On every "morrow morning," This funny little Bertie Doesn't want to have his face washed Because it don't feel dirty; He runs half-dressed 'way out-of-doors, Safe hidden from our view; We search and call, hunt up and down, And don't know what to do, Until we see our little Lu The wand of willow bringing, And leading Bertie back to us, While all the time he's singing: "Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si. You look like a very small heathen Chinee. Get the sleep all washed off and hang it up to dry, And then you'll look as fresh as if you'd just come from the sky." When all the stars are shining, Each little sleepy-head Is lying in a funny bunch Within the little bed. Their eyes are so wide open, They stay awake so long, They're calling me to tell to them A story or a song. So up the stairs again I come, The magic willow bringing, And wave it here and wave it there, While o'er and o'er I'm singing: "Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep; Sailing away on the dreamy deep; Sister to watch you and angels to keep; Sailing away and away and away, Away on the d-r-e-a-m-y deep; Sleep, sleep, s-l-e-e-p, sleep." [Illustration] THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD. BY LOUISE STOCKTON. "Do tell me one more story; just _one_ more!" said the little boy. It certainly was getting late. The fire lighted the room, the shadows danced in the corners. Down in the kitchen they were hurrying with the dinner, and in a moment nurse would come in to take the boy to bed. But all this made him want to stay. He was very comfortable in his mamma's lap, and he was in no haste to go upstairs to Maggie and the nursery. Then his mamma kissed him right on the tip of his little nose, and she said: "But you must go to bed sometime." "Please, mamma dear," he said, pushing his curly head almost under her arm, "just one little story." [Illustration: A SCENE IN THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD.] "Just one! You can choose it, but mind, a little one!" "You know what one I want. Of course about the giant Tancankeroareous, and how he stole the slipper of the princess for a snuff-box, and how the Prince Limberlocks climbed up a cherry-tree into the giant's room. That is the story _I_ like!" "And it must be the 'amen story' to-night. Well: Once upon a time the Princess Thistleblossom stood on one foot, while--" "No, no," interrupted The Story, "you need not tell _me_! Tell some other story. I am tired of being said over and over. Every night, as soon as your bed-time comes, and you are so sleepy that you don't want to go to bed, you ask for me, and I have to be told. I am sick of it, and I want to rest." "But I want you," said the boy. "I like you best of all my stories. I like that part where the giant comes in and calls out 'PORTER!' in such a loud voice that the gate shakes all the bolts loose."