Whenever Fanny smelled any very savory odor issuing from the kitchen, she would trot up, and put her head in at the window, waiting for Biddy to give her a doughnut or cooky. One day a boy named Frank borrowed Fanny, as he wished to ride out with a little girl from the city. As they were passing a farm-house, Fanny perceived by the smell that some one was frying crullers there. [Illustration] She immediately ran down the lane to the house, and stuck her head in at the open window, and would not stir from the spot until the farmer's wife gave her a cruller. Then she went quickly back to the road, and behaved very properly all the rest of the way. Fanny was such a good pony, with all her tricks, that the neighbors often used to borrow her. This Fanny did not think at all fair; and she soon found a way to put a stop to it. One warm summer day, the minister borrowed her in order to visit a sick man about two miles away. After several hours he returned, very warm and tired, walking through the dust, and leading Fanny, who came limping along, holding down her head, and appearing to be very lame. She had fallen lame when only half-way to the sick man's house; and the good old minister had led her all the way, rather than ride her when she was lame. All the family gathered around Fanny to see where she was hurt, when Fanny tossed her head, kicked up her heels, and pranced off to the stable, no more lame than a young kitten. It had been all a trick to punish the minister for borrowing her. And it succeeded; for he never asked for Fanny again. L. S. H. [Illustration] THE TOAD. WHAT a curious thing is the little brown toad; Do come and look at it, pray! It sits in the grass, and, when we come near, Just hops along out of our way. It does not know how to sing like a bird, Nor honey to make like a bee; 'Tis not joyous and bright like a butterfly; Oh, say, of what use can it be? But, since God made it, and placed it here, He must have meant it to stay: So we will be kind to you, little brown toad, And you need not hop out of our way. E. A. B. [Illustration] TRUE STORY OF A BIRD. ONE day last spring, in looking over the contents of some boxes which had long been stowed away in the attic, I found some pieces of lace, which, though old-fashioned, seemed to me very pretty. But they were yellow with age,--quite too yellow for use. I took them to the kitchen, and, after a nice washing, spread them on the grass to bleach. I knew that the bright sun would soon take away their yellow hue.