“No, Laura, although his mistress scolded him well, and Tom quite understood, for cats who are kindly treated are afraid of angry words.”
“Did you ever see Tom drink the milk in this way?”
“Yes, for his mistress was proud of his cleverness, and she would place the jug on the floor for him. When she did that, Tom knew he might drink it, and he would take up the milk in his paw so cleverly that it was soon gone.”
How stilly, yet how sweetly, The little while they bloom, They teach us quiet trustfulness, Allure our hearts from selfishness, And smile away our gloom: So do they prove that heavenly love Doth every path illume!
How stilly, yet how sadly, When summer fleeteth by, And their sweet work of life is done, They fall and wither, one by one, And undistinguish’d lie: So warning all that Pride must fall, And fairest forms must die!
How stilly, yet how surely, They all will come again, In life and glory multiplied, To bless the ground wherein they died, And long have darkly lain:— So we may know, e’en here below, Death has no lasting reign!
We had a merry playmate in a little brook that ran down through the sunny meadows! It slipped and slid over little mossy pebbles and called to us, “Follow, follow, follow!” in the sweetest little voice in the world!
Sometimes, I would kneel down on the little low bank, and bend my head down close, and ask, “Where are you going, little brook?”
It would splash a cool drop of spray in my face, and run on calling, “Follow, follow, follow!” just as before.
Wild strawberries grew red and sweet down in the tall grass, and great purple violets, and tall buttercups nid-nodding in the wind.
Very often Myra and I would take off our shoes and stockings, and wade. The roguish little brook would tickle my small toes, and try and trip me up on one of its little mossy stones. Once I did slip and sat right down in the water with a great splash! And the little brook took all the starch out of my clothes, and ran off with it in a twinkling.
Now and then, I would fasten a bent pin to a string and tie the string to the end of a stick and fish for the tiny minnows and tadpoles. But, somehow, I never caught one of the little darting things. I used to believe the brook whispered them to keep away from that little shining hook.
