"Well," said Amy, "I cannot fight to prevent cruelty, but all my life I have prayed for that intention. When I pray for a poor over-laden horse or a homeless, starved dog, I always say, 'Dear God, you made these creatures, surely you cannot be angry if I ask you to have pity on them.'" Mrs. Allen put her head down on the table to hide her emotion, but the children thought it was because she was shocked at what they had told her about the prayers. Amy put both her hands on her mother's arm, saying: "Ma dear, oh, I hope it was not a mortal sin! And just to think I never confessed it! I never thought it was a sin at all." Here Mrs. Allen raised her head, tears were in her eyes. Bolax put his arms around her neck, saying: "Dear, dear Ma, is it really so bad a sin as to cause you to weep?" "My darlings, bless your dear compassionate hearts. I must plead guilty of the very same sin. Without ever letting any one know it, since my childhood I have prayed that the cruel driver might have mercy on his poor horse; that the starving animals might be helped in some way. I prayed that a mercy stroke might be given the dying horses on the battlefield; that the God of Compassion would have pity on the thousands of sheep and cattle who perish miserably on the unsheltered plains. Oh, surely our prayers are not lost! Many saints were renowned for their love of the brute creation; dear St. Francis of Assisi called them his little brothers and sisters. So let us hope our dear Lord will not be offended for what we have done in a spirit of pity and love for His dumb creatures." CRY OF THE LITTLE BROTHERS. E. M. BARBY. We are the little brothers, homeless in cold and heat, Four-footed little beggars, roaming the city street, Snatching a bone from the gutter, creepin' thro' alleys drear, Stoned and sworn at and beaten, our hearts consumed with fear. You pride yourselves on the beauty of your city fair and free, Yet we are dying by thousands in coverts you never see. You boast of your mental progress, of your libraries, schools and halls, But we who are dumb denounce you as we crouch beneath their walls. You sit in your tinseled playhouse, and weep o'er a mimic wrong, Our woes are the woes of the voiceless; our griefs are unheeded in song. You say that the same God made us. When before His throne you come, Shall you clear yourselves in His presence On the plea that He made us dumb? Are your hearts too hard to listen to a starving kitten's cries, Or too gay for the patient pleading in a dog's beseeching eyes? Behold us, your little brothers, starving, beaten, oppressed-- Stretch out a hand to help us that we may have food and rest. Too long have we roamed neglected, too long have we sickened with fear, The mercy you hope and pray for, you can grant us now and here. BOLAX GOES TO THE CONVENT OF ST. IMELDA.