JOHNNY’S father was busily chopping wood in the little shed at the back of the cottage, and Johnny himself sat on an upturned block with one chubby leg crossed over the other—a feat of some difficulty when one’s legs are short and one’s seat unsteady—superintending the parental labours, and revolving a certain project in his mind. John the elder was a red-bearded giant of a man, with strongly marked features and great, sinewy, hairy arms, which were now fully revealed under his rolled up shirt-sleeves. Johnny the younger, like his namesake of poetic fame, had a golden head “like a yellow mop in blow,” a cherub-face, big solemn blue eyes—very serious and thoughtful just now—and every other good point which may reasonably be looked for in a healthy little peasant four-year-old. [Picture: “You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada”] He had not long been promoted to the dignity of knickerbockers, and was the proud possessor of pockets which still retained all the charm of novelty. Into one of these pockets he now dived from time to time, extracting from its depths (which were not very profound) a small round wooden box, the lid of which he proceeded to unscrew; a painful squeaking accompanying the process. This, on being removed, displayed a bright, threepenny-bit; and Johnny, taking it out, contemplated it for a moment in the broad palm of his grimy little hand, turned it over, polished it on the knee of his little breeches, replaced it in its receptacle, screwed on the lid again with laborious grinding, and finally restored the whole to his pocket. Observing, after these operations had been gone through some half-dozen times, that his father allowed them to pass unnoticed, Johnny heaved a deep sigh and made a remark on his own account. “You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada.” “’Ees, Johnny, I be”—and here John Reed senior laid down his hatchet, straightened himself, and wiped his brow. “I have to chop so much as your mother will want to-morrow and next day too, d’ ye see? I’m goin’ to Shroton to-morrow wi’ Maggie and Rosie. If you be a good little chap I’ll bring ’ee a cake, maybe.” Johnny uncrossed his legs and sat rigid on the block, his eyes apparently ready to jump out of his head. The father nodded good-naturedly, and took up his axe again. The son threw out his hand after the manner employed by scholars desirous of attracting the teacher’s attention. “Bide a bit!”—with a quaint assumption of authority—“I’ve got summat to show ’ee here.” The chubby hand sought the pocket once more, the box was produced, and its contents displayed. “I’ve got fruppence,” announced Johnny triumphantly. “Have ’ee, now?” returned Reed kindly but dispassionately. “Well done! Where did ’ee get that?” “Gran’ma gived it me. Dada!”—here Johnny got off the block—“Dada, do ’ee take me to the fair to-morrow, and let me ’pend it.”