es in the sunlight as the lovely apparition drew near to him.
She looked at him with delight. She put out her delicate hand to
embrace him. Then, without a tremor, she tore him ruthlessly from
his mother's grasp, from the home that he loved, and dropped him
into her basket.

"Oh, you little red beauty!" she cried. "You are just what I wanted
to fill up my tomato salad."

That night, as she sat at supper, with her father and mother and
brother and sisters, she was smiling and serene, for the table was
well furnished, and the feast was merry. There was white bread that
had been ground from thousands of innocent blades of wheat, once
waving in the sunlight, and a juicy fish that had been lured and
unwillingly drawn from the crystal waters. There was a brace of
grouse that had been snatched away from their feeding-grounds among
the spicy berries in the woods. And there was poor Little Red Tom,
in the centre of the salad, surrounded by crisp lettuce leaves and
dressed to the queen's taste.

Are there not some who would have shed tears at that sight, and
lamented even while they ate? But do you suppose the young girl was
one of that kind? Do you imagine that she thought she had played a
part in a tragedy? Not a bit of it. She was simply grateful that
her salad was so good, and glad that the others liked it.

* * * * *

_Moral_

_Reader, if you would not be like this young girl, you must read
and believe_----[1]

[1] Note: I regret to state that my Uncle Peter's manuscript
broke off at this point.

SILVERHORNS

The railway station of Bathurst, New Brunswick, did not look
particularly merry at two o'clock of a late September morning. There
was an easterly haar driving in from the _Baie des Chaleurs_ and the
darkness was so saturated with chilly moisture that an honest downpour
of rain would have been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent
travellers yawned in the waiting-room, which smelled horribly of smoky
lamps. The telegraph instrument in the ticket-office clicked
spasmodically for a minute, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence.
The imperturbable station-master was tipped back against the wall in a
wooden armchair, with his feet on the table, and his mind sunk in an
old Christmas number of _The Cowboy Magazine_. The express-agent, in
the b