENS.

CaP ITTLE Ida Frost had always lived in the city, in a brick
house with pavement in front and a little yard at the
back. This yard had a little grass-plot in it about as
large as a sheet, with a border of flowers around it.

When the flowers were in bloom it looked very gay, but it was

not big enough for a little girl to play in, and if she even tried

it she was sure to hear,—

“Tda, be careful of the verbenas,” or “Ida, see how you have
broken the strings of the cypress-vine,” or “Ida, your dress is
brushing that rose-bush, and will break it if you are not careful.”

Her mother did not mean to be cross, only she did not like
to see her darling flowers injured. So after a little Ida would
come in and sit by the parlor windows and look out into the
street, or perhaps her mother would let her roll her hoop on the
pavement.

But the little girl needed more exercise and fresh air. She
began to get pale and thin, and the doctor said she must be
taken into the country.

So the father found a pretty cottage not far from the city,
with vines running over its porches and with borders of flowers
and rows of fruit-trees, and a fine large yard for Ida to play —
in. But she did not seem to care about playing, and would sit
quietly all day looking out of the window.

One day she was lying on the lounge with a book in her

hand. But she was not sleeping, and was “too tired” to read,
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