me
"cat's cradle," but it should be "cratch cradle." A cratch is a
cross-legged crib from which cattle are fed. It is also the shape of a
cradle, or child's sleeping-crib, and, as the strings take this shape
upon the fingers, the game has received that name.

These boys learned very rapidly, and the gentleman who had befriended
them soon took them from the Italian's cottage, and sent them to the
best schools in America. Both became distinguished scholars. Silvio is
now a celebrated artist, and Francesco a musician whose vocal and
instrumental acquirements have charmed the largest audiences, and
received the highest praise of the world. Both have visited their native
country, and have pursued their studies among their own countrymen, but
they have never heard of any of their own kindred. The gentleman who
befriended them still lives to see the good results of his kind deed,
and they, in return, look upon him with feelings of love and gratitude.

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THE LITTLE MILKMAID.

"Please, Grandmother, I can milk Daisy."

"There, child! Nonsense!" said the old woman crossly. "Daisy would kick
thee and thy pail over in no time. We should lose our milk, and happen
have thee to nurse as well."

"But Daisy likes me, Granny," pleaded the would-be milkmaid. "I never
throw stones at her or pull her tail; she would not kick me. I know how
to milk, don't I, Grandfather?"

"Eh, bless her, so she do!" returned a feeble voice from the bed in the
corner of the kitchen. "It's a brave little lass, that it is! I'd sooner
trust her than Tom, for all he's three years older."

Grandmother gave a reluctant consent, and forth went the little
milkmaid, her bucket on her arm, and her dog Gypsy jumping about and
inviting her to have a race with him. Play was a very good thing, and
Susie dearly loved a romp, but this morning she shook her head, and told
Gypsy he must wait until her task was safely over. She was very proud of
Grandfather's confidence in her, and made up her mind to deserve it.

Susie looked like a part of the bright May morning as she tripped gayly
down the pathway to the brook, brushing the dew off the grass and
flowers with her bare little white feet, and singing a gay
"good-morning" to the birds fluttering in and out of the bushes.

A kind little girl was Susie, loving all the living creatures about her
moorland home, and loved by them. The birds knew bett