THE WISEST AND BEST OF THE TWO. 
A person who felt interested to know, 
Questioned once a philosopher thus : 
“ When a man and wife quarrel, pray which of the two 
Should be foremost to make up the fuss ? ” 
’Twas plain that the wise man had long ago found 
That no rule in such cases would do, 
For he answered, quite briefly, with wisdom profound, 
“ The wisest and best of the two.” 
’Tis a test of the metal of which we are made, 
But ’tis vastly well pleasing to know 
When we’ve meekly retracted harsh words we have said, 
We’re “ the wisest and best of the two.” — Mrs. C. H. Potter. 
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. 
“ 1 ]\/[ OTHER ! Mother! Come quick, Dolly has got 
1V1 something in her throat! ” exclaimed Tom In¬ 
galls, putting his head in at the kitchen door one winter 
morning while his mother was getting the breakfast. 
Mrs. Ingalls, a sad-faced, weary-looking woman, hastily 
put down the pile of plates she was carrying to the table, 
and, catching up a shawl, threw it over her head and 
shoulders and went out. 
Dolly was the widow Ingalls’ one cow, and it would 
fare hard with the little family if that fountain of milk 
and butter should be choked up ! The steps were icy, 
the daylight was yet dim, and Mrs. Ingalls slipped and 
fell. She rose with difficulty and limped along the path 
toward the barn. She had sprained one ankle slightly, 
but Mrs. Ingalls was not one of those who can lie down 
and be waited on if any harm comes to them. She 
entered the barn and went anxiously toward Dolly’s stall. 
That mild-eyed animal was peacefully munching hay, 
while Tom, by the light of a lantern that hung on a nail 
against the wall, was calmly engaged in milking her. 
“I don’t see that anything ails Dolly, Tom; was she 
choking when you came for me ? ” 
“No, ma’am,” replied Tom, demurely, “I didn’t say 
she was choking; I said there was something in her 
throat, and so there was: cows can’t eat without their 
food goes down their throats, can they? ” 
Mrs. Ingalls made no reply, but turned away and 
limped slowly back to the house, while a crest-fallen look 
came over Tom’s face. He had expected a sharp scold¬ 
ing, and, not getting it, felt defrauded of the best part of 
his joke. 
“ What’s the matter with you, Ellen ? ” asked Aunt 
Martha half an hour later as the little family were sitting 
down to breakfast, “ seems to me you walk lame.” 
“ I slipped on the ice and hurt my ankle as I was going 
to the barn this morning,” replied Mrs. Ingalls, with a 
look of gentle reproach at Tom. 
“Why, mother!” exclaimed Tom, “that’s why you 
didn’t scold me, is it? That’s just like women; if there’s 
nothing the matter but a little fun, we fellows just catch 
it; but if there’s something worth scolding about, they 
are meek as lambs.” 
“ Then you’re at the bottom of your mother’s mishap, 
are you, Tom? ” said Aunt Martha. “ Ah, well, if you 
keep on, you’ll reap the whirlwind some day, as I’ve 
always told you.” 
“ That’s so, Aunt Martha ; if I ever reap half as many 
as you’ve prophesied for me, I shall be blown into atoms 
twice over—cyclones will be nothing to it,” rejoined Tom. 
Tom Ingalls’ father had been a steady, quiet farmer, 
and his mother was a meek, gentle woman, who to her 
gentleness had added an abiding sadness since the death of 
her husband a year previous to the commencement of our 
story. Mr. Ingalls had inherited the small farm on which 
his widow and sister and Tom now lived, but the old 
house had burned down while Tom was a baby and he 
had built, not a new house, but an L, intending as soon 
as his circumstances would allow to build in front of it. 
But he had not been prosperous and the small dwelling 
still consisted only of a kitchen, which was also the living- 
room, one bedroom, and a tiny room under the eaves 
which was occupied by Tom. The small farm yielded a 
comfortable living for the two women and boy, and Mrs. 
Ingalls looked hopefully forward to the time when Tom 
would carry on the farm himself and perhaps build for a 
younger Mrs. Ingalls the house his father had meant to 
build for her. Tom was but ten years old when his 
father died, but was strong and active for his years and 
overflowing with boyish fun and mischief. He could not 
be induced to take anything seriously, but looked upon 
life as a gigantic joke which no amount of preaching or 
disciplining could turn into a reality. 
Tom continued to grow in mischief as well as in 
strength and stature, and at eighteen carried on the farm 
alone and kept his mother and Aunt Martha in comfort 
with the proceeds of his labor and the neighborhood 
awake with his harmless frolics and practical jokes. 
The farm that joined the Ingalls’ place on one side was 
owned by Elkanah Watkins, who was probably Tom’s 
only enemy, except one Horace Scudder, who was Wat- 
