should have to compel them to; and as they took no notice of
this warning, he got together an army of 16,000 men, and sent it into
the State. This soon settled the trouble, and there has never been any
attempt, on a large scale, to resist a tax law in the United States
since then.

It is easy to see that Washington knew better than to do such a thing by
halves. He sent so large an army that to fight against it was hopeless,
and so there was no fighting.

It would have been well for the country if this wise example had always
been followed.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE CHILD SINGER.

BY LAURA FITCH.

In a narrow dirty street in the most miserable part of the great city of
London, a group of children were playing beside the gutter. They were
all dirty and ragged, and the faces of many were old and worldly-wise.
One little girl, however, though her dress was as torn and soiled as
that of any of the other dwellers in the filthy street, had a pretty
childish face. She was a bright-looking little one, with matted brown
hair hanging in tangled curls that had never known a brush, and a pair
of sweet dark eyes looking out trustfully into the uninviting world
around her. She stood a little apart from the others, leaning against
the doorway of a rickety tenement-house, humming softly to herself.

A rough-looking boy in the group by the gutter, hearing her low tones,
called out, "Louder, Nell; sing something."

The child obeyed; with her hands clasped, and her eyes fastened on the
speck of blue sky to be seen between the roofs of the tall, smoky
houses, she burst into a song. No wonder that the other children stopped
their noisy play, and listened. It was not their ignorance of music that
made the singing seem beautiful to those little street vagabonds. There
was in the clear voice of the child singer a strange, wistful tone, of
which she herself was unconscious, but which held the listener
spell-bound.

Nell had been born and bred in those low surroundings. She had never
seen the inside of a church, or heard other music than the whining tones
of a street organ, yet there was in her the very soul of music. She
lived in a wretched garret, with a dirty, slouchy woman whom she called
aunt, and loved as only a child or a woman can love one from whom she
receives no sign of affection. Miserable as such a life was, it might
have been worse.

One day Nell's aunt was brought home on a shutter; she had been run over
by a