The gardener gravely shook his head;
    “It was a heartless act,” he said;
    “And, more than that, you may depend
    Upon my word, you’ve killed a friend;
    For often, at my work, I’ve found
    This same toad near me, hopping round,
    And, watching him, I’ve learned that he
    My constant helper used to be,—­
    A second gardener, with no pay,
    Who still was busy every day.

    “He killed the young potato-bugs,
    The caterpillars, and the slugs,
    The beetles striped with yellow lines,
    That spoil the tender melon-vines,
    And looked round with his blinking eyes
    For cabbage-worms and turnip-flies,
    Low-flying moths with downy wings,
    And slimy snails in shady nooks. 
    It was the cruellest of things
    To kill poor Hop Toad for his looks.

    “And if, when you shall older grow,
    You strangers judge by outward show,
    You’ll be as foolish as unjust: 
    In worthless men you’ll put your trust,
    And often sorrow, in the end,
    For having wronged some honest friend.

MARIAN DOUGLAS.

A CURE FOR THE TOOTHACHE.

Our Ned is a brave little fellow about eight years old.  He is full of fun, and loves to play out of doors in all kinds of weather.

But what little boy can be merry when he has a raging toothache!  Ned bore it like a hero; but he had to give up at last, and he was glad to take refuge in his mother’s lap, and be a baby again for a while.

With his head pillowed on his mother’s breast, the little boy found some relief; but still he was in great pain.  His sister stood by, trying to think of some way to help him.  Ned could hardly keep from crying; but he said to his mother, “I should like to have you tell me a story.”

“What shall it be, darling?” said his mother.

“Tell me about Harry and his dog Jack.”  This story had been told to Ned when he was a very, very little boy, and a good many times since then.  It seemed odd to his mother that he had chosen such an old story.  But he wanted to hear it; and so she told it all over again.  This is the story:—­

“There was once a little boy named Harry, and he had a little dog named Jack.  Jack was a queer-looking dog.  He was nearly all black; but he had a white tail, and his front-feet were white.

“Harry loved Jack very much, and as he never forgot to feed him, and never teased him, the dog loved Harry very much.  When Harry went to school, Jack went too,—­not into the schoolroom (for dogs can’t learn to read, you know), but into the school-yard, where he played about till Harry came out again.  At recess, he used to play with the boys, and have almost as much fun as if he were a boy too.

“The yard wasn’t very large, and, when the boys played ball, they would often throw the ball over the fence.  Then it was Jack’s part of the play to run after the ball.  The boys would call, ‘Jack, Jack!’ and Jack would run under the fence, seize the ball in his mouth, and bring it back to the boys.