I have no more
to say." And Miss Nan sat down amid tumultuous applause.

"That is a very remarkable composition; its tone is high, and there is
a good deal of humor in it. Very well done, Nan. Now, Daisy," and Mr.
Bhaer smiled at one young lady as he beckoned the other.

Daisy colored prettily as she took her place, and said, in her modest
little voice,

"I'm afraid you won't like mine; it isn't nice and funny like Nan's. But
I couldn't do any better."

"We always like yours, Posy," said Uncle Fritz, and a gentle murmur from
the boys seemed to confirm the remark. Thus encouraged, Daisy read her
little paper, which was listened to with respectful attention.

"THE CAT

"The cat is a sweet animal. I love them very much. They are clean and
pretty, and catch rats and mice, and let you pet them, and are fond
of you if you are kind. They are very wise, and can find their way
anywhere. Little cats are called kittens, and are dear things. I have
two, named Huz and Buz, and their mother is Topaz, because she has
yellow eyes. Uncle told me a pretty story about a man named Ma-ho-met.
He had a nice cat, and when she was asleep on his sleeve, and he wanted
to go away, he cut off the sleeve so as not to wake her up. I think he
was a kind man. Some cats catch fish."

"So do I!" cried Teddy, jumping up eager to tell about his trout.

"Hush!" said his mother, setting him down again as quickly as possible,
for orderly Daisy hated to be "interruckted," as Nan expressed it.

"I read about one who used to do it very slyly. I tried to make Topaz,
but she did not like the water, and scratched me. She does like tea, and
when I play in my kitchen she pats the teapot with her paw, till I give
her some. She is a fine cat, she eats apple-pudding and molasses. Most
cats do not."

"That's a first-rater," called out Nat, and Daisy retired, pleased with
the praise of her friend.

"Demi looks so impatient we must have him up at once or he won't hold
out," said Uncle Fritz, and Demi skipped up with alacrity.

"Mine is a poem!" he announced in a tone of triumph, and read his first
effort in a loud and solemn voice:

"I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.
"First it is a little grub,
And then it is a nice yellow cocoon,
And then the butterfly
Eats its way out soon.
"They live on dew and honey,
They do not have