bean blower, and hears the lamb
bleat. Why, that one smile on that ghastly face would be thought worth
his fifty dollars by the children's friend, could he see it. Pauline
is the child of Swedish emigrants. She and Annie will not fight over
their lambs and their dolls, not for many weeks. They can't. They
can't even stand up.

One of the railroad trains, drawn by a glorious tin engine, with the
name "Union" painted on the cab, is making across the stoop for the
little boy with the whooping-cough in the next building. But it won't
get there; it is quarantined. But it will have plenty of exercise.
Little hands are itching to get hold of it in one of the cribs inside.
There are thirty-six sick children on the island just now, about half
of them boys, who will find plenty of use for the balls and things as
soon as they get about. How those base-balls are to be kept within
bounds is a hopeless mystery the doctors are puzzling over.

Even if nines are organized in every ward, as has been suggested, it
is hard to see how they can be allowed to play each other, as they
would want to, of course, as soon as they could toddle about. It would
be something, though, a smallpox nine pitted against the scarlets or
the measles, with an umpire from the mixed ward!

The old woman that lived in a shoe, being of rubber, is a privileged
character, and is away on a call in the female scarlet, says the
nurse. It is a good thing that she was made that way, for she is very
popular. So are Mother Goose and her ten companion rubber toys. The
bear and the man that strike alternately a wooden anvil with a ditto
hammer are scarcely less exciting to the infantile mind; but, being of
wood, they are steady boarders permanently attached each to his ward.
The dominos fell to the lot of the male scarlets. That ward has half a
dozen grown men in it at present, and they have never once lost sight
of the little black blocks since they first saw them.

The doctor reports that they are getting better just as fast as they
can since they took to playing dominos. If there is any hint in this
to the profession at large, they are welcome to it, along with
humanity.

A little girl with a rubber doll in a red woollen jacket--a
combination to make the perspiration run right off one with the
humidity at 98--looks wistfully down from the second-story balcony of
the smallpox pavilion, as the doctor goes past with the last sheep
tucked under his arm.

But though it