Here is my old jacket, to begin with.  Whack, whack, whack!  As I beat it with my stick, how the dust flies!

The jacket looks a little the worse for wear; and that patch in the elbow is more for show than use.  But it is a good warm jacket still, and mother says that next Christmas I shall have a new one.

Whack, whack, whack!  I wish Christmas was not so far off.  If somebody would make me a present now of a handsome new jacket, without a patch in it, I should take it as an especial kindness.  I do hate to wear patched clothes.

Stop there, Master Frank!  You deserve to be beaten, instead of your jacket.  Look in the glass at your fat figure and rosy checks.  Are you not well fed and well taken care of?  Is not good health better than fine clothes?  Are you the one to complain?

Ah, Frank!  Just look at poor Tim Morris, as he goes by in his carriage.  See his fine rich clothes, and his new glossy hat.  But see, too, how pale and thin he looks.  How gladly would he put on your patched jacket, and give you his new one, if he could have your health!

[Illustration:  Saturday Night]

Whack, whack, whack!  I’m an ungrateful boy.  I’ll not complain again.  Christmas may be as long as it pleases in coming.  I’ll tell mother she mustn’t pinch herself to buy me a new jacket.  I’ll tell her this one will serve me a long time yet; that I have got used to it, and like it.  It will look almost as good as new when I get the dust out of it.  Whack, whack, whack!

Uncle Charles.

THE CUCKOO.

“Tell me what bird this is a picture of,” said Arthur.

“That,” said Uncle Oscar, “is the cuckoo, a bird which arrives in England, generally, about the middle of April, and departs late in June, or early in July.”

“Why does it go so early?” asked Arthur.

“Well, I think it is because it likes a warm climate; and, as soon as autumn draws near, it wants to go back to the woods of Northern Africa.”

“Why is it called the cuckoo?”

“Because the male bird utters a call-note which sounds just like the word kuk-oo.  In almost every language, this sound has suggested the name of the bird.  In Greek, it is kokkux; in Latin, coccyx; in French, coucou; in German, kukuk.”

“What does the bird feed on?” asked Arthur.

“It feeds on soft insects, hairy caterpillars, and tender fruits.”

“Where does it build its nest?”

“The cuckoo, I am sorry to say, is not a very honest bird.  Instead of taking the trouble to build a nest for herself, the female bird lays her eggs in the nest of other birds, and to them commits the care of hatching and rearing her offspring.”

“I should not call that acting like a good parent,” said Arthur.  “Do the other birds take care of these young ones that are not their own?”