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him.

  This exploit of Tom's and his uncle's anger made the boy more careful;and all went well until the day before the cricket match, when Tom andAllan went out for a private practice in the field.

  "You aren't standing right. Your leg's before the wicket," said Allan,as Tom stood ready, bat in hand, to receive the ball.

  "Oh, I know! but it's only for practice," said Tom quickly. "Send me theball."

  Allan bowled, Tom hit, the ball spun straight up in the air and camedown almost at Tom's feet.

  "Hullo!" said Allan, pointing to the stumps; "how did you do that?"

  Tom looked round and found he had knocked over the stumps. This slightmistake having been set right, Tom was ready to start again. This time,as the ball spun off his bat, there was a crash, and Allan exclaimed inhorror, "Oh, Father's precious orchids!" for the ball had gone throughthe glass of the small greenhouse, and had overturned and injuredseveral cherished plants.

  Poor Tom thought he had had enough of cricket for that day, and went into make his confession to his uncle. Allan's piteous face did moretowards softening his father than Tom's regrets, and he said verylittle about the matter, though possibly he felt the more.

  The next day the cricket match came off. Tom very soon found that inplaying it was necessary to have done something more than look on. Heknew little or nothing of the rules of the game, and brought disgrace onhimself, and on his cousin for having introduced so bad a player intothe village eleven. Had there been any one to take his place he wouldhave been turned out in spite of anything Allan could say, but as it wasthey were obliged to put up with him.

  When Tom went in, his first action was to put himself out, amid thehootings of fury and amusement of the rest of the party. Even Allan wasgetting cross with him.

  When the other side went in again, Tom made more effort to follow thegame and catch the ball; but he knew nothing of cricket, and was wearinghis ordinary walking-boots. The grass was dry and slippery, and Tom wasclumsy. He was chasing the ball, and thought he should really succeed incatching it this time, when his foot slipped and he fell heavily on thegrass. He had broken his leg!

  The boys who had laughed before were now full of sympathy. He was atonce taken into the house and the doctor sent for. What poor Tomsuffered for the rest of that day and all the night, only those who havebroken a leg can tell, and added to his pain was the feeling that he hadshown all Allan's friends what a boastful fellow he was.

  Pride Goes Before A Fall.]

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  THE SWALLOWS' SONG.

  "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say,"It is time we flew awayFar across the pathless sea,For it winter soon will be!Then will fall the rustling leaves,And our nests beneath the eavesWill be very damp and chill,While the fogs our playgrounds fill." "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say, "It is time we flew away!"

  "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows cry,As they circle far on high,Gathering thickly overheadNow that summer days have fled."See!" they say, "the flow'rets fairNow are drooping ev'rywhere,And no more the scented breezeRoves amid the leafy trees!" "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say, "It is time we flew away!"

  "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" Alas! we hearAll you utter, swallows dear!And, if it indeed must be,Take your flight across the seaBut do not your friends forget,They who lose you with regret,And to us all swiftly wingWhen appear the flowers of Spring! "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say, "We will come again in May!"

  E. Oxenford.

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  HIS FIRST KNIFE AND FORK.

  Stevie could hardly believe his eyes. But it was true, quite true, allthe same for that, and he opened his blue eyes wider and wider tillmother laughed and kissed them, and lifted him up into his high chair,saying, "Yes, Stevie, they are yours, your very own, and grandpa sentthem to you because he remembered your birthday." Such a beautiful,sweet-smelling leather case it was, lined with purple velvet, and insideit a silver fork with a pretty "S" on the handle, and a knife that wouldreally _cut_. His first knife and fork! Oh, how Stevie had longed forthem! And now that they had come, his very own, he felt quite a man,almost like father.

  "Stevie must learn to handle them nicely, ready to show grandpa when hecomes. Not that way, pet! Let the back of the blade look up to theceiling, like little birdies after they drink, and keep the sharp edgedown to the plate, and then little fingers won't be cut."

  "All alone by myself, mother? all alone by myself?" cried Stevieeagerly; but mother stood beside him till the pie was cut up, and thepretty knife and fork had been laid aside to be washed and put back intheir velvet case.

  Stevie learned to handle his knife and fork quite nicely in a few days,but he found it rather hard that he was never allowed to have them toplay with. He used them at the table and that was all. The day grandpacame Stevie was all excitement to show him how well he could use hisbeautiful present. Mother had gone to the station to meet him, and itseemed that the long morning of waiting would never be over. But twelveo'clock came at last, and nurse gave Stevie a biscuit and an apple, andsent him out in the garden so that he should not disturb baby's nap. Heran away down to the fountain and began to play dinner. Then he thoughtof his dear knife and fork. He knew just where they were, but he hadbeen told never to touch them. He did want them so much, and they _were_his own. The apple would seem just like a real dinner if he only hadthem. Stevie ran into the dining-room and mounted the chair by thesideboard. For a moment he stopped; for it seemed as if some one said,"Don't touch, Stevie!" quite loud in his ear, but only the clock went"Tick, tack, tick, tack!" There was only the little voice of conscience_inside_ Stevie to say "Don't touch;" and he wouldn't listen to that, sohe ran away with the pretty case in his hand.

  Stevie played dinner, and old gray pussy sat on the fountain basin andlooked at him. She played grandpa, at least Stevie said so; but somehowthe apple didn't taste so sweet as at first, and he cut his thumb alittle, and thought he would put the knife and fork back. Back in theircase he did put them, clip went the little silver fastening, Pussyarched her back and swelled her tail, for the dog belonging to the bakerhad just come through the gate with his master. There was a rush and atussle, and the baker ran to Stevie; but something had gone splash! intothe fountain, and Stevie ran away crying. How everybody did _hunt_ forthat knife and fork, while Stevie sat very pale and quiet, holding onefat thumb hidden by his hand.

  Grandpa sat next to the high-chair. "Cheer up, little man: it will befound."

  And mother said, "Never mind, pet; it can't be really _lost_!"

  Stevie's thumb hurt him, and he felt so miserable that he couldn't bearhis trouble "all alone by himself" any longer, so he sobbed out,"'Tisn't lost! it is in the fountain! Wanted it all by myself!"

  Mother took him on her lap till she had made out what had happened. Thenshe tied up the poor cut thumb while grandpa went down to the fountainand fished up the knife and fork. Stevie ate his dinner with a spoon,for grandpa said he thought the knife and fork had better go away tillthe poor thumb was well. The pretty case was quite, _quite_ spoiled. ButStevie got his knife and fork back; and we noticed that we didn't haveto say, "Don't touch, Stevie!" nearly so often to him, and that he wasnot nearly so eager to have things "all alone."

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  THE WREN'S GIFT.

  A little maid was sittingUpon the wild-brook's edge.A little Wren came flitting,And chirrupped from the hedge.

  Close up to her he hopped,With eyes both bright and merry,And in her lap he droppedA golden shining berry.

  "Eat it never fearing,"Said the little Wren,"It will give you hearingSeldom given to men."

  It made her tongue to tingleWhen she bit it through,And straightway all the dingleSeemed full of words she knew.

  She understood the wordsThe wild brook sang in strayi
ng,And what the woodland birdsAmong themselves were saying.

  But sweeter than all singingOf brook or birds above,She heard the bluebells ringingThe chimes the fairies love.

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  VERA'S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

  It was Christmas Day, and very, very hot; for Christmas in South Africacomes at mid-summer, whilst the winter, or rainy season, occurs there inJuly and August, which certainly seems a strange arrangement to ourideas. However, whatever the temperature may be, Christmas is ever keptby all English people as nearly as possible in the same way as they werewont to keep it "at Home," for it is thus that all