with her uncle behind his black ponies; and, if the road is smooth and level, he lets Madie hold the reins. But she likes better to go with him on the water, in his fine sail-boat, "Ildrian," which is a Spanish name, and means "fleet as lightning."

When the weather is fine, and the water is calm, her aunts take her out rowing in their pretty row-boat, "Echo." As they row along by the shore, stopping now and then to gather water-lilies, Madie looks at the pretty cottages and white tents nestled among the green trees, where the city people are spending their summer.

They pass many boats on the way, filled with ladies and gentlemen, who give them a gay salute; and Madie waves her handkerchief in one hand, and her little flag in the other, as they go by. Sometimes they go ashore in a shady cove; and Aunt Clara fills her basket with ferns and moss, while Madie picks up shells and gay-colored stones on the beach.

But these lovely summer-days go by quickly. October comes, and with it Madie's mamma, to claim her little girl, who is so tanned and rosy, that mamma calls her, "Gypsy," and thinks papa will hardly know his little "sunbeam" now.

So Madie kisses everybody "good-by" a great many times,—even the bay-colt in the pasture, and the four smutty kittens at the barn,—and goes back to her own home. But, when the sweet June roses bloom again, she will go once more to Bay View, which she thinks is the nicest place in the world.

WHAT I OVERHEARD.

One day last summer, at the great Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia, I overheard a conversation that interested me very much. The subject of it was a queer little animal called a "gopher," which sat stuck up in a case with its comical little head perched up in the air; for it wasn't even alive, but was a poor little stuffed gopher.

In front of the case I noticed two farmers, who were talking about my little friend in a very earnest way: so I listened to their remarks.

"Yes," said one, "I tell you he is a dreadful creature to dig. Why, he makes us a sight of trouble out our way! can't keep anything that he can dig for, away from him."

"Is that so?" said the other man.

"Yes. Why, I pay my boys five cents for every one of 'em they catch; and it's lively work getting 'em, I tell you! See his nose, now! doesn't that look sharp? I tell you, when that fellow gets hold of a job, he keeps right at it! There is no giving up in him."

"Dear me!" thought I, "how nice of little gopher! Ugly as he is, I quite fall in love with him." And I drew nearer, and showed, I suppose, my interest in my face; for the speaker turned around, and addressed me.

"Yes, ma'am, he steals my potatoes, and does lots of mischief. Just look at those paws of his! Doesn't he keep them busy, though!"

"Are gophers so very industrious, then?" I asked.

"Industrious, ma'am! Well, yes: they've got the work in them, that's true; and, if they begin any thing, they'll see it through. They don't sit down discouraged, and give up; but they keep right on, even when there's no hope. Oh, they're brave little fellows!" And the honest old farmer beamed in admiration upon the stiff, little unconscious specimen before us in the case.

"It is very interesting," I said, "to know of such patience in a little animal like this."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded: "you would think so if you could see one. Why, working is their life. If they couldn't work, they'd die. I know, 'cause I've proved it. Once, we caught one, and I put him in a box, and my boys and I threw in some sand. The box was considerably big, and the little fellow went right to work. He dug, and threw it all back of him over to the other side; then back of him again, till he went through that sand I don't know how many times. Well, he was as lively as a cricket, and, to try what he would do, I took away the sand, and 'twas but a few hours before he was dead. Yes, dead, ma'am! just as dead as this one, here!" pointing with his finger to our friend in the case, who preserved a stolid indifference to the fate of his gopher-cousin.

I stopped to take a further look at "little gopher," with whom I felt pretty well acquainted by this time.

BYE-LO-LAND.

THE ENCOUNTER.

Mr. Jones.—Good-morning, madam. It is a fine day. Are you going out for a walk?

Mrs. Smith.—I was just taking my little Aldabella out for an airing. Poor child! She has been kept in the house so long by the bad weather, that she has lost all her color.

Mr. Jones.—Be careful, and don't let her catch the whooping-cough.

Mrs. Smith.—O sir! you alarm me. Is it much about?

Mr. Jones.—Yes, ma'am: so is the measles. I know two gentlemen who were kept away from their base-ball last Saturday afternoon by the measles.

Mrs. Smith.—What an affliction! Is that horse of yours safe? Does he ever kick?

Mr. Jones.—I never knew him to kick in my life; but, as you see, he is a little restive: he may step on your toes.

Mrs. Smith.—Oh, pray hold him in, Mr. Jones! Don't let him be so gay.

Mr. Jones.—Madam, my horse seems to be of the opinion that we have talked long enough: so I will wish you a very good-morning.

Mrs. Smith.—Good-morning, Mr. Jones. Pray don't run over any little boys in the street.

Mr. Jones.—Little boys must not come in my way. Good-by,