tired bird does; but her clothes were very ragged.

“I know who you are: you are Posy Pitcher.”

Posy nodded.

“And I’m Lucinda Outhouse.”

“Oh! are you? And does your mamma know you have such big holes in your clo’es, Lucy-vindy?”

“Oh! this woman I live with isn’t my mamma: my mamma’s dead.”

Posy looked sorry.

“My papa died first, and my mamma married me another papa; and then my mamma died, and he married me another mamma. But she don’t belong to me, and he don’t belong to me; and I haven’t any papa and mamma.”

Posy could not understand.

“Don’t you live anywhere?”

“Yes, they let me live with ’em; but they don’t like me. Don’t cry, darling,” added Lucy-vindy with a smile and nod: “God’ll take care o’ me.”

“Oh, yes! He’s one o’ that kind that don’t have anyfing to do but take care o’ folks,” said Posy, her face brightening.

And then her class was called. How her little heart beat under her white frock! and how the blushes came in her soft cheeks! She could hardly read above her breath; but Pollio, who had never been to school before any more than she had, and didn’t know quite so much, poked her with his elbow, and whispered, “What you ’fraid of?” And, when his turn came, he read so loud, you could have heard him in the street.

“Well, how do you like it, my dears?” asked papa at night.

“Oh, she’s the best teacher I ever had!” said Pollio promptly.

“Indeed! Have you learned any thing to-day?”

“Yes, sir,” said Posy, eager to speak: “the world walks!”

“You know what she means; ‘the earth moves,’” laughed Teddy. “She heard ’em say that in the jography-class.”

Posy could see no difference between walking and moving; but she did wish Teddy wouldn’t laugh at every thing she said.

Papa shook his head at Teddy, and went on questioning Posy, who sat on his knee.

“Did my little girl whisper in school?”

“Yes, sir: once or twice or three.”

“Oh my! I should think”—

“Hush, Teddy! Did you carry your slate, Pollio?”

“Yes, sir; and I can make pictures better’n any of ’em.”

His father presumed this was true; for Pollio’s drawings were rather remarkable for a small child.

“And I draw horses for the fellow that sits with me. He’s a jolly boy,—fires ’tatoes out of a gun.”

“Well, the girl with me hops lame,” said Posy, determined not to be outdone by Pollio. “She’s a hypocrite.”

“Cripple!” explained Teddy.

“I think it must be the little girl I meet on the street so often,” said Nunky. “I call her ‘Hop-clover.’ She has a very sweet face.”

“Her father’s an awful drunkard,” remarked Teddy.

“Well, he isn’t her truly papa, and she hasn’t any truly mamma. Her name’s Lucy-vindy, and she hasn’t anybody to take care of her but just God. I wish I could give her my pink dress,” begged Posy.

“We will see about that,” said mamma.

Next day it “rained so hard, the water couldn’t catch its breath;” but the little Pitchers were so eager for school, that their mother let them go. They marched off very proudly under an umbrella; while Teddy walked before them with the books, and Beppo behind with the dinner-pail.

“Hop-clover” carried her dinner too; but at noon, when she saw Posy giving Beppo a piece of cold lamb, she thought,—

“I ’most wish I was Posy Pitcher’s dog, so she’d give me some meat.”

“Where’s your dinner?” said Posy.

“Hop-clover” spread it out then on her desk, looking ashamed as she did so; for it was nothing but dry bread and very dried apple-pie. Posy thought that was what came of having such a queer mother that wasn’t a mother; and offered her new friend an orange.

“Oh, thank you ever so much!” said Hop-clover, her sad eyes sparkling. “I’ve seen oranges lots of times, but I never ate one before.”

Posy looked up in surprise.

“What a baby that is!” thought Jimmy Cushing, spying Posy’s innocent face just then as he came along, swinging his arms, and whistling. “Guess I’ll plague her a little.”

“Oh! is that you, Posy Pitcher?” said he aloud. “Well, I’ve got something for you.”

She blushed and smiled.

“Put out your hand,” said he, offering her a clam. “There, just feel of that: isn’t it smooth? Put your fingers inside.”

She knew no better than to do as he said; and the clam, which was alive, knew no better than to seize her little hand with a dreadful grip. Dear little Posy screamed fearfully, and some of the larger boys had to come in and break the clam-shell with a hammer before her hand was set free.

Pollio knew nothing about it till it was all over, and he found her drying her eyes on Addie Thatcher’s neck.

“Hurt you bad, dear?” asked he tenderly.

“Yes, it did; and that boy saw how I cried. Why, I cried awf’lly!”

The angry brother clinched his fists, and ran to find Jimmy. He did not stop to think of Jimmy’s age and size, but rushed at him wildly, exclaiming, “Take that for ’busing my sister!”

It was the last sentence Pollio spoke for five minutes. How could he speak, with Jimmy’s foot on his back, and his own face close to the earth, eating dirt? It was as much as he could do to breathe.

“Want to whip me again, my son? I’m ready for you!” called out that dreadful Jimmy with a gay laugh.

Wasn’t it hateful, when Pollio couldn’t hurt him any more than a fly at the best of times, and needed both hands now to stop the nose-bleed?

Pollio ran home in a fever of rage; but when the rain had cooled him a little he dreaded to see his mother, and let her know he had been quarrelling.

His aunt Ann met him at the door with a look of amazement; for he had no umbrella, his clothes were soaking with water, and the handkerchief he held to his nose was red with blood.

“Fought I’d come home,” stammered he, darting into the entry. “Dr. Field sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”

“You didn’t come home in the rain to tell me that? How did you get hurt so, my child?”

Pollio wondered how she knew he was hurt, when he hadn’t told her a word.

“Dr. Field did sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And he sent his ’gards to Nunky, and he sent ’em to the whole fam-i-ly.”

The last word ended in a wail. His nose did ache so! and—oh, dear!—it was bleeding again.

Aunt Ann screamed for his mother. He had taken away the handkerchief, and revealed the worst-looking nose you ever saw on a human boy. She thought it was broken, but it was not.

“Jimmy Cushion did that,—the boy I liked that had a pop-gun,” said Pollio after his mother had bathed his face with arnica, and asked him fifty questions.

“What! that large boy?”

“Yes: he’ll be nine years old ’fore I am,” said little Pollio.

“Several years before. Of course, my dear, you had done something to Jimmy?”

“No, mamma. You see, I tried to; but I couldn’t!”

“Tried to! What made you try, my son?”

“Why,