love him; and
none of us would have hurt him for the world. But one day, as we were
walking up from the beach, ladies and gentlemen and children and all,
Skye ran down a lane, out of sight; and a thoughtless, wicked boy, who
had a stone in his hand, and wanted to hit something with it, threw it
with all his might at poor Skye, and broke one of his legs.

Skye cried out with the pain; and we all hurried back to see what was
the matter. There we found him, whining and howling, and trying to limp
along on three legs; and we just caught sight of the bad boy, running
away far down the lane. Miss Dean picked up her poor little darling,
and carried him home.

[Illustration]

Now, it happened that there was a very skilful surgeon staying at the
hotel, who had come down to the island for a short vacation. Miss Dean
sent for him, and begged him to set poor Skye's broken leg. He was a
kind-hearted man, and I could not refuse to use his skill to relieve the
dumb little sufferer.

So Miss Dean took Skye on her lap, and stroked him gently, and talked
lovingly to him, calling him "Poor doggy!" and "Dear Skye," while the
doctor made the splints, and pressed the broken bones back into their
place. Then the doctor sent for some plaster of Paris, and made a soft
mortar of it, and put it all around the mended leg, and let it harden
into a little case, so that the bones would have to stay just as he put
them till they grew together again.

All the time the doctor was doing this, Skye kept as still as a mouse;
but, when it was all done, the little creature laid his head on Miss
Dean's shoulder, and cried great tears, just like a child. Miss Dean had
to cry, too, at the helplessness of her poor dumb darling.

For a good many weeks, Skye could only hobble about on three legs, and
had to keep still on his cushion, or lie on his mistress' lap, most of
the time; but he was very patient. And at last, when the good doctor
said it would do to remove the plaster and the splints, we did so; and
Skye ran around the room as well and lively as ever. Wasn't he glad to
have his liberty again!

MUZ-MUZ.

[Illustration]

BLOSSOM AND I.

I WILL tell you a true story about my sister and me. I am five years
old, and Fanny (papa calls her Blossom) is three.

We are in Germany now, but our home is in America; and, when I go out to
play with the boys here, they call me "America." We came over