A GOOD DAY'S WORK; OR, HOW THE WIDOW'S APPLES WERE GATHERED.

BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.

"I say, mother, Bill Joyce has run away!" cried Eddie Stevens, rushing into the kitchen swinging his school-bag over his arm.

"Has he, indeed? Well, I'm not very much surprised, for he has behaved very badly ever since his father died. I'm sorry, though, for poor Mrs. Joyce. She'll be all alone now, and I don't know how she'll get through the winter."

"She wanted Bill to pick the apples, an' he wouldn't, an' so he jes' got his best clothes, an' went down the road to Moorfield Station, an' he told Sammy Brown he was a-goin to sea; an' he had lots of money, for Sammy Brown seen it, an' I seen Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the—"

"Stop! stop! Eddie, say 'saw,' not 'seen,'" said his mother.

"Well, I saw Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the winder, an' a-cryin' like a house a-fire, an' I guess Bill stoled—"

"Stop again," interposed Mrs. Stevens. "Say 'I think' and 'stole.'"

"Well, anyhow I guess—I mean, I think—he's got her money."

"Poor woman, she has trouble indeed. A drunken husband, who dies and leaves the place mortgaged for more than it's worth; a fire that burns her barn; and now a bad son, who runs away with what little she has saved to get through the winter with. I'll go and see her tomorrow."

The next afternoon when Eddie came home his mother looked very thoughtful. She said, "Don't you think you could persuade the boys to pick Widow Joyce's apples on Saturday?"

Eddie said nothing, but looked very dubious, for the widow was not liked by the boys.

"Do you think you will ever become so bad that you will want to run away, Eddie?" and his mother looked into his eyes anxiously.

"No, indeed, mother. But you ain't like Bill's mother. She used to lick him awful," replied Eddie.

"Say 'whip,' and 'very hard,' my son."

"Yes, mother."

"Well, will you ask the boys?"

"I'll try 'em, ma."

When Eddie started for school the next day his mind was full of the mission his mother had given him to the boys.

"What ye lookin' so serus about, Ed? 'Pears like ye'd lost all yer best friends," exclaimed the blacksmith, as Eddie passed his open door.

Tom the smith and the little boy were excellent friends, despite the former's remark, and Eddie told him all about Bill, and the widow, and his mother's wish.

"Well, now, ef that ain't a right good idee! You tell the boys ef they'll git the apples onto the ground in piles, I'll hitch up to one of these wagons an' fetch 'em to the mill."

"Can we all go an' see 'em grinded into cider?"

"See here, Ed, your mother'll scold you for usin' sech langwige. What makes ye say 'grinded'? I have to despise folks as don't treat their grammar proper."

"No, mother won't scold me, neither, Tom. She says she rules with love; an' when she talks to me after I've done anythin' bad, it's worse 'n bein' licked. Did your mother lick you when you was little, Tom?"

Somehow the sturdy smith was the sober one now, and he only answered, "Jest you get along to