Next comes a good riddle about a dozen bold riders. Have you never seen the funny little fellows all riding one nag? When the wind blows, it is not easy for them to keep their places, and if it blows very hard, some of the little riders may fall off. But most of them ride well and hold on tight. [Illustration: A dozen bold riders, Astride of one nag; No clothes on their bodies, Not even a rag. They ride without bridles Or stirrups or spurs, And stick to their saddles Like so many burrs.] Here, last of all, is another Tommy. He is not at all like Tommy Tinderpeg. He has a round, pretty face, and he talks fast and keeps saying the same thing over and over, all the time. You like to look at him, and to hold him up to your ear to hear what he says. You can guess who Tommy Locket is, just by his name. So this is the easiest riddle of all. [Illustration: About Tommy Locket I’ll give you a rhyme He rode in my pocket and always kept time.] JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. [Illustration] I’m told, my friends, that a beautiful red flower, known as “painter’s-brush,” abounds in Colorado. As it lies on the grass or leans against the stones and fences, it looks in shape and color precisely as if some painter had dipped the soft part of his brush in his brightest paint, and thrown it carelessly down. In midsummer these painter’s-brushes are to be seen by the thousand. Now, as we look about us here in my meadow to-day, it seems as if a million painter’s-brushes had been at work, high and low. Not only brushes dipped in red, but brushes rich with yellows, browns, grays, pinks, and deep dark crimsons. Ah, but it’s a fine piece of color, and the painting has been gloriously done! And though I’m only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, great thoughts stir within me at the sight. But now let us take up the subject of A PERFECTLY QUIET DAY. One afternoon, not long ago, the Little School-ma’am lay in a hammock, looking up at the leaves. “How perfectly still they are!” she said to herself. “Not a leaf moves!” She was lying under an oak tree, a sturdy, steady kind of a tree, as you all know. “Look at that tree yonder!” said one of the prettiest girl-scholars, pointing to a Norway poplar, the leaves of which are hung on long slender stems. Lo, and behold, it was all in a quiver! “Oh, that shakes just for the fun of it!” replied the Little School-ma’am, “for there is hardly a breath of air stirring. It is perfectly quiet.” The Deacon happened by just then, and overheard her last words. He stopped and asked her if she had any idea how difficult it was to get a perfectly quiet day? Whereupon, she owned that she thought it would be impossible.