pouting, or in a passion, about some trifle or other; he was neither obedient nor obliging.—His playfellows could not love him; for he was continually quarrelling with them; he would never, either when he was at play or at work, do what they wished; but he always tried to force them to yield to his will and his humour.

One fine summer's evening, Marianne and Owen were setting out, with several of their little companions, to school. It was a walk of about a mile from the town in which their fathers and mothers lived to the school-house, if they went by the high-road; but there was another way, through a lane, which was a quarter of a mile shorter.

Marianne, and most of the children, liked to go by the lane, because they could gather the pretty flowers which grew on the banks, and in the hedges; but Owen preferred going by the high-road, because he liked to see the carts and carriages, and horsemen, which usually were seen upon this road.

Just when they were setting out, Owen called to Marianne, who was turning into the lane.

"Marianne," said he, "you must not go by the lane to-day; you must go by the road."

"Why must not I go by the lane to-day?" said Marianne; "you know, yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, we all went by the high-road, only to please you; and now let us go by the lane, because we want to gather some honey-suckles and dog-roses, to fill our dame's flower-pots."

"I don't care for that; I don't want to fill our dame's flower-pots; I don't want to gather honey-suckles and dog-roses; I want to see the coaches and chaises on the road; and you must go my way, Marianne."

"Must! Oh, you should not say must," replied Marianne, in a gentle tone.

"No, indeed!" cried one of her companions, "you should not; nor should you look so cross: that is not the way to make us do what you like."

"And, besides," said another, "what right has he always to make us do as he pleases?—He never will do any thing that we wish."

Owen grew quite angry when he heard this; and he was just going to make some sharp answer, when Marianne, who was good-natured, and always endeavoured to prevent quarrels, said, "Let us do what he asks, this once; and I dare say he will do what we please the next time—We will go by the high-road to school, and we can come back by the lane, in the cool of the evening."

To please Marianne, whom they all loved, they agreed to this proposal. They went by the high-road; but Owen was not satisfied, because he saw that his companions did not comply for his sake; and as he walked on, he began to kick up the dust with his feet, saying, "I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane; I wish we were to come back this way—I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane: is not it, Marianne?"

Marianne could not say that she thought so.

Owen kicked up the dust more and more.

"Do not make such a dust, dear Owen," said she; "look how you have covered my shoes and my clean stockings with dust."

"Then, say, it is pleasanter here than in the lane. I shall go on, making this dust, till you say that."

"I cannot say that, because I do not think so, Owen."

"I'll make you think so, and say so too."

"You are not taking the right way to make me think so: you know that I cannot think this dust agreeable."

Owen persisted; and he raised continually a fresh cloud of dust, in spite of all that Marianne or his companions could say to him.—They left him, and went to the opposite side of the road; but wherever they went, he pursued—At length they came to a turnpike-gate, on one side of which there was a turn-stile; Marianne and the rest of the children passed, one by one, through the turn-stile, whilst Owen was emptying his shoes of dust. When this was done, he looked up, and saw all his companions on the other side of the gate, holding the turn-stile, to prevent him from coming through.

"Let me through, let me through," cried he, "I must and will come through."

"No, no, Owen," said they, "must will not do now; we have you safe; here are ten of us; and we will not let you come through till you have promised that you will not make any more dust."

Owen, without making any answer, began to kick, and push, and pull, and struggle, with all his might; but in vain he struggled, pulled, pushed and kicked; he found that ten people are stronger than one.—When he felt that he could not conquer them by force, he began to cry; and he roared as loud as he possibly could.

No one but the turnpike-man was within hearing; and he stood laughing at Owen.

Owen tried to climb the gate; but he could not get over it, because there were iron spikes at the top.

"Only promise that you will not kick up the dust, and they will let you through," said Marianne.

Owen made no answer, but continued to struggle till his whole face was scarlet, and till both his wrists ached: he could not move the turn-stile an inch.

"Well," said he, stopping short, "now you are all of you joined together; you are stronger than I; but I am as cunning as you."

He left the stile, and began to walk homewards.

"Where are you going? You will be too late at school, if you turn back and go by the lane," said Marianne.

"I know that, very well; but that will be your fault, and not mine—I shall tell our dame, that you all of you held the turn-stile against me, and would not let me through."

"And we shall tell our dame why we held the turn-stile against you," replied one of the children; "and then it will be plain that it was your fault."

Perhaps Owen did not hear this; for he was now at some distance from the gate. Presently he heard some one running after him—It was Marianne.

"Oh, I am so much out of breath with running after you!—I can hardly speak!—But I am come back," said this good-natured girl, "to tell you that you will be sorry if you do not come with us; for there is something that you like very much, just at the turn of the road, a little beyond the turnpike-gate."

"Something that I like very much!—What can that be?"

"Come with me, and you shall see," said Marianne; "that is both rhyme and reason—Come with me, and you shall see."

She looked so good-humoured, as she smiled and nodded at him, that he could not be sullen any longer.

"I don't know how it is, cousin Marianne," said he; "but when I am cross, you are never cross; and you can always bring me back to good-humour again, you are so good-humoured yourself—I wish I was like you—But we need not talk any more of that now—What is it that I shall see on the other side of the turnpike-gate?—What is it that I like very much?"

"Don't you like ripe cherries very much?"

"Yes; but they do not grow in these hedges."

"No; but there is an old woman sitting by the road-side, with a board before her, which is covered with red ripe cherries."

"Red ripe cherries! Let us