f a Russian Tchuktch."

While Paul was watching the deft fingers of the girls who filled the
boxes and affixed the labels, his uncle stepped through a door
communicating with the office, and soon returned with three elegant
pocket-combs.

"One of these," he said, "represents a horn which came from _pampas_ of
Buenos Ayres; this one, in the original, dashed over the boundless plains
of Texas; and here is another, toughened by the hot, short summers and
long, bitter winters of Canada. Take them with you in memory of this
cheerless rainy day."

Paul could not help a little sigh as he thought again of the pleasures he
had enjoyed in anticipation; but still he answered bravely, "Thank you;
never mind the rain, dear uncle. All the New York boys go off in the
woods when they get away from home; but not many of them ever heard how
combs are made, and I don't suppose a quarter of them even know what they
are made of. I can tell them a thing or two when I get home."

IN THE GAS-WORKS.

Philip and Kitty were curled up together on the lounge in the library,
reading Aldrich's "Story of a Bad Boy." It was fast growing dark in the
corner where they were, for the sun had gone down some time before, but
they were all absorbed in Tom Bailey's theatricals, and did not notice
how heavy the shadows were getting around them. Papa came in by-and-by.

"Why, little folks, you'll spoil your eyes reading here; I'd better light
the gas for you," and he took out a match from the box on the mantle.

"O, let me, please," cried Philip, jumping up and running to the burner.
So he took the match, and climbed up in a chair with it. Scr-a-tch! and
the new-lit jet gave a glorified glare that illuminated everything in the
room, from the Japanese vase on the corner bracket to the pattern of the
rug before the open fire. But as Philip turned it off a little it grew
quieter, and finally settled down into a steady, respectable flame.
Philip always begged to light the gas. It had not been long introduced in
the little town where he lived, and the children thought it a very fine
thing to have it brought into the house, and secretly pitied the boys and
girls whose fathers had only kerosene lamps.

"Why can't you blow out gas, just as you do a kerosene light?" asked
Kitty, presently, leaving the Bad Boy on the lounge, and watching the
bright little crescent under the glass shade.

"Because," explained papa, "unless you shut it off by turning the li