money," with the sign of a hat. The first friend, whose advice he asked, suggested that the word "hatter" was entirely superfluous, and in consequence he struck it out. The next remarked that it was unnecessary to mention that he required "ready money" for his hats; few persons wishing credit for an article of no more cost than a hat, or if they did, he might sometimes find it advisable to give it. These words were accordingly struck out, and the sign then stood: "John Thomson, makes and sells hats." A third friend, who was consulted, observed that when a man wished to buy a hat he did not care who made it; so, two more words were struck out. On showing to another the sign thus abridged to "John Thomson, sells hats," he exclaimed ; "Why, who will expect you to give them away?" On which criticism two more words were expunged, and nothing of the original sign was left but "John Thomson," with the sign of the hat.'

140. KOSCIUSKO AND HIS HORSE.

There is an interesting fact related of the hero of Poland, indicative of his customary practice of almsgiving. Wishing to convey a present to a clerical friend, he gave the commission to a young man of the name of Teltner, desiring him to take the horse which he himself usually rode. On his return, the messenger informed Kosciusko that he would never again ride his horse unless he gave him his purse at the same time; and on the latter inquiring what he meant, he replied: 'As soon as a poor man on the road takes off his hat and asks charity, the animal immediately stands still, and will not stir till something is bestowed upon the petitioner; and as I had no money about me, I had to feign giving in order to satisfy the horse, and induce him to proceed.' This noble creature deserved a pension and exemption from active service for the term of his natural life, on account of his superior education and refined moral sensibility.

141. WIT.

Nothing amuses me more than to observe the utter want of perception of a joke in some minds. Mrs. Jackson called the other day, and spoke of the oppressive heat of the last week. Heat ma'am! I said, 'it was so dreadful here, that I found

there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones.' 'Take off your flesh and sit in your bones, sir? Oh, Mr. Smith! how could you do that?' she exclaimed with the utmost gravity. 'Nothing more easy, ma'am; come and see next time.' But she ordered her carriage, and evidently thought it a very unorthodox proceeding. Miss too, the other day, walking round the grounds at Combe Florey, exclaimed, ‘Oh, why do you chain up that fine Newfoundland dog, Mr. Smith?' 'Because it has a passion for breakfasting on parish boys.' 'Parish boys!' she exclaimed; 'does he really eat boys, Mr. Smith?' 'Yes, he devours them, buttons and all.' Her face of horror made me die of laughing.-Sydney Smith.

142. A PRODIGIOUS MEMORY.

One day Voltaire, when a young man of about twenty-four, read to La Motte, who had a prodigious memory, a tragedy which he had written. La Motte listened with the greatest possible attention to the end. 'Your tragedy is excellent,' said. he, 'and I dare answer beforehand for its success. Only one thing vexes me: you have allowed yourself to borrow, as I can prove to you from the second scene of the fourth act.' Voltairedefended himself as well as he could against the charge. 'I say nothing,' answered La Motte, 'which I cannot support; and to prove it, I shall recite this same scene, which pleased me so much when I first read it that I got it by heart, and not a word of it has escaped me.' Accordingly, he repeated the whole without hesitation, and with as much animation as if he had composed it himself. All present at the reading of the piece looked at each other, and did not know what to think.. The author was utterly confounded. After enjoying his embarrassment for a short time, 'Make yourself easy, sir,' said La Motte; 'the scene is entirely your own-as much your own as all the rest; but it struck me as so beautiful and touching, that I could not resist the pleasure of committing it to memory.'-Beeton's Book of Anecdotes.

143. THE ACORN.

Look at that spreading oak! the pride of the village green : its trunk is massive, its branches are strong. Its roots, likė

crooked fangs, strike deep into the soil, and support its huge bulk. The birds build among the boughs; the cattle rest beneath its shade. The old men point it out to their children, but they themselves remember not its growth. One after another has been born, has died, and this son of the forest has remained the same, daring the storms of two hundred winters.

Yet this large tree was once a little acorn, small in size, mean in appearance; such as you pick up upon the grass beneath it. This acorn, whose cup can only contain a drop or two of dew, contained the germ of the whole oak. It grew, it spread, it unfolded itself by degrees; it received nourishment from the rain, the dews, and the rich soil.

Rain, and dews, and soil, could not raise an oak without the acorn; nor could they make the acorn anything but an oak.

144. THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.

A Fable.

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter 'Little prig.'

Bun replied:

'You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,

And a sphere :

And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.

If I am not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.'

145. JACK'S DOG, BANDY.

In a large forest in France there lived a poor woodman, whose name was Jack. He made little money by the sale of his faggots, but enough to support himself, his wife Jenny, and their two children. The eldest child was a boy, with dark hair, seven years old, called Jean, and the second was a fairhaired girl, called Jeanette.

They had also a curly dog, black, with a white nose, the best dog in all the country, because he loved his master so much, and this dog was called Bandy.

When the snow lies deep in the forest, the wolves that live in its depths grow very hungry and fierce, and come out to look for food. The poor people also suffer much in the time of deep snow, for they cannot get work.

Jack did not fear the wolves when he had his good axe in hand, and went every day to his work. In the morning he said to Jenny: 'Wife, pray do not let Jean and Jeanette run out to play until the wolves have been hunted. It would not be safe. Keep Bandy in too.'

Every morning Jack said the same thing to Jenny, and all went well till one evening he did not come home at the usual time. Jenny went to the door, looked out, came in, then went back, and looked out again. 'How very late he is!' she said to herself.

Then she went outside, and called her husband—‘Jack, Jack!'-no answer. Bandy leaped on her, as if to say: 'Shall I go and look for him?'

Down, good dog,' said Jenny: 'here, my little Jeanette, run to the gate, and see if your father is coming. You, Jean, go along the road to the end of the garden-paling, and cry aloud, "Father, father!" The children went as their mother told them, but could not see their father. 'I will go and find him,' said little Jean; 'even if the wolves should eat me.'

'So will I,' said his little sister, and off they set towards the forest.

In the meantime their father had come home by another road, leaving a bundle of faggots with a neighbour who had ordered them.

'Did you meet the children?' said Jenny as he came in.

'The children,' said Jack; 'no, indeed; are they out?' 'I sent them to the end of the paling, but you have come by another road.'

Jack did not put down his axe, but he ran as fast as he could to the spot.

'Take Bandy with you,' cried Jenny; but Bandy was 'off already, and gone so far before, that his master could not see him. In vain the poor father called 'Jean, Jeanette:' no one answered, and his tears began to fall, for he feared his children were lost.

After running on a long, long way, he thought he heard Bandy bark. He went straight into the wood towards the sound, his axe uplifted in his hand.

Bandy had come up to the two children just as a large wolf was going to seize them. He sprang at the wolf, barking loudly, to call his master. Jack, with one blow of his good axe killed the great fierce beast; but it was too late to save poor Bandy-he was dead already, the wolf had killed him.

The father and two children went back to Jenny, full of joy that they were all safe, and yet they could not help crying, they were so sorry that good faithful Bandy was dead. They buried him at the bottom of the garden, and put a large stone over him, on which the schoolmaster wrote in Latin—

Beneath this stone there lies at rest
Bandy-of all good dogs the best.

Bandy is not yet forgotten in that part of the country, for when anyone is very true and brave and faithful, the people always say of him: 'He is as brave and faithful as Jack's dog, Bandy.'

r46. THE GLASS SLIPPER.

Once upon a time, long, long before you were born, even before the old church was built, and the yew-tree planted, there lived three sisters in a large tumble-down house. The two eldest sisters were very gay. They went to balls once a week, and spent all their money in fine dress. They could not keep a servant, and so they made their youngest sister do all the work. She washed the clothes, and cooked the dinner, and scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the grates. So poor little lady,