Now for the reading. The impression on the foil exactly records the vibrations of the diaphragm, and those vibrations exactly measure the sound-waves which caused the vibrations. The reading simply reverses all this. The strip of foil is passed again before the diaphragm, the point of the style follows the groove it made at first, and the diaphragm follows the style in all its motions. The original vibrations are thus exactly reproduced, setting up sound-waves in the air precisely like those which first set the machine in motion. Consequently, the listener hears a minutely exact echo of what the instrument heard; it might have heard it a minute, or an hour, or a year, or a thousand years before, had the phonograph been in use so long. What a wonderful result is that! As yet, the phonograph has not been put to any practical use; indeed, it is scarcely in operation yet, and a great deal must be done to increase the delicacy of its hearing and the strength of its voice. It mimics any and every sort of sound with marvelous fidelity, but weakly. Its speech is like that of a person a long way off, or in another room. But its possibilities are almost infinite. ONLY A DOLL! BY SARAH O. JEWETT. [Illustration: "Polly, my dolly!"] Polly, my dolly! why don't you grow? Are you a dwarf, my Polly? I'm taller and taller every day; How high the grass is!--do you see that? The flowers are growing like weeds, they say; The kitten is growing into a cat! Why don't you grow, my dolly? Here is a mark upon the wall. Look for yourself, my Polly! I made it a year ago, I think. I've measured you very often, dear, But, though you've plenty to eat and drink, You haven't grown a bit for a year. Why don't you grow, my dolly? Are you never going to try to talk? You're such a silent Polly! Are you never going to say a word? It isn't hard; and oh! don't you see The parrot is only a little bird, But he can chatter so easily. You're quite a dunce, my dolly! Let's go and play by the baby-house: You are my dearest Polly! There are other things that do not grow; Kittens can't talk, and why should you? You are the prettiest doll I know; You are a darling--that is true! Just as you are, my dolly! DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY. BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD. Between the village and the inlet, and half a mile from the great "bay," lay the Kinzer farm. Beyond the bay was a sand-bar, and beyond that the Atlantic Ocean; for all this was on the southerly shore of Long Island.