The cow glared, but did not stir. Another little boy was pulling his
india-rubber boots out of the mud. The cow still looked at him.

Another was feeling the top of his head. The cow began to crop the
grass, still looking at him.

Agamemnon had reached and opened the shed door. The little boys were
next seen running toward it.

A crowd of neighbors, with pitchforks, had returned meanwhile with
Elizabeth Eliza. Solomon John had brought four druggists. But, by the
time they had reached the house, the three little boys were safe in
the arms of their mother!

"This is too dangerous a form of education," she cried; "I had rather
they went to school."

"No!" they bravely cried. They were still willing to try the other
way.

THE EDUCATIONAL BREAKFAST.

Mrs. Peterkin's nerves were so shaken by the excitement of the fall of
the three little boys into the enclosure where the cow was kept that
the educational breakfast was long postponed. The little boys
continued at school, as before, and the conversation dwelt as little
as possible upon the subject of education.

Mrs. Peterkin's spirits, however, gradually recovered. The little boys
were allowed to watch the cow at her feed. A series of strings was
arranged by Agamemnon and Solomon John, by which the little boys could
be pulled up, if they should again fall down into the enclosure. These
were planned something like curtain-cords, and Solomon John frequently
amused himself by pulling one of the little boys up or letting him
down.

Some conversation did again fall upon the old difficulty of questions.
Elizabeth Eliza declared that it was not always necessary to answer;
that many who could did not answer questions,--the conductors of the
railroads, for instance, who probably knew the names of all the
stations on a road, but were seldom able to tell them.

"Yes," said Agamemnon, "one might be a conductor without even knowing
the names of the stations, because you can't understand them when they
do tell them!"

"I never know," said Elizabeth Eliza, "whether it is ignorance in
them, or unwillingness, that prevents them from telling you how soon
one station is coming, or how long you are to stop, even if one asks
ever so many times. It would be so useful if they would tell."

[Illustration]

Mrs. Peterkin thought this was carried too far in the horse-cars in
Boston. The conductors had always left you as far as possible from the
place where you wanted to st