“Now, Henry,” says the mother, “you’ll have time, before supper, to take that basket of clothes up to Mr. Sheldin’s;—put in that nice bill that you made out last night. I shall give you a cent for every bill you write out for me. What a comfort it is, now, for one’s children to be gettin’ learnin’ so!” Henry shouldered the basket, and passed out the door, just as a neatly-dressed coloured man walked up, with his pail and white-wash brushes. “O, you’ve come, father, have you?— Mary, are the biscuits in? —you may as well set the table, now. Well, George, what’s the news?” “Nothing, only a pretty smart day’s work. I’ve brought home five dollars, and shall have as much as I can do these two weeks!” and the man, having washed his hands, proceeded to count out his change on the ironing-table. “Well, it takes you to bring in the money,” said the delighted wife; “nobody but you could turn off that much in a day!” “Well, they do say—those that’s had me once—that they never want any other hand to take hold in their rooms. I s’pose its a kinder practice I’ve got, and kinder natural!” “Tell ye what,” said the little woman, taking down the family strong box—to wit, the china tea-pot aforenamed—and pouring the contents on the table, “we’re getting mighty rich now! We can afford to get Henry his new Sunday cap, and Mary her muslin-de-laine dress;—take care, baby, you rogue!” she hastily interposed, as young master made a dive at a dollar bill, for his share in the proceeds. “He wants something, too, I suppose,” said the father; “let him get his hand in while he’s young.” The baby gazed with round, astonished eyes, while mother with some difficulty, rescued the bill from his grasp; but, before any one could at all anticipate his purpose, he dashed in among the small change with such zeal as to send it flying all over the table. “Hurra!—Bob’s a smasher!” said the father, delighted; “he’ll make it fly, he thinks;” and, taking the baby on his knee, he laughed merrily, as Mary and her mother pursued the rolling coin all over the room. “He knows now, as well as can be, that he’s been doing mischief,” said the delighted mother, as the baby kicked and crowed uproariously;—“he’s such a forward child, now, to be only six months old!—O, you’ve no idea, father, how mischievous he grows;” and therewith the little woman began to roll and tumble the little mischief-maker about, uttering divers frightful threats, which appeared to contribute, in no small degree, to the general hilarity. “Come, come, Mary,” said the mother, at last, with a sudden burst of recollection; “you mustn’t be always on your knees fooling with this child!—Look in the oven at them biscuits.” “They’re done exactly, mother,—just the brown!”—and, with the word, the mother dumped baby on to his father’s knee, where he sat contentedly munching a very ancient crust of bread, occasionally improving the flavour thereof by rubbing it on his father’s coat-sleeve.