I am a big dog, and my name is Bouncer. I want to tell you, little boys
and girls, how I spend my time all the day long. In the morning I am
always the first one awake: I take a walk around the house, and see if
every thing is right; then, perhaps, I am let into the house. I look
from one to another to see if all the family are at home; and I am much
pleased when somebody has a good word for me, or when I get a pull from
the baby's hand.

For breakfast, the kitten and I have the leavings from the table; but
there never is half enough for both of us: so I let her clean out the
platter, while I run to see my master off. When I get as far as the
gate, he says, "Go back!" I sit down and watch him till he is out of
sight.

Then there comes the milkman. I know him well; for he comes every
morning and fills the can, and I watch it until it is taken in. Perhaps,
when the door is open, a bone is thrown out to me. I hide it, quickly;
for I see another dog coming. He is a friend of mine. He comes quite
often to see me. We take a run around the house, and have a quiet talk
together; then he takes himself off.

By that time I hear a team coming. I run to see if it is coming to the
house. It is a man with a load of coal. I lie down and watch him.
Perhaps I take a nap; but I sleep with one eye open; and if it is warm,
and the flies trouble me, I have to switch my tail to keep them off.

Toward night, I station myself at the gate to watch for my master. I run
to meet him. He pats me on the head, and says, "Good Bouncer!" I jump up
and wag my tail, and try to let him know how glad I am to see him.

I hope you will be pleased with these extracts from the diary of

BOUNCER.

[Illustration]

THE BUTTERFLY.

Again, beside the roadside, blows
The pink, sweet-scented brier-rose;
Its purple head the clover raises;
And all the fields are full of daisies;
And in the sunshine flutters by
A little white-winged butterfly.

From flower to flower I watch him go;
He seems a floating flake of snow:
Now to a milkweed bloom he's clinging;
There on a buttercup he's swinging;
And now he makes a little stop
Upon a scented thistle-top.

Could we change places, he and I,
And I should turn a butterfly,
How gayly, then, I'd hover over
The elder-flowers and tufts of clover!
I'd feast on honey all the day,
With nobody to say me nay.

But, could I only honey eat,
'Twould grow as tiresome as sweet:
The pretty flowers would quic