hand.

It was a shrunken little mite, with a big coat on it that came to the floor, and a hat that must have belonged to somebody's grandpa—a comical, pitiful, heart-breaking little figure as ever was seen.

"Who's that, Tim?" asked the gentleman of the boy to whose hand the little creature was desperately clinging. He didn't know Tim very well, and had never encountered this tiny object before.

"I don't know as you'll like it," gasped Tim, apparently in great terror lest he was going to be circumvented, "but it's the Baby, 'n' he's five years, on'y he's little, 'cause he hasn't growed, 'n' he's been sick, 'n' mother said as how a whiff o' country'd do him good, 'n' mebby he could go 'stead o' me. Philly here'll see to him."

"Yes, sir," said Phil Barstow, whose outfit was only less imposing than the Baby's own. "I know the Baby, 'n' the Baby knows me, 'n' if you think it's too many for Tim to go too, we kinder decided—Tim's mother 'n' Tim 'n' me—that mebby the Baby'd better go 'stead o' Tim, or," added Phil, with unexpected heroism, and swallowing hard, "or 'stead o' me."

"It's all right," said the gentleman, who was sure, from the tone of Farmer Hurlbut's letter, that he wouldn't mind having seven any more than six. "It's all right, Tim. Now take good care of him, and sit still, all of you."

So "the Baby" was put on board, and the cars moved slowly off.

At the end of their journey, there was Farmer Hurlbut with his big lumber wagon, which had three boards laid across it for seats. The boys, with their bags and their dreadful costumes, filed out as soon as the train stopped, their glowing faces revealing unmistakably their identity.

They were immediately pounced upon and conveyed to their seats in the wagon, where Aunt Sereny was waiting for them.

Farmer Hurlbut was overflowing with joviality and good-humor. Two great suggestive baskets and a mighty jug were packed into the front of the wagon, and behind were various boxes and barrels to hold the surplus nuts.

"And who's this?" asked Aunt Sereny, beaming delightfully from the front seat of the wagon, and fixing her gaze particularly upon the forlorn little straggler clinging tight to Tim's hand.

"Please, mum," said Tim, eagerly, "it's the Baby, 'n' he's sick, 'n' mother was for havin' him come 'stead o' me, but they said mebby you'd take us both."

"Take you both!" exclaimed the dear old lady, wiping her eyes vigorously, and kissing the Baby's weazened little face, "I guess we will! It'll do him good, likely's not, bless his heart! Josiah, mebby"—as the horses started off briskly—"mebby," significantly, "the boys are hungry after their journey. Just get out the little tin cups 'n' I'll give them a drink o' milk apiece, 'n' mebby a sandwich 'n' a turn-over as we're riding along. It's a good ways up to the north pastur'," continued the old lady, as she dealt out the things liberally, and watched them grasped eagerly by the half-starved little creatures.

"There's plenty, boys; eat all you want. Goodness me! Josiah Hurlbut," she whispered to her husband, "they haven't had nothing to eat for a week—I know they haven't!"

But the chief ecstasy was on the back seat, where the Baby was ensconced between Tim and Philly, and eagerly swallowing a cup of Aunt Sereny's rich yellow milk.

"Massy, Phil," cried Tim, admiringly, "see the Baby a-drinkin'! How does it taste, Baby?—good?"

The Baby nodded, a grave smile settling upon his poor little visage under the big hat.

"More," he said, weakly.

"More! My gracious!" said Tim, in the wildest spirits—"more! He wants more, Philly. Hain't et or drinked so much as this for a month, I sh'd think. Can he have some more, mum?" reaching out a claw-like hand with the tin cup, which went back brimming full.

Pretty soon the boys began to talk.

"See there!—quick! That's a squirrel, boys—a reg'lar squirrel. Ever see one before?"

"Trout in that brook, bet you a cent, boys! Won't the rest o' the fellers stare when we tell 'em what we've seen?"

"Are there more nuts 'n that"—pointing to a heavily laden tree which they were passing—"in the place we're going to?"

"Humph!" returned Farmer Hurlbut, the sight of whose ponderous fist had impressed his wild little crew as much perhaps as his kindness and generosity; "there's more nuts up in the north pastur', where we're a-goin', than you'll see all the way put together."

In about an hour the north pastur' was reached, and the boys tumbled out of the wagon amid a jumble of sweet-fern and pennyroyal, and other sweet woodsy-smelling things.

Aunt Sereny found a comfortable seat near by, and fell to knitting as usual, and Farmer Hurlbut, going to a thicket close at hand, pulled out two long stout poles, which he had prepared for this very occasion, and laid away a week before.

Then Jim Bowker and Sammy Jones, two of the biggest boys, were sent up two of the best trees, and once well up, they lay flat along the great branches, and plied the poles vigorously. The glossy brown nuts and prickly burrs came flying "fast and furious."

The Baby crept timidly out of the wild bombardment, and sat down beside the ample figure of Aunt Sereny. His tiny hand—the fac-simile of Tim's only less skinny—grasped her dress firmly. Aunt Sereny put her hand into her pocket and drew forth unheard-of treasures of peppermints, sweet-flag root, and caraway-seeds. These the Baby gravely took and devoured.

Noon coming ever so much too soon, Aunt Sereny, amid great applause, suggested something more in the line of refreshments. She accordingly spread a white cloth over a great flat rock, and set forth a feast calculated to drive a hungry boy crazy with delight. Even the Baby fairly laughed aloud.

"I tell you, boys," said Tim, springing to his feet as he heard it, and even dropping a precious tart in his enthusiasm—"I tell you the Baby hasn't laughed like that since I can remember. Hi! ain't it jolly?"

The meal fairly over, they lay a little while on the warm dry grass enjoying the mild sunshine, Aunt Sereny knitting peacefully on. Two or three boys dozed a little, and the Baby crept up to his old place beside Aunt Sereny, and gathering up his tiny figure upon her dress, went fast asleep. She spread a light shawl over him, and drew him closer, amid affectionate and admiring glances from Tim. Tim adored anybody who was good to the Baby.

Pretty soon Farmer Hurlbut roused them up to go to the walnut-trees, and two other boys were detailed for duty in the branches, which they beat and beat again with their poles. "Shucks" were new things to them all.

"Shure enough," said Larry O'Brien, with a fine brogue, "and now I'll know what they mane whin they say I don't know shucks—but I do, though."

This caused an uproarious laugh, and Larry kept on saying witty things, to the great amusement of all. Not Sydney Smith himself was ever the source of more delight.

The train was to start at five, and it was nearly that time when the tired, sunburned, happy little crowd drew up at the railroad station. Aunt Sereny had been having a whispered consultation with Farmer Hurlbut on the way home, and when they stopped, she took Tim and the Baby aside.

"Tim," she said, "can't you leave the Baby with us a little while—to stay a week or two, you know? You tell me where to write, and I'll let your mother know how he gets along. We'll take good care of him."

Tim gazed at her with open mouth and shining eyes. "The Baby?" he gasped. "Why—mother—and—me" (slowly) "can't get along 'thout the Baby. He sleeps with me"—his lip trembling—"every night. Seems 's if I couldn't sleep nohow 'thout his little hand hold o' mine."

"But he says he'd like to stay," Aunt Sereny answered, coaxingly. "I asked him"—for the mite had ridden home in Aunt Sereny's lap.

"Does he?" said Tim, brightening. "If he wants to—mebby—well—D'ye