"bird" had been driven smartly into the nose of the big
yellow dog, and the latter was pawing at it with a doleful whine.

The game-cock had not done with the barn-yard invader. He meant to
follow that matter up till he had finished it.

"Clip!" he had hit him again--in the left shoulder this time--and the
dog's whine changed to a howl.

Another, a deep one, in the fleshy part of one of his hind-legs; for
Bayard seemed disposed to dance all around him.

That was enough, and Mr. Bates's yellow pet turned and ran yelping
toward the nearest fence, while his conqueror flapped his wings and
crowed most vigorously, and every hen in the yard clucked her admiration
of his prowess.

Parry, too, clapped his hands, and felt as if he wanted to crow.

"He's such a little fellow, Uncle Joe, to fight such a big dog as that!"

"With teeth and claws, too, and a hundred times stronger than he."

"Did you know he could beat him?"

"Of course I did."

"He knew just how to use his spurs, didn't he?"

"That's it, Parry. He didn't have much, but he knew just what to do with
it."

"Guess the dog knows it too now. He won't chase any more of our
chickens."

"He'll keep out of this yard for a while. He's got his lesson."

So had Parry, and Uncle Joe would not let him forget it. It would be a
shame, he said, for any boy to be less wise than a game-cock, and not to
be able to use all the natural gifts he had.

THE CARPENTER'S SERMON.

BY DAVID KER.

"Tell ye what, mates, this sort o' thing won't do. Here we've been at it
these six weeks, and not a penny of wages yet. It's all very fine to
say, 'Stick to your work,' but a man won't git fat on workin' for
nothing, that's sartain!"

"Right you are, Bill. S'pose we knocks off work, and tells Sir James we
won't do no more without he pays us?"

"Gently, lads: remember what happened to the dog as dropped his meat in
grabbin' at the shadder. If we stick to this job, mayhap we'll git our
money some time; but if we knock off, we won't find another job growin'
on every bush, mark ye."

"Well, that's true; but it's mighty hard luck for _us_, all the same."

So grumbled, under their breath, a gang of English workmen, who were
repairing the interior of one of the great London churches, one fine
summer afternoon in the time of George I. And certainly they had good
reason to grumble. Sir James Thornhill, the court painter, whom the King
had employed to restore and redecorate the