"Yes, all with chickens in, and I heard a little girl say that the row of coops was called Pullet Row, Chicken Avenue, and that all the houses were taken. The first coop had an old hen and eleven little puffy chickens in it, and the second one held a whole lot of small chickens who were big enough to take care of themselves; and the next coop had in it an old rooster who had hurt his foot, and who had to be shut up. I think it's funny that neither mother nor father ever found out this splendid chicken-yard, so near us too! As soon as it gets to be a little dark we must go down there and get some of those chickens." "All right," said the sister fox; "we'll go, and I'll take the first coop with the little chickens." "And I'll take the coop with the young chickens who are big enough to take-care of themselves," said one of the brother foxes. "I'll take the big old rooster," said the other brother fox. "I like lots of chickens when I eat any." At the back of the hole the old Mother Fox was lying down. Her children thought she was asleep, but she was not, and she heard all that they had been talking about. She now came forward and said: "That is certainly a very nice place that you see down there, and you, my son, were very smart, no doubt, to discover it. But when you go down there, this evening, take a look at a small house near the chicken-yard. A dog lives there--a big black and white fellow--named Bruce. He is let into the chicken-yard every night at dark. If you think that he wont see you, when you go inside, or that he can't run fast enough to catch you, it might be a very good idea for you to go down there this evening and get some chickens." [Illustration: THE THREE SMART LITTLE FOXES.] The three little foxes looked at each other, and concluded that they would not go. It was a long time after that before they were heard to boast of being smarter than their father and mother. [Illustration: Jack in the pulpit.] JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. Happy 1878! Happy New Year to all Jack's little friends! And now let us begin our year's talk with something about A GARDEN IN WINTER. Deacon Green took a ride early last month, my dears, and he tells me of a wonderful garden which he saw from a window as he went whirling by on a railroad. Can you guess what was growing in a garden in December? No, it was not in a Southern State; so your guess of oranges isn't right--though they tell me that oranges do grow in winter-time in Florida. It was a garden of Christmas-trees, set out in even rows, and looking as spruce and gay and happy as if they knew that they were almost old enough to hold a candle in each of their thousand hands, and a bright gift or token of good-will on each of their thousand arms. I fancy that the gardener who has his mind filled with the care of a garden of Christmas-trees must be a very cheery, kind-hearted fellow indeed. Don't you? OVENS IN THE FIELDS.