ut two feet long. She was completely rigged,
sails and all.

"Look at that, sir. She'll float. She isn't top-heavy. No danger of her
tipping over. Made her myself."

"Father," said Rob, "it's the very man. Don't you see the star? Oh, what
a pretty brig!"

There was a card stuck at the brig's mast-head, with "For Sale" written
on it.

Mr. Drake had a good many questions to ask, about Farragut, and
sea-fights, and the "star" itself, before he came to the brig.

The old man's sailor dress was as neat as wax, and he did not look at
all poor, but he said:

"I live with my son, sir. He's no sailor. He's only first mate of one of
these iron pots of steamers they have nowadays. I've my pension too,
sir, but I like to build 'em. Keeps me busy, sir. Ships is going out of
date, sir. It does me good to put folks in mind of 'em. The price is
five dollars, sir."

There were wooden ships of all sorts and sizes lying at their wharves,
as far up and down the street as any one could see, but the old sailor
seemed to forget all about them in his hatred of steam and steamers.

"Rob," said Mr. Drake, "I'll buy that for you. Take it right home. See
if you can make one like it."

"May I swim it?"

"Of course you may, but you mustn't spoil it."

"Boy," said the old man, "put some lead on the bottom of that
double-ender of yours. It'll stand up, if you ballast it well. That'll
be two. When you make another, that'll be three--"

"Oh, I'll make a dozen!"

"Will you? Why, then you'll have a navy. I hope they'll all float. Not
all the ships they build nowadays make out to do that."

Rob hurried home with his brig, and he built his "navy," but it was just
as the old sailor feared, not more than half of them would float.

GRANDPA'S BARN.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Oh, a jolly old place is grandpa's barn,
Where the doors stand open throughout the day,
And the cooing doves fly in and out,
And the air is sweet with the fragrant hay;

Where the grain lies over the slippery floor,
And the hens are busily looking around,
And the sunbeams flicker, now here, now there,
And the breeze blows through with a merry sound

The swallows twitter and chirp all day,
With fluttering wings, in the old brown eaves,
And the robins sing in the trees which lean
To brush the roof with their rustling leaves.

O for the glad vacation time,
When grandpa's barn will echo the shout
Of merry children, who