up, who had heard the conversation, and asked
the Garuly what it meant.

"He will not even play with his brothers," said the old man, looking
fiercer than ever.

"Put him out!" cried the ant. And then a hundred ants cried, "put him
out!" and they began tugging at him with all their might. One caught hold
of his right foot and another of his left, one took him by the arm and
another by the head, and as they were nearly as big as he was, they were
about to carry him off bodily, when Simon suddenly awoke, and started up,
to find that instead of the ants tugging at him, it was the other
children, who had come to awaken him, for fear he would catch cold
sleeping in the night air, and to find that what he thought was the one
fiery eye of the Garuly, was the full moon shining through the trees.

* * *

"There," said the Wee Chick, "that spoils the story. I don't want it to
be a dream. What made 'em yake him up so twick?"

"Was he better afterward?" said Fairy.

"Yes, for the very next day he moved to the same playhouse with the rest
of the children, and whenever he was selfish he would look around to see
if the old Garuly was looking at him out of one eye."

THE JOBLILIES.

We have oak trees and green grass at our house, what many children in
crowded cities do not get. Three little girls love to play in the green
grass, with some pet chickens, and a white, pink-eyed rabbit for
companions. Now, you must know that I am quite as fond of the oaks and
the grass and the blue sky as Sunbeam, or Fairy, or the brown-faced
Little Chick. And so it happens, when the day is hot, and the lazy
breezes will not keep the house cool, that I just move my chair and table
out by the lilac-bush that grows under the twin oaks, and then I think I
can write better. And there I sit and watch the trains coming and going
to and from the great, bustling city, only a dozen miles away, or listen
to the singing of the robins while I write.

I was sitting thus one dull, hot afternoon, trying to write; but it was a
lazy day; the robins had forgotten to sing, the little sparrows that live
up in the oaks had stopped twittering, and the very honey bees were
humming drowsily, when Chicken Little came up with a wreath of white
clover around her head, and begged for a story. The older children wanted
one, also, and so I had to tell one. To tell the truth, I was a little
lazy myse