“Oh! I will take great care,” said she, and she took me very tenderly from the boy, greatly surprised that I did not flutter, or struggle to get from her; and still more so, when, gently disengaging myself from her feeble grasp, I perched on her shoulder. “Oh! you dear little creature,” said she, “why you know me already. But how did you contrive to make him so tame, Willy?” “I did nothing to him,” said the boy; “I got him only this evening.” And then he related what my readers already know, about his finding me in the cage. “Come, William,” said the boy’s mother, “get your supper, for I am sure you must be hungry; but, stop a moment, first take off your coat, that I may put a patch on the elbow. I cannot bear to see you in rags; no more could your poor father, he was always so tidy.” “And so will I be, mother, when I am a man: and so shall you and Peggy be too, for I will buy you comfortable clothes.” “What! will you buy me a new frock?” said Peggy: “when will you get it? I can make some of it myself. Cannot I, mother?” “Not so fast, Peggy,” interrupted her brother; “I am not rich enough yet, nor shall not be neither, till I am bigger, and able to earn more money.” “I hope that will be soon, then, for both my frocks are very old: mother has patched them so often. And see, I put in these two pieces,” added she, showing her frock; which I then first observed to be of various pieces and colours. “But,” continued the talkative little girl, “I know what I had rather have now than a new frock:—dear Willy, if you could get me a little cage for my bird!” “That will not cost much,” replied her brother, “for I can make you one myself, and so I will, when I have done my supper.” “Thank you, thank you, dear Willy! You are always so good-natured,” said Peggy, “and that makes me feel so happy, that I never want a new frock, or any thing else, when I think of it.” This interesting dialogue did not pass unnoticed by the poor mother. She had let fall her boy’s coat, and was gazing intently on her children, her eyes filled with tears of joy. “Dear mother, you are crying!” said Willy: “what is the matter? Are you unhappy? Can I do any thing for you?” “I am not unhappy, my dear boy,” replied she, “it was joy that overcame me, and, like Peggy, I seem to want nothing, while I am blest with two children so dutiful to me, and so fond of each other.” “That, I hope, we shall always be,” said Willy, and he rose hastily, to get, as he said, the twigs for the cage; but I saw him brush off a tear from his cheek, with the back of his hand.