stead of being
protected on this account, as it deserves to be, it is everywhere
persecuted and trodden upon.' So you see, mamma."

"We will not persecute your chafer, Fred; but his place is not in your
pocket, nor on the study-table, my boy; take him away," said his mother;
and at the same time his aunt called to Rikli through the open door:--

"Come back, dear little girl, and don't behave as if a little beetle
could eat you up alive! If you go through life shrieking out over every
trifle, you will some time or other be punished for it; for no one will
pay any attention to your screams, even when there is something really
the matter."

Rikli came back into the room just as Fred was carrying the beetle out,
and, as they met in the door-way, Fred said:--

"I'll make up a poem about you. You are the musician with the sweet
tones of your voice, and I am a brother-artist, a poet"

"Yes, yes! a lovely piece of poetry can be made about your pockets full
of long-legged creatures, that come crawling out and stretch their
horrid long legs all over the table!"

"Of course there could," said Fred stoutly, and went off to lodge his
useful persecuted gold-chafer in his cabinet.

When the children were clearing away their work, before going to bed,
their mother said:--

"To-morrow afternoon is a holiday, and I want you, Emma, to go and visit
the little sick girl, Nora Stanhope; and it will be well for you to go
every holiday and Sundays too. She will be very glad to see you."

"It will be a good thing for Emma to have a friend of her own; then
perhaps she'll let other people's friends alone," said Oscar, in a tone
of satisfaction.

Emma made no reply, but went quietly to bed; she had not the least idea
of giving up her friendship for Fani, to please anybody.

As they were all going upstairs in a little family procession,--first
Oscar, then Emma, then the aunt, and last the two younger
children,--Fred turned to Rikli and said:--

"Haha, Rikli, this goes capitally!" and he sang in a loud voice to a
tune of his own making:--

"Hanseli is a cry-baby,
Rikli is another;
She is so much like him,
He must be her brother."

Rikli was breaking out into an indignant cry at this unflattering
comparison, but her aunt turned and took her by the hand, saying:--

"Not again to-day, my dear, nor yet to-morrow, I hope. Show Fred that he
is wholly wrong in likening you to that spoilt child."

It often happened,