s her to ramble with; he wants that little velvet cheek to kiss
when he wakes each morning.

Where is Nelly?

I am sure she loved Papa. It was she who ran to warm his slippers when
his horse's feet came prancing down the avenue. It was she who wheeled
the arm-chair to its nice, snug corner; it was she who ran for the
dressing-gown; it was she who tucked in the pockets a sly bit of candy,
that she had hoarded all day for "poor, tired Papa." It was she who
laid her soft hand upon his throbbing temples, when those long, ugly
rows of figures at the counting-room, had given him such a cruel
headache. It was she who kneeled beside her bed and taught herself this
little prayer. "Please, God, let me die before my Papa."

Where _is_ Nelly?

My dear little pets, the flowers shed dewy tears over her bright, young
head long time ago. God _did_ "let her go before Papa," and then ... he
took Papa, too. Here is a lock of raven hair, and a long, golden
ringlet--all that is left of Nelly and Papa--but in that blessed land,
where tears are wiped away, Aunt Fanny knows her "lost are found."

LITTLE GEORGE'S STORY.

My Aunt Libby patted me on the head the other day and said, "George, my
boy, this is the happiest part of your life." I guess my Aunt Libby
don't know much. I guess _she_ never worked a week to make a kite, and
the first time she went to fly it got the tail hitched in a tall tree,
whose owner wouldn't let her climb up to disentangle it. I guess she
never broke one of the runners of her sled some Saturday afternoon,
when it was "prime" coasting. I guess she never had to give her biggest
marbles to a great lubberly boy, because he would thrash her if she
didn't. I guess she never had a "hockey stick" play round her ankles in
recess, because she got above a fellow in the class. I guess she never
had him twitch off her best cap, and toss it in a mud-puddle. I guess
she never had to give her humming-top to quiet the baby, and had the
paint all sucked off. I guess she never saved up all her coppers a
whole winter to buy a trumpet, and then was told she must not blow it,
because it would _make a noise_.

No--I guess my Aunt Libby don't know much; little boys have troubles as
well as grown people,--all the difference is they daren't complain.
Now, I never had a "bran new" jacket and trowsers in my
life--never,--and I don't believe I ever shall; for my two brothers
have shot up like Jack's bean-stalk, and left all their