friends were first-rate company;
and there is little Jacob walking, as the popular phrase is, into a
home-made plum cake at a most surprising rate, and keeping his eye on the
figs and oranges which are to follow.

Kit no sooner comes in than the strange gentleman drinks his health, and
tells him he shall never want a friend as long as he lives, and so does
Mr. Garland, and so does Mrs. Garland, and so does Mr. Abel. But even this
honour and distinction is not all, for the strange gentleman forthwith
pulls out of his pocket a massive silver watch--and upon the back of this
watch is engraved Kit's name with flourishes all over--and in short it is
Kit's watch, bought expressly for him. Mr. and Mrs. Garland can't help
hinting about their present, in store, and Mr. Abel tells outright that he
has his; and Kit is the happiest of the happy.

There is one friend that Kit has not seen yet, and he takes the first
opportunity of slipping away and hurrying to the stable, and when Kit goes
up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against his coat and
fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It is the crowning
circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and Kit fairly puts his
arm round Whisker's neck and hugs him.

Happy Christopher!--the darkest days of his life are past--the brightest
are yet to be. Let us wish him all joy and prosperity and leave him on the
threshold of manhood!

JO, THE CROSSING SWEEPER

[Illustration: JO, THE CROSSING SWEEPER.]

Jo lives in a ruinous place, known to the likes of him by the name of
Tom-all-Alone's. It is a black dilapidated street, avoided by all decent
people; where the crazy houses were seized upon when their decay was far
advanced, by some bold vagrants, who, after establishing their possession,
took to letting them out in lodgings.

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, and if he is asked a question he
replies that he "don't know nothink." He knows that it's hard to keep the
mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing
it. Nobody taught him that much--he found it out.

Indeed, everything poor Jo knows he has had to find out for himself, for
no one has even taken the trouble to tell him his real name.

It must be a strange state to be like Jo, not to know the feeling of a
whole suit of clothes--to wear even in summer the same queer remnant of a
fur cap; to be always dirty and ragged; to shuffle through the streets,
unfam