so much
interested in what the good man told him, that he left his play, and
said he wanted to hear all about the world. So the teacher had to get
his globe, and talk to him about it, until he was hoarse.

[Illustration: SAMUEL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER.]

I have heard another anecdote about the lad. There was a company of
some half a dozen boys and girls at the deacon's one day, and they
were all as busy as they could be. Shall I tell you what they were
busy about? They were at play. They were playing with all their
might. Among their plays were "blind man's buff," "tag," "puss, puss
in the corner," "hide and seek," "who's got the button?" and I don't
know how many other plays, which almost every child is familiar with.

While they were busy chasing each other round the yard, all of them as
merry as the birds that were having a concert on the branches, over
their heads, a wagon drove up, and Captain Lovechild got out of it,
and went into the house. This gentleman lived in Boston. He was quite
a rich man, having made a great deal of money by going to sea. The
captain was a relative of Deacon Bissell, and often came to see him
and his family, taking good care, generally, in his visits, to bring
something with him to please the little folks.

It was almost sunset when the children were called into the house.
Supper was nearly ready, and a very nice supper it was to be, for Mrs.
Bissell always took great pains to make the children happy when they
visited at her house.

Captain Lovechild, as usual, was glad to see the children, and the
children were quite as glad to see him. They all liked him. Why they
liked him, I suppose, not having thought on that subject much, they
would hardly have been able to tell. But I mistrust--I give it as a
sort of a _guess_--that the nice things he was so sure to have ready
for them, when he met them, had a little to do with their affection. I
remember--if you will allow Uncle Frank to travel out of his road a
few paces--I remember a lesson which was once beaten into my head by
my little niece. I was going away from home--to Boston, perhaps--when
I called the little girl to me, and said,

"Well, Mary, I'm going away, to be gone, a long, long time."

"O, don't go, uncle," she said; "I don't want you to go away."

"But I must go, dear."

"I shall cry if you do."

"Not a great deal, I guess."

"O, yes, I shall; I shall feel very bad."

"Well, Mary, I can't stay at home; I shall hav