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THE BRINDLED COW.

NAMING THE KITTEN.

"What shall be the kitten's name?" asked Rachel of her younger sister, who stood holding up her apron, and begging to take the little pet.

"It is my kitten," pleaded Alice; "and I ought to have it."

"The old cat evidently thinks it is her kitten. Hark! Hear her mew! 'Mine, mine, mine,' she seems to say."

"Oh!" said Alice, "I can soon quiet the old cat with a saucer of milk. Come, give me the kitten; that's a good Rachel!"

"Well, I will give it to you on one condition."

"Name it: perhaps I can grant it."

"The condition is, that you give the kitten a name,—a name that I shall approve of."

"Oh! that I can do right off. We will call her Arabella."

"Nonsense! that is too long and grand a name for a kitten. It will do very well for a proud lady-doll from Paris, but not for this little scratcher."

"How would you like the name of Betsy?"

"Not at all. I think it a homely sort of name."

"Well, will any of these do?—Pet, Muff, Tabby, Tit, Tip-top, Scamper, Nap, Mop, Pop, Grab?"

"I think you must have got those from some story-book."

"You guessed right that time," said Alice. "Name the kitten yourself, if none of my names will satisfy you. Put her in my lap, and I will get some cream, and let her lap it."

"Lappit, did you say? That's a new name, and a good one!" cried Rachel. "You have hit upon a name at last. We will call the kitten Lappit. Now hold up your apron, and I will put Lappit in your lap."

Alice laughed at her sister's play upon the word; and, taking the kitten in her apron, she ran off into the garden, followed by the old cat.

NAMING THE KITTEN.

LITTLE GILBERT.

A TRUE STORY.

Many years ago a little boy, named Gilbert, lived in a small town in New Brunswick, on the banks of the St. John River. The river is deep and swift; and Gilbert's papa had often warned him not to go too near the brink.

One day, when the little fellow was about six years old, he went with his papa down to the river; and, while his papa stopped to talk with a friend, Gilbert wandered along the shore.

He took with him his fishing-rod, and thought it would be fine fun to catch a fish all by himself: so he went close to the edge of the water, and dropped in his line.

After waiting a few minutes without getting a bite, he thought he would walk out on a raft that he saw close by, and try his luck in a new spot. He crept along till he reached the outer edge of the raft; but then, as he threw out his line, his little bare feet slipped, and over he went, plump into the river. A splash, a scream, and down he went.

At the time of this story, there were a good many Indians in New Brunswick; and a party of them were in camp in the woods near the river. They were harmless, peaceable Indians, and very friendly to the boys of the neighborhood, who liked to visit their tents, and see them weave baskets, and make bows and arrows, and scarlet slippers, and other pretty things.

Luckily for Gilbert, an Indian boy happened to be fishing near the raft, and saw him slip off into the water. Although the Indian boy was not much older than Gilbert, he was larger and stronger, and he knew how