Mike found the brilliant pair, going over and over the same ground.  You need not laugh, little reader; that’s just what your father would do, if you were lost.

Five minutes after they had learned where Johnny was, they were standing over him in Mike’s house—­standing over him, and the baby in the yellow flannel night-dress, for they were both in one bed, and Johnny’s father saw them about as clearly as Johnny had seen the candle.

The family were thanked individually and collectively, from Mike down to the baby, who, when Johnny left, was covered with sweetmeats and toys, brought from New York to Johnny.

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnny learned many things, among them that it was very wrong to run away, and he must be punished, and grandma should decide how severely.

“I will punish him myself,” said grandma, “by removing all temptation to do so again.”

Johnny is too young now to appreciate his pleasant sentence, but in after years, when his sins are heavier, he will miss his gentle judge.

He was to leave Plowfield the next day for New York; but he was to come back again with the summer, and many were the promises he made of good behavior.

When the time came for him to go, he clung so to his grandma that his father said: 

“You need not go, Johnny, if you would rather stay.”

“No,” said Johnny, “I want to go; but why don’t they have drandmas and fathers live in the same house?”

At last, he was all tucked in the sleigh, and grandpa had started.

“Stop! wait!” said Johnny, “I forgot something.”

He jumped out of the sleigh, ran back to grandma, clasped his arms around her neck, and whispered in her ear: 

“I’m sorry, drandma, ’cause I spilt the cream, and I’m awfil glad I didn’t smash the bowl.”

A MONUMENT WITH A STORY.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Many times have I heard English people say, as if they really pitied us:  “Your country has no monuments yet; but then she is so young—­only two hundred years old—­and, of course, cannot be expected to have either monuments or a history.”  Yet we have some monuments, and a chapter or two of history, that the mother-country does not too fondly or frequently remember.  But I am not going to write now of the Bunker Hill Monument, nor of the achievement at New Orleans, nor of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown.  I want to tell of another land nearer its infancy than ours, with a history scarcely three-quarters of a century old, but with one monument, at least, that is well worth seeing, and that cannot be thought of without emotions of loving admiration and reverence.  The memorial is of bronze, and tells a story of privation and suffering, but of glorious heroism, and victory even in death.