e straightened himself in his roundabout,
And said, "I'll sing you another."
He sang and whistled with might and main,
Till Mabel's ears were a-ringing,
And she stopped them up, and exclaimed again
"Why, Johnny, what are you singing?"

"That's _Pinafore_," said Johnny Stout,
Who thought himself quite clever;
"You've heard it often enough, no doubt."
Said Mabel, "N--hardly ever."
And she made up her mind that never again
Would she ask Minnie Stout's big brother
To sing her a song, when 'twas very plain
He knew not one tune from another.

VIOLA'S SKETCH.

BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

We had been staying at Dinan, a pretty and cheap little summer
resting-place in Brittany, and so picturesque were the costumes of the
peasantry that Viola, my sister, was fascinated, and her sketch-book was
getting crammed, while I, more frivolous, was longing to be in Paris,
where I could go to the Bon Marche, see the newest fashions, and hear
the latest doings and sayings of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt.
Viola was always more sensible in some things than I, but she was weak
on jugs, and mugs, and rugs, and picturesque old rags, and old women,
and children; therefore it was no surprise to me, when we were on the
road to the railway station, and our trunks already well on the way
toward Paris, to have her insist upon stopping to find out what was the
matter with a child who was crying bitterly. When, however, Viola
discovered that the child was the grand-daughter of old Margot, who had
been our "maid-of-everything" at the little cottage which aunt had hired
for the season, who had cooked for us, and washed for us, and gone to
market for us, at some ridiculously low wages, there was no use in
arguing with her; stop she would, and alight she would from the queer
old conveyance we were in--for it was not the day for the diligence--and
aunt had to wait, nolens volens--and that means willingly if you choose,
and unwillingly if you don't choose--and I had to wait, and I had to do
all the scolding, for aunt is as meek as a turtle-dove. And after a
while both aunt and I were just as much interested as was Viola, and
there were we three all listening to little Suzette, forgetful of the
train and of Paris.

Suzette had ceased crying, and was pulling a flower to pieces as she
told us of her trouble. Margot had been obliged to remain away from home
on account of our intended departure, and she had l