solemnly at her.

Sylvie laughed merrily.

"What _do_ you mean?" she said, and she pushed back her heavy brown
hair with both hands, and looked at him with dancing eyes in which the
big tear-drops were still glittering.

Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort.

"I mean rev--enge," he said; "now you under'tand." And he looked so
happy and proud at having said the word right at last that I quite
envied him. I rather think Sylvie didn't "under'tand" at all; but she
gave him a little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well.

So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each
with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they
went, and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just
before I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half turned his head, and
nodded me a saucy little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was all
the thanks I got for _my_ trouble.

I know you're sorry the story's come to an end--aren't you?--so I'll
just tell you one thing more. The very last thing I saw of them was
this: Sylvie was stooping down with her arms round Bruno's neck, and
saying coaxingly in his ear, "Do you know, Bruno, I've quite forgotten
that hard word; do say it once more. Come! Only this once, dear!"

But Bruno wouldn't try it again.

THE MOCKING-BIRD AND THE DONKEY.

(_From the Spanish of the Mexican poet Jose Rosas_.)

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A mock-bird in a village
Had somehow gained the skill
To imitate the voices
Of animals at will.

And singing in his prison,
Once, at the close of day,
He gave, with great precision,
The donkey's heavy bray.

Well pleased, the mock-bird's master
Sent to the neighbors 'round,
And bade them come together
To hear that curious sound.

They came, and all were talking
In praise of what they heard,
And one delighted lady
Would fain have bought the bird.

A donkey listened sadly,
And said: "Confess I must
That these are shallow people,
And terribly unjust.

"I'm bigger than the mock-bird,
And better bray than he,
Yet not a soul has uttered
A word in praise of me."

THE FAMOUS HORSES OF VENICE.

BY MARY LLOYD.

No doubt you all know something of Venice, that wonderful and
fairy-like city which seems to rise up out of the sea; with its bridges
and gondolas; its marble palaces coming down to