_M._ And then you break off the stalk close to the ear, just so. _D._ Yes, ma’am. _Lucy._ There, mother! didn’t I do that better’n Dick? _M._ Yes, my darling. Now, Dick, do you know how to do it? _D._ Yes, ma’am. Being satisfied that the husking was in a fair way, the widow Wilkins departed, and left her children to themselves. After she was gone, Dick spoke as follows. “Can you tell me, Tom, what all this corn is for?” “To be sure I can!” said Tom: “some of it is to feed the chickens with; some of it is to feed the pigs with; some of it is to feed the horse and cow with, and some of it is to be ground into Indian meal, to make Johnny-cake and brown bread with.” “Well done!” says Dick. “It seems to me that the corn is very useful, then; for the chickens and the pigs, and the cow and the horse, and mother and Tom, and Dick and Lucy, all live upon it. Really, I never thought of that before. Then people, when they plant and plough, and hoe, and pick, and husk the corn, are working all the while for the hens, and hogs, and cattle, and people!” “Yes, to be sure,” said Tom; “and what did you think all this labor was for, before you found out it was useful in this way?” “Why,” said the boy, “I thought――I thought――I don’t know what I thought; I guess I didn’t think at all――or if I did, I thought it was all a kind of play. But I know better now; I see that when people are at work, they are not playing, but they are doing something useful; and when mother sets me to work, I mean always to consider that she has a good and useful object in view, and that I must do it, not because it is play, but because it will do some good.” “Very well,” said Tom; “I hope you will always do so.” By this time, the husking was done, and I came away. The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack, NO. II. THE STORY OF THE COTTON-WOOL. Several weeks ago I took a ramble through the beautiful town of Dorchester. In the course of my perambulation, I came to a paper-mill, and being attracted by the stirring sound of the machinery within, I entered and looked around me. In one place I saw an immense bin of rags, of all sizes and shapes, and of all hues, and apparently gathered from the four quarters of the globe. Never did I see such a motley congregation, crowded together in one place. As I was looking on the heap, the thought occurred to me that if each rag could speak and tell the adventures of its existence, we should have a collection of romances equal in extent, and perhaps rivalling in wonders, the thousand and one tales of the Arabian Nights.