ee'; go for it!" shouted Harry, leaping over the railing,
and darting across the meadow.

"Come on; follow the sound, girls," cried Jack, bounding after him.

Nell and I take the path sedately, "hastening slowly," for we can not
help stopping to listen to the soft twitter of the birds, to admire the
golden laburnums; we even wait to let a sparrow hop leisurely down the
walk before us.

We have had time to spare, for when we arrive in sight of the
"merry-go-round" in its pretty pavilion, the musical history of Nancy
Lee is still being repeated.

But a pretty vision greets us. Whirl, whirl, whirl, flies a magic ring
of boys and girls, with their fluttering ribbons, bright eyes, and
tossing curls.

Click, click, clash a score of shining blades, as the eager riders, with
parted lips, lean forward and try to pick off the rings from a
projecting bar.

Now the music begins to die away; the circle moves slower, and slower,
and slower.

"Count your rings!" shouts the man in charge. "The biggest number wins
the free ride."

"Sixteen, eighteen, twenty," calls out Harry, triumphantly, adding, as
he spies Nellie, "There's my sister; give her a ride."

Nothing loath, Nell is strapped on a gray pony, and waits impatiently
for the music. The seats fill, the organ sounds forth, "I'm called
Little Buttercup," and away they float as light as feathers.

"It is well they're so merry," groans the poor horse beneath them in the
cellar, as he treads his weary beat; "they'd find it a sad-go-round if
we changed places."

The noon hour strikes; the merry-go-round man is mortal, and wants his
dinner, which reminds us that it is time to send for the lunch basket.

Choosing a lovely spot under a spreading elm in the meadow, we lay the
cloth, set out our luncheon, brew a pitcher of fine lemonade, and sit
down, the merriest of merry parties.

In the midst of our entertainment four uninvited but welcome visitors
make their appearance. Guess who they are.

A toad came first, and sat blinking at us with the funniest airs
imaginable. Then a robin-redbreast and two sparrows edged their way up
to our table with great caution, winked at us with bright eyes,
concluded we were trustworthy, and ventured to peck at the crumbs we
scattered for them.

[Illustration: PROSPECT PARK, BROOKLYN.--DRAWN BY L. W. ATWATER.]

Gathering up the remnants of our feast, we wended our way to a pretty
summer-house overlooking a small lake, in which sported a