An old friend of Mrs. Peters called to see her.

She was French, and

could not speak very good English. She tried to tell about the old fat poodle

she had had so many years,

and that had just died. She cried as she talked,
and Patty must have thought it very funny,

for she opened her beady eyes

and straightened up to listen. In a few moments she began to imitate the

French lady—sniffing and sobbing, and saying,

“Mon poor Flore! So sweet dog i

in the same broken English:

Prim Mrs. Peters was very much shocked at Patty. She was alarmed for
fear her friend would be offended, so she took a piece of green baize and threw

it over the naughty bird, thinking that in the dark she would be quiet.

And

so she was; for some time she did not make a sound; but all the time she was
pecking and pulling at the baize until she had made a hole large enough for

her bill and one eye.

Then she cried out, “Hooray!” in loud tones, and at once

began to sniffle and sob and talk about “poor Flore” more than ever.
Mrs. Peters hurried her into another room. She sent her back to the
cigar store the next morning, where Polly welcomed her back by cackling like

a hen.

But the French lady has never liked Mrs. Peters since, nor does Mrs.

Peters like parrots.

—CLARA G. DOLLIVER,

3.2 —

Ghorn of Pris Cocks.

PLACED my boy in the barber’s chair,
To be shorn of his ringlets gay;
And soon the wealth of his golden hair
On the floor in a circle lay.

Twas a trifling thing of daily life,
And to many unworthy of thought—
Too small a theme ’mid the toil and strife
Of this world’s changing lot.

But the ringing out of the cruel shears
To my heart-strings caused a pang,
For they changed the child of my hope and
fears
With the scornful tune they sang.

My thoughts were bent on the little cap,
‘And the curls that round it twined

Like golden clasps with which to trap
The sunbeam and the wind.

No more I shall see those flying curls,
And my homeward steps I wend;

Another stage of his life unfurled,
Where youth and childhood blend.

So when from his chair he stepped at
length,
He stood, with his artless smile,
Like Samson shorn of his locks of strength
By Delilah’s treacherous wile.

Thus one by one will vanish away
The charms of his childish life,

And each bring nearer his manhood’s day,
With its scenes of toil and strife.

God grant that my lease of life may last
Through his changing years of youth;

Till the danger rapids of life are passed
And a Samson stands in truth.