cared." They shriek and run and hide.

One rainy day they had been playing Mother Hubbard.

"Now," said Blanche, "I will tell a b-eautiful wolf story. It will
make us awful scared. See if it doesn't!"

So she climbed up into a big chair and began. But right in the middle
of the story they heard something go scratch, scratch, very loudly.

"Oh, what is that, Dotty?" whispered Blanche, clutching Dorothy's arm.

Scratch, scratch, it went again, and then there was a great rattling.

"Oh, it's a wolf!" cried Dotty; and down the attic stairs they flew
pell-mell; through the kitchen chamber and the great unfinished
chamber, and down the back stairs; through the kitchen and the
dining-room, and burst into grandma's room all out of breath.

"What _is_ the matter, children?" asked grandma.

"Oh, there's a wolf in the attic," they both cried out.

"Nonsense! we don't have wolves in Massachusetts," said grandma.

"Well," said Dorothy, "something scratched dreadfully."

So grandma went up to the attic to see about it. "Where was the
noise?" she asked.

[Illustration: BRIGHT-EYES AT HOME.]

They pointed to the dark place behind the big chimneys. Grandma went
up and opened a door and out walked--a wolf! no; Towser, the old cat!
Blanche and Dorothy sometimes have another visitor in the attic. It is
a big rat. He lives in the barn. He has a road underground to the
house cellar. Then he comes up to the attic through the wall.

The cousins never know when to expect him. He comes in without
knocking. The first thing they know there he is looking at them with
bright eyes.

They have named him Bright-eyes. They feed him with cake and cheese.
He is very tame. Grandma says she never heard of such a thing as
feeding a rat. She says Bright-eyes eats her hens' eggs. He steals
them out of the nests.

LITTLE GIRL GRACIE.

BEDTIME.

So sleepy and demure is my wee Gracie,
So long and sober grows the little facie,
So silent are the red, red lips so sweet,
So quiet are the little hands and feet,
I know, yes, well I know
My Gracie wants to go
Into the soft, white nest where every night
My birdie folds her wings till morning light.

And now beside my knee the pretty lisper
Her evening prayer with folded hands must whisper,
While baby sister sleeps on mother's breast,
Lulled with our voices low to dreamy rest.
Then in her nightie white,