80 
THE LADIES’ FLORAL CABINET. 
no longer enjoyed the old pleasure of looking into those 
marvelous windows, and the very thought of raisins made 
his heart go pit-a-pat, as if a small trip-hammer worked 
under his little jacket. 
Unfortunately, that trip-hammer worked pretty often; 
for, somehow or other, he was always running upon Mr. 
Green in all sorts of unexpected places. Once he ran 
against him at the very school-house door; once or twice 
he met him on the most out-of-the-way (to him) road he 
could take to school; once that terrible person accosted 
him as he was swinging on his own father’s gate. And 
never did that awful Mr. Green see him that, with con¬ 
tinually increasing severity, he did not say: 
“ Ned Utley, you owe me for my raisins !” 
“ Anyhow, I can have a little peace on Sundays !” poor 
Ned comforted himself. 
That very day, walking to church between his father 
and mother, Ned was appalled by the sight of Mr. Green, 
looking a tremendous swell in his best clothes, and walk¬ 
ing toward the Methodist church, while Ned was headed 
for the Baptist. They met, and for a moment his. tyrant 
held poor Ned with glittering eye before he said : 
“ Mr. Utley, may I speak a word to your son in private ?” 
“ Not to-day, if you please, Mr. Green,” answered Ned’s 
papa. “ I think we will leave him in the possession of a 
tranquil mind for to-day at least.” 
Ned did not understand these big words, and wondered 
why everybody smiled. 
His mind was not tranquil, however, unless the word 
meant “ unhappy ” ; for all through sermon time, as well 
as in Sunday-school, he kept thinking. “ I am not safe 
even on Sundays,” while a voice kept crying: “Stealer as 
well as tell-a-lie-er.” 
The next morning was the first day of the summer 
vacation. Mr. Green had scarcely entered his store 
when he saw Ned Utley leaning against a sugar barrel. 
“ Mr. Green,” said the child, timidly, and yet with de¬ 
termination, “ I bought phose raisins ’thout my mother 
knowing anything about ’em. Will you let me work for 
you all this vacation, and all the vacations I’m goin’ to 
have till I’m a big man, and pay for the raisins? To¬ 
night, after I go home from work, I’ll tell Papa and 
mamma how I lied and stealed ; but I want to begin work 
first.” 
(“ Pie looked about knee-high to a grasshopper,” 
chuckled Mr. Green, afterward; “ but he felt as fierce as 
a rabbit! ”) 
“ Strip up your sleeves, then, my man !” 
So Neddie bared his white arm. 
“ Now sweep out the store !” 
So Ned struggled with the big broom till his brow was 
wet. And at the end of five minutes Mr. Green frowned 
savagely, and said : 
“Put up the broom; I’ve other work for you! Pick 
out three of the very biggest and handsomest bunches of 
raisins in that window.” 
So Ned blushed, but selected. 
“ Now, vamose, Ned, my boy !” said Mr. Green, grin¬ 
ning, and patting the boy’s head. “ You’ve worked a little 
over time. Take your pay in raisins.”— Selected. 
J AC K-IN-TH E-PULPIT. 
C RACKLE ! crash ! the ice is melting ; 
From the west, wild showers are pelting; 
Swish and gurgle ! splash and spatter ! 
“ Halloo, good folks ! what’s the matter ? 
Seems to me the roof is leaking ! ” 
Jack from down below is speaking. 
You know little Jack? In the spring he stands up on 
the swampy edge 
Of the hemlock-wood, looking out from the shade of 
the ferny ledge ; 
But in winter he cuddles close under a thatch of damp 
leaves, 
Hark ! the water is trickling fast in through his gar¬ 
ret-eaves, 
And he opens his eyes, and up he starts out' of his 
earthy bed ; 
And he carefully holds, while he climbs aloft, his um¬ 
brella over his head. 
High time for you to be up, Jack, when every living 
thing 
Is washing and sunning itself, Jack, and getting ready 
for spring! 
Little Jack, the country preacher, 
Thinks, “ These rustics need a teacher ! 
I shall reprimand the flowers— 
Flirting with the rude March showers 
That invade my honest dwelling! 
What I’ll tell them, there’s no telling!” 
They call him Jack-in-the-pulpit, so stiff he looks, and 
so queer, 
As he waits on the edge of the swamp, for the flower- 
folks to come and hear 
The text and the sermon and all the grave things that 
he has to say; 
But the blossoms they laugh and they dance, they are 
wilder than ever to-day,— 
No hearers — so never a word has the little minister 
said, 
But there in his pulpit he stands and holds his um¬ 
brella over his head; 
And we have not a doubt in our minds. Jack, you are 
wisely listening 
To the organ-choir of the winds, Jack, and the tunes 
that the sweet birds sing !—Lucy Larcom. 
