't do I'll git a tub.

_Miss P._ No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies,
I am very sorry--

_Sadie._ Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame
for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as
you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will
endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes.

_Mrs. G._ Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My
girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as--

_Miss P._ Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm,
but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their
guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not
approve.

_Mrs. G._ And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

_Enter_ SISSY GABBLE, L., _with a large slice of bread, covered with
molasses._

_Sissy._ Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin,
and I like bread, and 'latheth.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness,
sure for sartin.

_Mrs. G._ Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come,
Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles;
and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry,
Miss Pease, I left my washing.

_Miss P._ Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad
to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have
suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

_Sadie._ I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

_Jenny._ O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

_Bessie._ O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

_Jenny._ Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

_Mrs. G._ Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in
town--precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for
'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing
arter sermon.

_Sadie._ O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that
_stolen_ fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers
make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and _made_ a Precious
Pickle.

[_Curtain._]

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

MORRIS.

After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will
need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him
to deliver it with too much genuine emotion:

This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden