Cinderella | Page 7

mama," she cried, "and now everything has come but papa's new bicycle."
Just then she looked out of the window, and there was her papa coming up the drive on a fine new wheel. She rushed down to meet him, exclaiming, as she threw herself into his arms:
"Oh, papa, papa, I did get everything; my telephone is beautiful, and the man at the other end is just lovely!"
"Ah," said papa, "I am delighted he is so satisfactory."

THE RAINDROPS' NEW DRESSES.
"We're so tired of these gray dresses!" Cried the little drops of rain, As they came down helter-skelter From the Nimbus cloud fast train.
And they bobbed against each other In a spiteful sort of way, Just like children when bad temper Gets the upper hand some day.
Then the Sun peeped out a minute. "Dears, be good and do not fight, I have ordered you new dresses, Dainty robes of purest white."
Ah! then all the tiny raindrops Hummed a merry glad refrain, And the old folks cried: "How pleasant Is the music of the rain!"
Just at even, when the children Had been safely tucked in bed, There was such a rush and bustle In the dark clouds overhead!
Then those raindrops hurried earthward, At the North Wind's call, you know, And the wee folks, in the morning, Laughed to see the flakes of snow.

SIR GOBBLE.
Bessie Curtis was in a great deal of trouble. She was spending a year in the country while her father and mother were in Europe. It was not that which was troubling her. She liked the country, she loved her uncle and aunt with whom she lived, and she heard every week from her father and mother. But something disturbed her. As the summer passed, and the autumn came, she had moments when she looked very sober. What was the reason?
I will tell you.
Early in the spring her uncle had given her a young turkey.
"There, Bessie," he had said, "that is one of the prettiest turkeys I have ever seen. I will give him into your care, and on Thanksgiving Day we will have him on the dinner-table."
For some time Bessie fed the turkey every day without feeling particularly fond of him. Very soon, however, he began to know her; he not only ran to meet her when she brought him his corn and meal, but he would follow her about just the way Mary's little lamb followed HER about.
Her uncle often called after her: "And everywhere that Bessie goes, the turkey's sure to go."
Yes, round the garden, up and down the avenue, and even into the house itself the turkey followed Bessie.
Then why was she so sad?
Alas! she remembered her uncle's words when he gave her the turkey, "On Thanksgiving Day we will have him on the table."
Thanksgiving Day would be here in a week.
Now, if Bessie had been like some little girls, she would have told her trouble to her uncle. But she never mentioned it to any one, although she cried herself to sleep several nights before Thanksgiving Day.
At last the day came, and Bessie, instead of going out to the fowlyard as usual, kept in the house all the morning. She was afraid that, if she went, she would not find her beloved friend. Dinner-time came, and, with a heavy heart, she seated herself at the table. Her uncle and aunt noticed her sober face, and thought that she missed her father and mother.
"Come, come, said her uncle, "we must cheer up; no sad looks on Thanksgiving Day. Maria, BRING IN THE TURKEY."
Poor Bessie! she could not look up as the door opened, and something was brought in on a big platter. But, as the platter was placed on the table, she saw that it did indeed hold her turkey, but he was alive and well.
She looked so astonished that suddenly her uncle understood all her past troubles.
"Why, Bessie," he said, "did you think I would kill your pet? No, indeed, but I told you he should be on the table Thanksgiving Day, so here he is."
Then Bessie's uncle struck the turkey gently with his carving-knife, the way the queen strikes a man with a sword when she makes him a knight.
"Behold!" said Bessie's uncle, "I dub you 'Sir Gobble;' you shall never be killed, but die a natural death, and never be parted from Bessie."

WHAT IS IT?
What is that ugly thing I see Which follows, follows, follows me, Which ever way I turn or go? What is that thing? I want to know.
If I but turn to left or right It does the same with all its might; It looks so ugly and so black When o'er my shoulder I look back.
Sometimes it runs ahead of me, Sometimes quite short it seems to be, And then again it's very tall; I don't know what it