Wolly bent;
And, as it chanced a holiday,
Why, Willy Wolly went.

[Illustration: Willy Wolly going fishing.]

Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see,
To catch a speckled trout;
But caught a very different fish
From what he had laid out!

In view of all the fishes,--
Who much enjoyed the joke,
With many a joyous wriggle
And finny punch and poke,--

Young Willy Wolly, leaping
A fence with dire design,
Had carelessly left swinging
His fishing-hook and line.

[Illustration: Willy Wolly caught himself.]

How Willy Wolly did it,
He really could not tell,
But instantly he had his fish
Exceeding fast and well!

He hooked the struggling monster
Securely in the sleeve;
And, all at once, he found it time
His pleasant sport to leave;--

'T was not a very gamy fish
For one so large and strong,
That Willy Wolly, blubbering,
Helped carefully along.

The giggling fishes crowded to
The river bank to look,
As Willy Wolly, captive, led
Himself with line and hook!

[Illustration: Mother unhooks Willy Wolly.]

When Willy Wolly went, you see,
To catch a speckled trout,
Why, Willy Wolly caught _himself!_
And so the joke is out.

His mother saved that barbed hook,
And sternly bid him now
No more to dare a-fishing go,
Until he has learned how!

CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.

III.--THOMAS CARLYLE.

"Shakespeare says we are creatures that look
before and after. The more surprising, then, that
we do not look around a little, and see what is
passing under our very eyes."

So writes Thomas Carlyle.

Although he politely says "we," when speaking
of people in general, that part of the "we" known
as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide
open. So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable
comes under his notice, as always will
be the case with those who choose to see everything.

I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned
the sparkling waters in which it seemed
already sinking. When, at last, I turned my
dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw
dancing black suns. Perhaps it is through dwelling
long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots
of blackness on what others call clear sky. The
great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives
is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss
in his writings, which, like London, have not
enough sunshin