“Slow walking, except for those that have infirmities and are obliged,” said Arctura, “is a trial of the flesh and spirit, or it might be, if it ain’t,” and little Polly, with more color in her cheeks than had been there for days, looked joyfully up at her. “Oh, Miss Arctura,” she said, fervently, “you do have such splendid ideas!” “Don’t try to flatter an old lady of fifty-four, child,” said Miss Green, shaking her ball of yarn at Polly with pretended severity. “You turn your mind on those clouds; see how the wind’s backing round through the north? I can smell the east,” and she sniffed with her nose well in the air. “We’re in for rain to-morrow, I do believe. It’ll be just the day for you to write that letter you’re going to send with the candy, and there’s a number of matters you can help me about, and if you’ve got any mending to do maybe we’ll find time to sit down together, and I’ll relate that story about the Square and me.” “Yes, indeed,” said Polly, as they marched up the driveway, “and I’ve got to practice with Mr. Hiram, you know. I expect it will be a grand day!” [TO BE CONTINUED] * * * * * Think not of far-off duties, But of duties which are near; And, having once begun to work, Resolve to persevere. --Anonymous. The Fence Man By Mrs. F. M. Howard “Mamma, what is the great, high fence for?” asked a childish voice. “Is the man afraid we’s will go into his yard?” “I do not know, dear. It was there before we came.” “Maybe he thinks we’ll steal his cherries.” Horace straightened himself, scornfully. “Huh, I guess we can buy our cherries if we want any,” said Rodney, with flashing eyes. “Perhaps other boys have not thought so,” interposed the mother’s gentle voice; “and since the fence was there before we came, and so cannot have any possible reference to us, we will not harbor ill will against our neighbor because of it.” “Young-ones,” muttered a surly voice on the other side of the high board fence. “Just my luck to have a pack of young-ones unloaded on me. Just one degree worse than the widder’s long tongue, I’ll venture. I’m glad the fence is good and high, and I’ll put a row of pickets on top of it if they go to climbing.” Old Mr. Harding dropped down on a garden seat, wiping the moisture from his heated brow with a warlike bandana. He had been putting out late tomato plants, and his back ached; possibly his heart ached, too, for he was old and lonely. He could have told to a mathematical nicety, had he had the mind to do so, just why the ugly board fence divided him from his neighbor, of the quarrel between himself and the fiery widow, who owned the cottage where the children had come to live, over a boundary line, the matter of a foot or less of ground between the two places.