kly wither;
And, all day flying hither, thither,
My wings would ache: I'm glad that I
Am not that little butterfly.

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

THE YOUNG CRITIC.

Ernest is five years old; and for three years he has been a subscriber
to "The Nursery," the pictures in which he has enjoyed very much.

Last autumn, his parents took him with them to France. In the great
city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made
the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in
the building.

Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that
Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for
Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for
a quarter of an hour at a time.

One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were
represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he
was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton,"
said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than
the other?"

Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the
painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter
exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as
I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."

[Illustration]

Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a
painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes
which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that
a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one. He thinks it must be a
charming occupation to make molasses-candy, and be able to eat as much
as he wants. He must live and learn.

ARTHUR SELWYN.

PLAYING HORSE.

Among Ellen's playthings, there is none that pleases her more than the
bright worsted reins which her aunt bought for her at the May fair.

"Reins!--what does a girl do with reins?" I think I hear somebody ask.
Why, she plays horse with them, to be sure. She has a brother Charles.
He is the horse sometimes; and sometimes he is the driver, and Ellen is
the horse. Either way, it is good fun.

One fine June day, her elder brother, Ned, took part in the play. He
said there should be a span of horses. He and Charles would be the
span, and Ellen should drive. "No," said Ellen, "I would rather be one
of the horses."

[Illustration]

So Nelly and Ned were harnessed together, an