On one occasion, while I was gathering these nuts, I was startled by a loud shrieking not far off, and, looking in the direction of the noise, I saw that there was a great commotion among the monkeys—­about a hundred of them squealing and yelling and gesticulating at once.  It was on the ground, where the monkey-crowd swayed to and fro like any civilized mob.  I ran up to see what the fracas was about, but not without some misgivings as to the risk of meddling in other people’s business.

(To be continued.)

SINGING PINS.

BY HARLAN H. BALLARD.

It has been said, you know, that all the millions of pins which are lost every year are picked up by fairies and hammered out on elfin anvils into notes of music.  There are some who say that this statement must be received with caution, although they admit that the half and quarter notes do bear a very singular resemblance to pins.

I confess that I shared the doubts of this latter class of persons until a few evenings since; for although I knew well enough that pins were bright and sharp enough in their way, I never had been able to discover one of a musical turn of mind.

But having on a certain evening heard a choir of pins singing “Yankee Doodle” till you would have thought that their heads must ache forever after, I hereby withdraw all my objections, and express my decided opinion that the above-named theory of the future life of pins is fully as accurate as any other with which I am acquainted.

The chorus of pins who were singing “Yankee Doodle” were standing at the time on a piece of pine-board, and were evidently very much stuck up.

One of their number, however, when asked if they were not rather too self-important, bent his head quickly downward, and replied that he couldn’t see the point, which was exceedingly brassy for a pin.

They looked for all the world as if they were a line of music which, impatient of being forever kept under key and behind bars, had revolted under the leadership of an intrepid staff-officer, and marched right out of Sister Mary’s instruction-book.

[Illustration:  TUNING THE PINS.]

Indeed, from a remark which the staff-officer let fall, to the effect that if they did not all see sharp they would soon be flat again, nothing else would be natural than to accept that supposition as the truth.

Pins they were of all papers and polish.

They were not ranged according to height, as good soldiers should be, nor did they all stand erect, but each seemed bent on having his own way.

Their heads varied greatly from an even line, and on the whole they looked far more like the notes of music which they had been, than like the orderly row of singing-pins which they aspired to be.  They had a scaly appearance.

My small brother had assumed the management of this curious chorus, and I was much amused at the manner in which he drilled them.  For he coolly picked up the splendid staff-officer by his head and poked the first bass with his point, as if to say, “Time—­sing!” Whereupon that pin set up a deep, twanging growl, to express his disapprobation of that method of drill.