“Well, he wont like that, nor you either; it’s poisonous, and I shouldn’t wonder if you’d got poisoned, Bab.  Don’t touch it; swamp-sumach is horrid stuff, Miss Celia said so,” and Ben looked anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over and examined her dingy hands with a solemn air, asking eagerly: 

“Will it break out on me ’fore I get to the circus?”

“Not for a day or so, I guess; but it’s bad when it does come.”

“I don’t care, if I see the animals first.  Come quick and never mind the old weeds and things,” said Bab, much relieved, for present bliss was all she had room for now in her happy little heart.

(To be continued.)

[Illustration:  THE LITTLE ITALIAN FLOWER-MERCHANT.]

FATHER CHIRP.

BY S.C.  STONE.

  Three little chirping crickets
  Came, one night, to our door;
        Tried all their keys,
        Then tried their knees. 
  Till they could try no more.

  The biggest of the crickets
  Scratched hard his shiny head;
        And what to do,
        And what to do,
  He didn’t know, he said.

[Illustration:  “THEN TRIED THEIR KNEES.”]

  The door, it would not open
  To comers so belated;
        Nobody heard,
        Nobody stirred,
  As still the crickets waited.

  And then, as on a sudden,
  By some new impulse bent,
        Their voices three
        ’Rose shrill and free,
  To give their feelings vent!

[Illustration:  “HIGH UPON THEIR TINY LEGS.”]

  Then high upon their tiny legs
  They stretched, to peep and peer;
        While right behind
        The window-blind
  I crouched, to see and hear.

  Louder the crickets chirped and chirped,
  And, as I heard it then,
        The tale they sung
        In crickets’ tongue
  I render with my pen.

  The tallest one was Father Chirp;
  Here was his early home;
        Here lived his mother
        And dearest brother,
  And hither had he come;

  And with him brought his two brave sons,
  Both skipping at his side,
        To show to her,
        Their grandmother,
  With true paternal pride.

  “There used to be,” sang Father Chirp,
  “A little child about;
        And that door there
        Was free as air
  For going in or out.

  “But days have passed since I lived here,—­
  It’s like the folks are dead! 
        My children, oh! 
        My children, oh! 
  I’m going to weep,” he said.

  And then into his handkerchief
  His little head went bobbing,
        And his two heirs
        They pulled out theirs,
  And all three fell to sobbing.

[Illustration:  “ALL THREE FELL TO SOBBING.”]

  I lost no time in opening wide
  The door that had been fast;
        And I could see
        Those crickets three
  Like dusky ghosts flit past.