She always barks when she hears him nigh.
Why will she bark at him? why, oh, why?
A beating she'll have, I greatly fear.

I wish she would stop! oh dear, oh dear!

My mother was sitting beside the fire;

As she stirred it to make the flame rise higher; She hears a curious noise at the door

A scraping of something dragged over the floor.

She rises up to see what comes there;

Why, it's only Vick, and I do declare

She has dragged a stone from the ferns' own bed,

A heavy stone almost as big as her head!

Why does she take all this trouble, my dear,
Bringing that heavy stone in here?

Oh, Vick, I think you're a sad little goose,
That stone to you can be of no use-

"Too heavy to play with, to roll about,
To cut your teeth on when we are out,
To hide 'neath our dresses' flounces wide,
And pretend there is a rat inside!"

Then my father comes in with a heavy tread,
And my heart sinks down like a lump of lead;
He'll beat little Vick, I know he will;

Oh, why, when the baker comes, can't she be still!

My father looks angry, a frown on his brow; "That baker deserves all the barks, I trow;

He might have killed Vick; I saw him just now From the rock-work seize a stone to throw.

"That heavy stone put there by Ned,

Had it hit her, the poor little thing had been dead; I never will beat my doggie again

For barking at that cruel swain."

So my father speaks, to our delight,
And we hasten to set the matter right.
"Then that is the stone she is bringing in,
To show us why she makes such a din."

She has dragged the stone from the gate alone,
All up the path, o'er the lawn fresh mown;
She has dragged it in at the open door,

Over the carpet, and over the floor,

And laid it down at my mother's feet,
That she her husband might entreat
Never again his dog to beat,

When she barks for a reason good and meet!

P

K. F.

Alice. Edmund has deserted again; but here is Katie, who is very anxious to see some of your pictures, and hear the verses about them.

Aunt C. I am very glad to see her, and I think we have one of the prettiest of the coloured drawings for to-night. We will begin, however, with this dialogue, from a book by a brother and sister, Charles and Mary Lamb. They were great friends of the Lake poets, but were complete Londoners themselves. Charles had a clerkship, and gave up his whole life and all plans of personal happiness to take care of his sister Mary, whose mind was from time to time affected, but who was in general a very bright and amiable person.

Alice. Was not "Lamb's Tales," from Shakspere, written by them?

Aunt C. Yes, and a book I used to delight in, called Mrs. Leicester's School.

Katie. Oh, I know that book; there are beautiful stories in it.

Aunt C. Yes; this brother and sister wrote prose better than poetry, and I think they rather mistook their powers when they tried to produce a book like Ann and Jane Taylor's. This "Butterfly" is one of the pieces I like best in it.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Sister. Do, my dearest brother John,

Brother.

Let that Butterfly alone.

What harm now do I do?

You're always making such a noise.

Sister. O fie, John, none but naughty boys
Say such rude words as you.

Brother. Because you're always speaking sharp,
On the same thing you always harp;

Sister.

A bird one may not catch,

Nor find a nest, nor angle neither,
Nor from the peacock pluck a feather,
But

you are on the watch
To moralise and lecture still.

And ever lecture, John, I will

When such sad things I hear;

But talk not now of what is past,
The moments fly away too fast,
Though endlessly they seem to last
To that poor soul in fear.

Brother. Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose;
But, sister, you talk like a goose-
There's no soul in a fly.

Sister. It has a form and fibres fine,

Were tempered by the Hand Divine
That dwells beyond the sky.
Look, brother, you have hurt its wing,
And plainly by its fluttering

You see it's in distress.

Gay, painted coxcomb, spangled beau,
A Butterfly is called, you know,
That's always in full dress.

The finest gentleman of all
Insects he is, he gave a ball,

You know, the poet wrote.
Let's fancy this the very same,

And then you'll own you've been to blame
To spoil his silken coat.

Brother. Your dancing, spangled, powdered beau,
Look, through the air I've let him go,

And now we're friends again.

And sure as he is in the air,

From this time, Anne, I will take care

And try to be humane.

LAMB.