“He must come to me,” he said, sternly, to the cricket he was eating.

The cricket said nothing, being half-way down his throat, and pretty soon Nipsy could stand his feelings no longer.  Catching up the largest, smoothest, softest cricket, he ran down to the shore as fast as his legs could carry him.  There, in the twilight, he saw a lonely figure standing on one leg.

“Pipsy!” he cried.

“Nipsy!” cried Pipsy.

And they flew to each other.

“Here’s a glorious fat cricket for you.”

“Forgive me, Nipsy,” said his brother.

And then they were happy.

[Illustration:  Blossoms.]

UNDER THE LILACS.

By Louisa M. Alcott.

CHAPTER XIV.

Somebody gets lost.

Putting all care behind them, the young folks ran down the hill, with a very lively dog gamboling beside them, and took a delightfully tantalizing survey of the external charms of the big tent.  But people were beginning to go in, and it was impossible to delay when they came round to the entrance.

Ben felt that now “his foot was on his native heath,” and the superb air of indifference with which he threw down his dollar at the ticket-office, carelessly swept up the change, and strolled into the tent with his hands in his pockets, was so impressive that even big Sam repressed his excitement and meekly followed their leader, as he led them from cage to cage, doing the honors as if he owned the whole concern.  Bab held tight to the tail of his jacket, staring about her with round eyes, and listening with little gasps of astonishment or delight to the roaring of lions, the snarling of tigers, the chatter of the monkeys, the groaning of camels, and the music of the very brass band shut up in a red bin.

Five elephants were tossing their hay about in the middle of the menagerie, and Billy’s legs shook under him as he looked up at the big beasts whose long noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him with awe.  Sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys that they left him before the cage and went on to see the zebra, “striped just like Ma’s muslin gown,” Bab declared.  But the next minute she forgot all about him in her raptures over the ponies and their tiny colts, especially one mite of a thing who lay asleep on the hay, such a miniature copy of its little mouse-colored mamma that one could hardly believe it was alive.

“Oh, Ben, I must feel of it!—­the cunning baby horse!” and down went Bab inside the rope to pat and admire the pretty creature, while its mother smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily opened one eye to see what was going on.

“Come out of that, it isn’t allowed!” commanded Ben, longing to do the same thing, but mindful of the proprieties and his own dignity.