shaw fervently.

"Well," said Johnnie, "never wath a better time. _Allez le_, or, in
other wordth, go it."

"And every two or three days you shall bring him to me," continued
Grand, "that I may hear him read and speak."

The next morning, before John went into the town, he was greeted by the
two boys on their ponies, and came out to admire and hear the
conditions.

"We mayn't have them at school," said Johnnie, bringing out the last
word with laudable distinctness, "but Grand will let them live in
hith--in his--stables."

John was very well contented to let the experiment alone; and a few days
after this, his younger children, going over with a message to Johnnie,
reported progress to him in the evening as he sat at dinner.

"Johnnie and Cray were gone into the town on their grand new ponies,
almost as big as horses; they came galloping home while we were there,"
said Janie.

"And, father, they are going to show up their exercises, or something
that they've done, to Grand tomorrow; you'll hear them," observed Hugh.

"But poor Cray was so ill on Saturday," said the little girl, "that he
couldn't do nothing but lie in bed and write his poetry."

"But they got on very well," observed Bertram philosophically. "They had
up the stable-boy with a great squirt; he had to keep staring at Cray
while Johnnie read aloud, and every time Cray winked he was to squirt
Johnnie. Cray didn't have any dinner or any tea, and his face was so
red."

"Poor fellow!"

"Yes," said the youngest boy, "and he wrote some verses about Johnnie,
and said they were for him to read aloud to grandfather. But what do you
think? Johnnie said he wouldn't! That doesn't sound very kind, does it?"

Johnnie's resolution, however, was not particularly remarkable; the
verses, compounded during an attack of asthma, running as follows:--

AUGUSTUS JOHN CONFESSES TO LOSS OF APPETITE.

I cannot eat rice pudding now,
Jam roll, boiled beef, and such;
From Stilton cheese this heart I vow
Turns coldly as from Dutch.

For crab, a shell-fish erst loved well,
I do not care at all,
Though I myself am in the shell
And fellow-feelings call.

I mourn not over tasks unsaid--
This child is not a flat--
My purse is empty as my head,
But no--it isn't that;

I cannot eat. And why? To shrink
From truth is like a sinner,
I'll speak or burst; it is, I think,
That I've just had