All the children in the room made three dreadful noises away down in their throats.  Then they had another good laugh, and the president became sober again.  “Seven more minutes,” he said; “this meeting has got to be let out at five sharp.”

A tall girl at the back of the room rose, and said.  “My little cousin has two stories that she would like to tell the band.”

“Very well,” said the president; “bring her right along.”

The big girl came forward, leading a tiny child that she placed in front of the boys and girls.  The child stared up into her cousin’s face, turning and twisting her white pinafore through her fingers.  Every time the big girl took her pinafore away from her, she picked it up again.  “Begin, Nannie,” said the big girl, kindly.

“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Topsy, Graham’s pony.  Well, Topsy would run away, and a big, big man came out to papa and said he would train Topsy.  So he drove her every day, and beat her, and beat her, till he was tired, but still Topsy would run away.  Then papa said he would not have the poor pony whipped so much, and he took her out a piece of bread every day, and he petted her, and now Topsy is very gentle, and never runs away.”

“Tell about Tiger,” said the girl.

“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Tiger, our big dog.  He used to be a bad dog, and when Dr. Fairchild drove up to the house he jumped up and bit at him.  Dr. Fairchild used to speak kindly to him, and throw out bits of meat, and now when he comes, Tiger follows behind and wags his tail.  Now, give me a kiss.”

The girl had to give her a kiss, right up there before every one, and what a stamping the boys made.  The larger girl blushed and hurried back to her seat, with the child clinging to her hand.

There was one more story, about a brave Newfoundland dog, that saved eight lives by swimming out to a wrecked sailing vessel, and getting a rope by which the men came ashore, and then a lad got up whom they all greeted with cheers, and cries of, “The Poet! the Poet!” I didn’t know what they meant, till Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that he was a boy who made rhymes, and the children had rather hear him speak than any one else in the room.

He had a snub nose and freckles, and I think he was the plainest boy there, but that didn’t matter, if the other children loved him.  He sauntered up to the front, with his hands behind his back, and a very grand manner.

“The beautiful poetry recited here to-day,” he drawled, “put some verses in my mind that I never had till I came here to-day.”  Everyone present cheered wildly, and he began in a singsong voice: 

  “I am a Band of Mercy boy,
    I would not hurt a fly,
  I always speak to dogs and cats,
    When’er I pass them by.

  “I always let the birdies sing,
    I never throw a stone,
  I always give a hungry dog
    A nice, fat, meaty bone.