“Jump up Johnny,” said his mother.  “It is seven o’clock, and breakfast will be ready soon.  The sun was up half-an-hour ago.  The birds are singing, and the sky is bright.”  John sprang out of bed at once, and was soon washed.  Then he put on his clothes, and brushed his hair.

He went down stairs looking as neat as a new pin.

As he was going to school that day, he saw a poor woman with a baby in her arms.  She sat on a door-step, and was pale and hungry.  John put his hand into his pocket, took some money out, and gave it to her.  She thanked him.

John then went to school, where he said his lesson; when school was done, he played at ball till dinner-time.

A.B.C.

THE FIRST ATTEMPT.

Alfred has drawn a great many straight lines and houses and dogs and cats; but this is the first time he has tried to draw a man.  The profile suits him very well.  There are nose and mouth and eyes, that cannot be mistaken.  The hair, too, and the hat, are brought out with a strong hand.  All that is wanting now is the color; and this Alfred is putting on.  His paints are mixed on a broken plate, and he will soon give his man a bright red cheek.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.[A]

      “How does the Water
      Come down at Lodore?”
    My little boy asked me
      Thus, once on a time;
    And moreover he tasked me
      To tell him in rhyme.

        Anon at the word,
    There first came one daughter,
      And then came another,
        To second and third
      The request of their brother,
    And to hear how the Water

      Comes down at Lodore,
      With its rush and its roar,
        As many a time
      They had seen it before: 
      So I told them in rhyme,
    For of rhymes I had store.

      From its sources which well
      In the tarn on the fell,
          From its fountains
          In the mountains,
        Its rills and its gills,
    Through moss, and through brake,
        It runs and it creeps
        For a while, till it sleeps
      In its own little lake;
        And thence at departing,
        Awakening and starting,
      It runs through the reeds,
      And away it proceeds
        Through meadow and glade,
        In sun and in shade,
      And through the wood-shelter,
        Among crags in its flurry,
          Helter-skelter,
          Hurry-scurry. 
        Here it comes sparkling,
        And there it lies darkling;
        Now smoking and frothing
          Its tumult and wrath in,
        Till in this rapid race
          On which it is bent,
        It reaches the place
          Of its steep descent.