"Now, Rory was steady and brave and wise. He had no love for running round nights: so it surprised his master, when, just as the sun went down that day, Rory started down the road, and up the lane to farmer John's. On he went, with a grave look, without stopping to greet any old friend, even by a wag of his tail. Bravo met him, and whisked around him; and, after a short consultation, the two dogs crawled into the kennel, Rory staying nearest to the door. "The moon shone clear and bright, and all was still until about midnight, when farmer John's wife was suddenly awakened by a sound of growling, snarling, and yelping. 'Wake up, John, quick, quick! Get up!' she shouted. The farmer leaped from his bed, and, half-dressed, ran to the door, thinking that the dogs were killing sheep; but instead of sheep, Rory and Bravo had Toss at their mercy, and were giving him a fearful punishment." "Good, good!" shouted Herbert. "That served him just right." But little Bertha turned a wondering look upon Herbert; she could not help feeling pity even for Toss. "Let us hear the rest of the story," said Emma. So I went on,-- "The sharp voice of the farmer made Rory and Bravo release their victim; and Toss, in a crestfallen way, started for his home; but, before he could get over the fence, Rory gave him a final clutch that sent him off yelping. He never came back; and when he met Bravo afterwards, he was careful not to trouble him. "In a short time Bravo grew to be so strong and brave, that he could fight his own battles without the aid of his friend Rory." The three children, who had listened very attentively to the story, now talked it over; and they came to the conclusion that Toss received a good lesson, and was probably a better dog after it. "For," said Herbert, "a dog who abuses a smaller dog is almost as mean as a big boy who tyrannizes over a little boy." M. KATE BRAWLEY. [Illustration] [Illustration] PLAYING THE CHINAMAN. FRANZ is a little boy about four years old, who lives in Brooklyn, California. His favorite play is to take some pieces of cloth, fill his mouth with water, turn his head from side to side, letting the water squirt from the corners of his mouth upon them (as he has seen the Chinamen do at the laundry), fold them, turn the iron-stand on its back, and carefully smooth them. This is Foo Lee, washing and ironing. Sometimes the clothes are not wet enough, and the sprinkling goes on with the ironing. "Your clothes will smell of tobacco and opium, if you sprinkle them so much," says Franz's elder brother. "No, they won't," says the little wash-man. "Me do them good; me do them cheap."