before uncle Jack
School children in Pokonoket
Pokonoket in stormy weather
Toby and the crazy loon
Toby ran till he was out of breath
The patchwork woman
The patchwork girl
Julia was arrested on Christmas Day
Julia entertains the ambassador through the keyhole
The grandmothers enjoy the Chinese toys
"Six"--she began feebly
"What!" said Squire Bean suddenly
Little Patience obeys the squire's summons
Watching for the coach
"Just look here!" said Willy's sweet voice
The little stranger
She almost fainted from cold and exhaustion
A conveyance is found

* * * * *

THE POT OF GOLD.

* * * * *

THE POT OF GOLD.

The Flower family lived in a little house in a broad grassy meadow,
which sloped a few rods from their front door down to a gentle,
silvery river. Right across the river rose a lovely dark green
mountain, and when there was a rainbow, as there frequently was,
nothing could have looked more enchanting than it did rising from
the opposite bank of the stream with the wet, shadowy mountain for a
background. All the Flower family would invariably run to their front
windows and their door to see it.

The Flower family numbered nine: Father and Mother Flower and seven
children. Father Flower was an unappreciated poet, Mother Flower was
very much like all mothers, and the seven children were very sweet and
interesting. Their first names all matched beautifully with their last
name, and with their personal appearance. For instance, the oldest
girl, who had soft blue eyes and flaxen curls, was called Flax Flower;
the little boy, who came next, and had very red cheeks and loved to
sleep late in the morning, was called Poppy Flower, and so on. This
charming suitableness of their names was owing to Father Flower. He
had a theory that a great deal of the misery and discord in the world
comes from things not matching properly as they should; and he thought
there ought to be a certain correspondence between all things that
were in juxtaposition to each other, just as there ought to be between
the last two words of a couplet of poetry. But he found, very often,
there was no correspondence at all, just as words in poetry do not
always rhyme when they should. However, he did his best to remedy
it. He saw that every one of his children's names were suitable
and accorded with their personal characteristics; and in his
flower-garden--for he raised