[Illustration:  MAKING READY FOR A CRUISE.]

HOW WILLY WOLLY WENT A-FISHING.

BY S.C.  STONE.

  One day, on going fishing
    Was Willy Wolly bent;
  And, as it chanced a holiday,
    Why, Willy Wolly went.

[Illustration:  Willy Wolly going fishing.]

 Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see,
    To catch a speckled trout;
  But caught a very different fish
    From what he had laid out!

  In view of all the fishes,—­
    Who much enjoyed the joke,
  With many a joyous wriggle
  And finny punch and poke,—­

  Young Willy Wolly, leaping
    A fence with dire design,
  Had carelessly left swinging
    His fishing-hook and line.

[Illustration:  Willy Wolly caught himself.]

  How Willy Wolly did it,
    He really could not tell,
  But instantly he had his fish
    Exceeding fast and well!

  He hooked the struggling monster
    Securely in the sleeve;
  And, all at once, he found it time
    His pleasant sport to leave;—­

  ’T was not a very gamy fish
    For one so large and strong,
  That Willy Wolly, blubbering,
    Helped carefully along.

  The giggling fishes crowded to
    The river bank to look,
  As Willy Wolly, captive, led
    Himself with line and hook!

[Illustration:  Mother unhooks Willy Wolly.]

  When Willy Wolly went, you see,
    To catch a speckled trout,
  Why, Willy Wolly caught himself!
    And so the joke is out.

  His mother saved that barbed hook,
    And sternly bid him now
  No more to dare a-fishing go,
    Until he has learned how!

CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.

III.—­THOMAS CARLYLE.

“Shakespeare says we are creatures that look before and after.  The more surprising, then, that we do not look around a little, and see what is passing under our very eyes.”

So writes Thomas Carlyle.

Although he politely says “we,” when speaking of people in general, that part of the “we” known as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide open.  So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable comes under his notice, as always will be the case with those who choose to see everything.

I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned the sparkling waters in which it seemed already sinking.  When, at last, I turned my dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw dancing black suns.  Perhaps it is through dwelling long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots of blackness on what others call clear sky.  The great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss in his writings, which, like London, have not enough sunshine.