track.

Was _that_ crushed mass of flesh and bone little Kitty?--_his_
Kitty?--all he had in the wide earth to love?

Uncle Tim looked once, and fell upon the earth as senseless as a stone.
Ever since he has been quite crazy. All he cares to do is to draw up
and down through the road that little wooden horse that Kitty used to
play with, hoping to coax her back to him.

Poor old Tim! Would you throw another stone at him, boys? Would you
hunt the weary old man through the streets like some wild beast? Would
you taunt, and sneer, and shout in his ears, "Old crazy Tim"--"Old
crazy Tim?" Oh, no--no! Pick a flower and give him, as Kitty used; take
his hand--poor, harmless old man--and walk along with him; maybe he'll
fancy that you are little Kitty, (who knows?) and smile once more
before he dies. Poor Uncle Tim!

CICELY HUNT;

OR,

THE LAME GIRL.

What a holy and beautiful thing is a mother's love!

Every morning, about eight o'clock, I have noticed, limping past my
window to school, a little lame girl. A woman goes with her; supporting
her gently by the arm and carrying her satchel of books.

The girl is very poorly clad. Sometimes her dress will be patched with
two or three different colors; but it is always very clean; and I have
observed that her stockings, though coarse, are always whole, and that
her shoes are neatly tied up. The woman who goes with her looks tidy,
too; though she wears a rusty black bonnet, of an old-fashioned make,
and a faded shawl.

Cicely's little school-mates bound past her; skipping, hopping, jumping
and running, as if they could not exercise their legs enough. The lame
girl looks at them, smiles a sad, quiet smile, and looks up tearfully
in her mother's face. The mother answers back with a look so _full_ of
love, and lays her hand upon her child's arm, as much as to say, "I
love you all the more, because you are a poor, little helpless
cripple."

And so they travel over the icy pavements to school; (stepping very
carefully, for it would be a sad thing if Cicely should slip and fall;)
until, at last, they reach the school house.

What a blessing are free schools! What a difference it makes in the
life of that poor girl, to be able to read! How many weary hours of
pain will a nice book beguile! And, beside, if one has not a cent in
the world, if one has a good education, it is worth as much as money in
the bank,--and more, too, because banks often turn out great humbugs,