an Walter i can’t find ennything but this led pencil to rite with fur they’re housecleening an the inks all spillt on the carpit an the pens lost an the paper lockt up in the riting desk an nobody can find the kee and Briget shes cross she sez ive got to stop running all over the flore whare she scrubd it and so i tore this page out of my gografy whare it isnt printid i most made a bote to sale on our pond fur its chuckfull ov water an somebody swept it up an thru it into the fire when I get to be a Man an have a house ov my own I wont have enny housecleening going on never. BOB. “Them’s my sentiments exactly,” says Harry. “It’s been just so at our house now for a week. Everything’s topsy-turvy, and you can’t find a place to rest the sole of your foot. And cross? my! I thought Ann would take my head off, this morning, when I tumbled against her mop-pail and tipped it over.” “Will you please give these to Mr. Walter?” It is bashful little Bessie, on her way home from a ramble in the distant wood, who whispers in Kate’s ear, as she offers a bunch of spring beauties gathered there, and blossoms plucked from a wayside apple-tree. Mr. Walter receives them with a smile of recognition, for who does not love the odor of apple-blossoms? The blushing Bessie is straightway reassured and gratified by the following fable improvised for the occasion: Once on a time, in early dawn of summer, Among the trees the question chanced to rise— “Which of us is the fairest, the most comely?” A towering pine tree boasted in this wise: “Behold me, all ye puny ones, behold me! Look at my shoulders reaching to the sky! Look at my tasseled mantle—green forever! How can ye doubt or question?—here am I!” A stately elm tree upward gazed a moment, In acquiescence bent her regal head: “Aye, thou art tall and gayly decked, my brother, But I have more of symmetry,” she said. A languid willow, musing, softly murmured: “Yes, shapely is the elm, and tall the pine; But see, oh, friends (she made a sweeping courtesy), You must admit that gracefulness is mine.” “Ah, well, that’s not the point,” replied a maple; “’Tis not of grace we’re talking, not at all; And as for form, why, I am well proportioned: And as for height, why, one may be _too_ tall.” “Hold!” cried a tulip tree; “am I not shapely? And illy would the pine tree’s tassels green Compare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining, Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!” “Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled; “Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length! Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle! There is most beauty where there is most strength!”