t said-- My, Cynthia, look at that
bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could catch
him."

"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"

"Oh, he said good-by and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had some
salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia?
Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"

"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you would
tell me all Neal said."

"There, now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister,
gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You
frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't you
'shamed!"

"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-by?"

"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?" said
Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.

"Yes, yes! Anything!"

"Well, he said-- Are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral
necklace with the nice little gold clasp and--"

"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace, you
dreadful child! Go on, _do_ go on!"

"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry passions
have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-by forever; I'm going away;' and
off he went."

"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"

"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he was
salted, or something."

"Salted!"

"Yes, or 'sulted, or some word like that."

"_In_sulted, do you mean?"

"Yes, I guess so. And now where's the necklace?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

STORIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

[Illustration: Decorative L]

Late on almost any summer day early in this century a blue-eyed,
brown-haired lad might have been seen lying under a great apple-tree in
the garden of an old house in Portland, forgetful of everything else in
the world save the book he was reading.

The boy was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and the book might have been
_Robinson Crusoe_, _The Arabian Nights_, _Don Quixote_, all of which
were favorites; or possibly it was Irving's _Sketch Book_, of which he
was so fond that even the covers delighted him, and whose charm remained
unbroken throughout life. Years afterward, when, as a famous man of
letters, he was called upon to pay his tribute to the memory of Irving,
he could think of no more tender praise than to speak with grateful