as to
how you spend them. Remember you are your father's only son."

[Illustration]

Over the first reading of this letter, Warren had said, "Poh!
Fiddlesticks! He thinks I am a baby," and laying it down had begun a
reply to the other, that read thus: "Dear Dick:--I'll be on hand,
though I don't suppose our governors would like it much."

Little Warren, in the other room, went on struggling with the long
words, "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that
regardeth reproof is prudent." How exactly to the point it was, even
about the prudent part. It startled him a little. He tore Dick's
letter into little bits, while he listened and thought. Then he took
up his father's letter once more and read it over slowly; then with a
sudden decided movement, he tore the letter he was writing into
halves, and put it into the waste basket, and rapidly wrote this in
it's place: "Dick:--I can't come. My father wouldn't approve; neither
will yours. In haste, Warren."

Then he went out and kissed little Warren on his nose, on his eyes, on
his chin, three times for each; and that was all that either the
little boy or his mother knew about the work that had been done in the
library.

[Illustration]

BROWN TOMMY.

Not Tommy Brown, but Brown Tommy. He was all in brown from tip to toe.
His hair was brown by nature, and the sun had browned his face and
hands. His eyes were a lovely dark brown. He went on a journey on the
cars with his mamma, and this is the way he was dressed. He had a
brown merino dress, kilt skirt and jacket, with rows and rows of
brown buttons all over it; there were two pockets in the jacket; his
brown cloth gloves were peeping out of one, and the corner of his
handkerchief, that hung out of the other, had a brown flower on it.
His stockings were all brown, and his waterproof cape that was hanging
on his shoulders was just the color of his stockings. Then he had a
Centennial hat, three-cornered, such as old soldiers used to wear a
hundred years ago; it had a long brown plume on it. This was Brown
Tommy.

How did he act? Well, not so nicely as he looked, I am sorry to say.
On the cars, in the seat before him, was a lady who tried to talk with
him, but he saw fit not to answer any of her questions. She seemed to
think he was a timid little boy, who must be coaxed into knowing her;
so she talked on, in a pleasant winning voice. At last she turned to
his mamma, and said: "Your little boy _can_