ne bed, and
Johnny's father saw them about as clearly as Johnny had seen the
candle.

The family were thanked individually and collectively, from Mike down
to the baby, who, when Johnny left, was covered with sweetmeats and
toys, brought from New York to Johnny.

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnny learned many things, among them
that it was very wrong to run away, and he must be punished, and
grandma should decide how severely.

"I will punish him myself," said grandma, "by removing all temptation
to do so again."

Johnny is too young now to appreciate his pleasant sentence, but in
after years, when his sins are heavier, he will miss his gentle judge.

He was to leave Plowfield the next day for New York; but he was to come
back again with the summer, and many were the promises he made of good
behavior.

When the time came for him to go, he clung so to his grandma that his
father said:

"You need not go, Johnny, if you would rather stay."

"No," said Johnny, "I want to go; but why don't they have drandmas and
fathers live in the same house?"

At last, he was all tucked in the sleigh, and grandpa had started.

"Stop! wait!" said Johnny, "I forgot something."

He jumped out of the sleigh, ran back to grandma, clasped his arms
around her neck, and whispered in her ear:

"I'm sorry, drandma, 'cause I spilt the cream, and I'm awfil glad I
didn't smash the bowl."

A MONUMENT WITH A STORY.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Many times have I heard English people say, as if they really pitied
us: "Your country has no monuments yet; but then she is so young--only
two hundred years old--and, of course, cannot be expected to have
either monuments or a history." Yet we have some monuments, and a
chapter or two of history, that the mother-country does not too fondly
or frequently remember. But I am not going to write now of the Bunker
Hill Monument, nor of the achievement at New Orleans, nor of the
surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown. I want to tell of another
land nearer its infancy than ours, with a history scarcely
three-quarters of a century old, but with one monument, at least, that
is well worth seeing, and that cannot be thought of without emotions of
loving admiration and reverence. The memorial is of bronze, and tells a
story of privation and suffering, but of glorious heroism, and victory
even in death.

Everybody knows something of the great island, Australia, the largest
in the world, reckon