But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at
once, and cried, "Hullo! you've turned yourself inside out, have you?
Just you come out of that!"

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.

THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH[1]

[1] From Celia Thaxter's Stories and Poems for Children.

A little boy sat at his mother's knees, by the long western window,
looking out into the garden. It was autumn, and the wind was sad; and
the golden elm leaves lay scattered about among the grass, and on the
gravel path. The mother was knitting a little stocking; her fingers
moved the bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on the clear evening
sky.

As the darkness gathered, the wee boy laid his head on her lap and kept
so still that, at last, she leaned forward to look into his dear round
face. He was not asleep, but was watching very earnestly a
blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall, dark-red spray in the wind
outside the fence.

"What are you thinking about, my darling?" she said, smoothing his
soft, honey-colored hair.

"The blackberry-bush, mamma; what does it say? It keeps nodding,
nodding to me behind the fence; what does it say, mamma?"

"It says," she answered, 'I see a happy little boy in the warm,
fire-lighted room. The wind blows cold, and here it is dark and lonely;
but that little boy is warm and happy and safe at his mother's knees. I
nod to him, and he looks at me. I wonder if he knows how happy he is!

"'See, all my leaves are dark crimson. Every day they dry and wither
more and more; by and by they will be so weak they can scarcely cling
to my branches, and the north wind will tear them all away, and nobody
will remember them any more. Then the snow will sink down and wrap me
close. Then the snow will melt again and icy rain will clothe me, and
the bitter wind will rattle my bare twigs up and down.

"'I nod my head to all who pass, and dreary nights and dreary days go
by; but in the happy house, so warm and bright, the little boy plays
all day with books and toys. His mother and his father cherish him; he
nestles on their knees in the red firelight at night, while they read
to him lovely stories, or sing sweet old songs to him,--the happy
little boy! And outside I peep over the snow and see a stream of ruddy
light from a crack in the window-shutter, and I nod out here alone in
the dark, thinking how beautiful it is.

"'And here I wait patiently. I take the snow and t