breakfast very badly. See, mamma, what a pair of roses your little girl has been getting already!"

Rosy knew very well what that meant, for she rubbed her cheeks with her little fat hands, and then tumbled her merry little head about her mamma's lap to "roll the roses off," as she said.

But that little head was too full of thoughts to stay there long.

There was so much to tell and to talk about, and that dairy took a long time to describe. Then when papa asked if she had seen the dear cows that gave the milk, she thought that that would be a capital little jaunt for to-morrow, and clapped her hands with glee.

"So you are going to find some new pets, Rosy," he said, "to do instead of Mr. Tommy and the kittens?"

"Ah, papa, but there are no dickies here—I mean, hardly any," she answered. "We looked so for the birdies all, all the time; but only two came, and went away again directly."

"We must go out and see the reason of that," said papa, smiling,—"you and I, Rosy, directly after breakfast. We must go and tell the dear birds that Rosy has come."

A WALK AND A DRIVE.

They went only a little way up the road, and then they came to a field, on one side of which were some high bushes. Rosy knew where to look for birds, and peeped very anxiously amidst the boughs till she saw something hopping. Then she pulled her papa's hand, and let him know that she wanted him to stoop down and look too.

He looked, and then whispered,—

"Yes, Rosy. There is a pretty little robin; let us go round the other side and see if we can make him come out with these crumbs which I have brought with me."

So they went softly to the gate, and were just going in, when papa said,—

"Stop, Rosy; look what that man has got in his hand."

Then she looked, and saw a man with a very long gun and two dogs.

"What is he going to do, papa?" asked the little girl, drawing back; "will he shoot us if we go in?"

"O, no, Rosy; don't be afraid. It is the robin that he wants to shoot and not us. So now you see how it is that the dicky-birds don't sing much at Cannes. It is because they shoot so many of them."

Poor little Rosy! She loved so much to watch the little birds and hear them sing! And when she thought of this dear robin being shot quite dead, and that perhaps there was a nest somewhere with little ones who would have no mamma, she began to cry, and to call the man "a cruel fellow."

She was not much comforted by being told that such little birds were eaten there; so that if the man could shoot one, he would get some money for it which might buy bread for his little ones. But she was rather glad to hear that the little robins must be able by that time of year to take care of themselves, and had left the nest some time; and much more pleased, when, soon after, she saw the dear robin fly right away, so that the man with the gun was not likely to shoot that one at any rate.

Then papa said, "I shouldn't wonder if mamma would like to go out this morning. Shall we go back