ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
My name is Roger, and I'm seven years old. going on 
eight. I haven't been going on eight only a week or 
two. I've got four sisters, but I'm the only boy in the 
family, and sometimes I wish I'd been a girl too; for 
when I come home from school, Aunt Fanny says. “Oh, 
that boy'll be the death of me,’ 1 and mamma says, 
“Gently, gently, mv son," and Bridget tells me every 
day to " Remember the door-mat, for it’s hapes of mud 
ye bring in wid yeand on rainy days when I have to 
stay in. grandma says, " Well, now, that boy makes more 
noise than all the girls put together." It does seem to 
me, that boys are awfully in the way, somehow. 
Bessie, my oldest sister, is real pretty. I think—I guess 
Fred Allen tliinks so too. He's our new minister’s son 
—he comes here and brings her flowers, and books with 
pretty covers, all blue and gold ; and si metimes they go 
out to walk together, and when I want to go too. she 
will say. “Roger, I think mamma wants you;’’ or, 
“Don’t you believe she'll let you go to see Trotrya little 
while’ 
One day I didn't have anything to do—’twas Satur¬ 
day and the school didn’t keep. Don. the big dog 
wasn’t around to play with me. and pussy was asleep in 
the shade, so I thought I'd go out and see the pig. He 
was asleep, too, but I thought I'd take a long slick and 
punch him. Pretty soon he grunted and woke up, and 
when I was reaching over to poke him again, I lost off 
my new hat, right over in the pen. I tried to reach it 
with the stick, but it was too short ; then I went for 
Bridget's stick that she puts under the clothes-line, and 
that was too long. 1 didn’t know what I should do 
next, but just then I heard Bessie and Fred Allen talk¬ 
ing about some Ferns. You see, it was Saturday after¬ 
noon, and they were fixing the vases and baskets of 
flowers to take to the church on Sunday, and Bessie 
said, “I know where there are some lovely Ferns out by 
the pig-pen, but don't you come, I'll get them.’’ I sup¬ 
pose she thought it wasn’t polite to take company out 
there; besides, she can’t bear pigs, she thinks they’re 
horrid. Well, when I heard them coming, I tried to 
hide down behind the corner of the pig-pen, because— 
because I hadn't any hut on. I peeped around the cor¬ 
ner. and there was Bessie stooping down picking the 
Ferns, and Fred Allen was there too. Just behind the 
Ferns, in the lowest board iu the pen, was a big knot¬ 
hole—the kr.ot had got dry and come out. and left the 
hole there—and it was a big- one. I suppose the pig 
heard them talking, so he rau and put his awful nose, 
that looks like a biscuit-cutter, right close up to the 
hole, an;l said just as loud as he could, "oof, oof, ooff,' 
and you ought to have seen Bessie. She was so fright¬ 
ened—she jumped quick and stepped on her dress, and 
over she fell. Fred helped her up. and brushed the dirt 
from her pretty muslin dress, and then they both began 
to laugh, and I laughed too. and her lace was just as 
red as could be. When she heard me, she said : “ Why, 
Roger, what are you doing out here, and where’s your 
hat To be sure, I had forgotten all about it. I looked 
over iu the pen and saw it all covered with swill and 
mud. Fred Allen got it for me. and I carried it in on a 
stick, and Bridget hung it up to dry. Afterward she 
cleaned it up as well as she could, and she told me I 
“ bate all the b'ys she ever did see, shore now."’ Oh, 
dear, I don't know what my papa will say, for he 
bought me that new hat to wear up to my Uncle Ned’s, 
and mamma always has me wear my old one out to play 
on Saturdays : but I liked the new one best, so I went 
into the hall and changed it when nobody was looking. 
Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t now—I’m dreadful sorry—I 
was expecting to go up to Uncle Ned’s next week. He 
said he wanted just such a boy as I am, to feed the hens, 
and drive the geese to water, and he said I might ride 
old Wliiteface, and now—and now—I don’t know 
whether they’ll let me go or not. I’m so sorry, I hope 
I’ll never be so naughty again. If I do go to Uncle 
Ned's, perhaps some time I'll tell you about it. 
May Mackenzie. 
BUTTERCUP GOLD. 
Oh ! the cupperty-buts ! and oh ! the cupperty-buts 
out in the meadow, shining under the trees, and spark¬ 
ling over the lawn, millions and millions of them, each 
one a bit of purest gold from Mother Nature's mint. 
Jessy stood at the window, looking out at them, and 
thinking, as she often had thought before, that there 
were no flowers so beautiful. “Cupperty-buts,” she 
had been used to call them, when she was a wee baby- 
girl, and could not speak without tumbling over her 
words and mixing them up in the queerest fashion: and 
now that she was a very great girl, actually six years 
old, they were still cupperty-buts to her, and would 
never be anything else, she said. There was nothing 
she liked better than to watch the lovely golden things, 
and nod to them as they nodded to her; but this morn¬ 
ing her little face looked anxious and troublecl, and she 
gazed at the flowers with an intent and inquiring look, 
as if she had expected them to reply to her unspoken 
thoughts. What these thoughts were, I am going to 
tell you. 
Half an hour before, she had called to her mother, 
who was just going out, and begged her to come and 
look at the cupperty-buts. 
“They are brighter than ever, mamma! Do just 
come and look at them ! golden, golden, golden ! There 
must be fifteen thousand million dollars’ worth of gold 
just on the lawn, I should think.” 
And her mother, pausing to look out, said very sadly: 
“Ah, my darling! if I only had this day a little of 
that gold, what a hapipy woman I should be ! 
And then the good mother went out, and there little 
Jessy stood, gazing at the flowers, and repeating the 
words to herself, over and over again: 
“ If I only had a little of that gold! ” 
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