To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away, bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although, from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she is, and more than that, kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and know that it is time to get up. [Illustration] ALICE'S SUPPER. Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep, And the reapers are making the cradles sweep; And this is the song that I hear them sing, While cheery and loud their voices ring: "'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow, And it is for Alice's supper--ho! ho!" [Illustration] Far down by the river the old mill stands, And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands; And these are the words of the miller's lay, As he watches the mill-stones grinding away: "'Tis the finest flour that money can buy, And it is for Alice's supper--hi! hi!" [Illustration] Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow, And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough; And this is the song she is singing to-day, As merry and busy she's working away: "'T is the finest dough whether near or afar, And it is for Alice's supper--ha! ha!" [Illustration] To the nursery now comes mother, at last,-- And what in her hand is she bringing so fast? 'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white, And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright: "'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see, And it is for Alice's supper--he! he!" [Illustration] JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. "Warm!" you say? Don't mention it, but take it good-naturedly. And, now, let's be quiet and have a talk about HEARING FLIES WALK. "Ho, ho; nobody can do that!" But anybody _can_ do that,--with a microphone. "And what's a microphone?" Why, it's a machine by which very low sounds, that don't seem to be sounds at all, may be made to grow so loud and clear that you can easily hear them. If any of you come across one of these things, my dears, just take it to some quiet green spot, and coax it to let you hear the grass grow. There's one feature of the microphone that is likely to be troublesome; it makes loud noises sound hundreds of times louder. Something must be done, therefore, to prevent the use of these machines on any Fourth of July. That would be what nobody could stand, I should think. A CRAB THAT MOWS GRASS.