I'm only a little brown mouse That lives in somebody's house; And in that same house there's a clock, That says, "Tick-a-tock, tick-a-tock!" And I've not forgotten yet quite, How once, on a very still night, I was sitting just over the clock, When it gave such a terrible knock, With a whirring and whizzing, And buzzing and fizzing, That I tumbled headlong from my perch on the shelf, And, scampering wildly, I crowded myself Right under the door, through such a small crack, That I scraped all the hairs off the top of my back. Oh, I am the merriest mouse That lives anywhere in a house! I love toasted cheese, and I love crusts of bread, And bits of old paper to make a soft bed. Oh! I tell you it's nice To be one of the mice, And when the night comes, And the folks are abed, To rattle and race On the floor overhead. And, say, don't you wish _you_ could run up a wall As I do, every day, without getting a fall? And don't you wish _you_ were a mouse, Living in somebody's house? FLETA F. WHAT YOU DO, DO WELL. "WHY do you take such pains in cutting out these little figures?" asked Winifred of her brother Ernest. "I will tell you why, sister," replied Ernest. "I take pains because my teacher tells me, that, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well." "Did he mean that we should try to do well even in trifles?" asked Winifred. "Yes," answered Ernest, "because, as a great man once said, 'Perfection is no trifle.'" Winifred sat looking at her brother, as, handling a pair of scissors, he carefully cut out figures of horses, dogs, pigs, and various other animals. Three years afterward she remembered this conversation; for it happened at that time, that, her father having died, her widowed mother was left almost destitute with a family of seven children to support. [Illustration] What should the poor woman do? At first she thought she would take in washing, then that she would try to keep a little shop. While she was hesitating, Mr. Mason, a brisk old gentleman, came to the door, and asked, "Where is the boy who cuts these figures and faces in profile?" One of his grandchildren had brought him home from school some specimens of Ernest's skill; and Mr. Mason saw at once that they were the work of a gifted and painstaking artist. "You must mean my little Ernest," said the mother. "Poor little fellow! He little dreams what is coming. I shall soon have to take him away from school." "Why so?" cried Mr. Mason. "Take him away from school? You shall do no such a thing. I'll not allow it."