stupid and lazy and
slow, and they praise the horse for being spirited and lively; and so
the horses get corn and hay and everything that is good, and we get
nothing but grass. But I intend to be lively and spirited and get
corn."

"Take care what you do, Tidy," said Violet. "The gentleman wishes to
buy a quiet donkey, to carry his little boy gently. If we do not behave
ourselves well, he surely will send us back to the common."

But Tidy was foolish and proud, and, the next time he went out, he
began to frisk about very gayly.

"I fear," said the gentleman, "that the good grass has spoiled Tidy."

[Illustration]

Tidy heard this, but, like other young and foolish things, he would not
learn. Soon, the little dog Grip passed by, and Tidy laid his ears back
on his neck and rushed at Grip to bite him.

"Really," said the gentleman, "Tidy is getting quite vicious. When we
get home, we will send Tidy away, and we will keep Violet."

Tidy, as you may believe, was sorry enough then. But it was too late.
He was sent away to the bare common. But Violet still lives in the
gentleman's field, eats nice grass, goes easy journeys, and is plump
and happy.

[Illustration]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Poets have a great deal to answer for, and they should be careful what
they say, for they've no idea what an influence they have. Now, I'm
told that about one hundred and fifty years ago, one by the name of
Thomson (Thomson without a _p_) sang:

"Hail, gentle Spring! Ethereal mildness, hail!"

and made no end of trouble, of course. March being the first spring
month, was the first to hear the command, and so, ever since, she has
been trying her best to hail. Failing in this, as she nearly always
does, her only recourse is to blow; and blow she does, with a will. So
don't blame her, my chicks, if she deals roughly with you this year,
blows your hair into your eyes, and nearly takes you off your feet.
It's all the fault of that poet Thomson.

I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have
told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what
would have become of all the wedding tours? Mrs. Sigourney, my birds
tell me, was a poet of the right sort. She sang, "Roll on,
Niagara!"--and it has rolled on ever since.

Talking of fluids, here's a letter telling

HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.

A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story:

At my summer home, the very cool