Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit:  This is a true story of Mary’s horse.  He
    was just as black as a coal all over, except a pretty white star
    on his forehead.

    Once in two or three weeks Mary had him take tea with her and her
    little brother and sisters.  She went to the stable where he lived
    with Kate and Nell, two pretty twin ponies, and said to him: 

    “Come, Jack!  Don’t you want some, tea?”

    At that, he came right up to her, and found out the buttons on
    her dress, and tried to pull them off, and then untied her apron
    strings.

    “Now, Jack,” Mary said, “tea is all ready.  Come along!”—­and he
    followed her along the walk to the back door and up the three
    steps into the house.

    What a clatter his iron shoes made along the entry to the
    dining-room!

    Harry and Annie and Fanny rushed out, crying: 

    “Oh, mamma!  Here’s Jack coming to tea!”

Then mamma filled a large bowl with tea, put in plenty of milk and three or four pieces of white sugar (for Jack had a sweet tooth), and cut a slice of bread into pieces, and put them on a plate, with a doughnut or piece of gingerbread.  And Mary said: 

    “Now, Jack, come up to the table!”

You see, he was too big to sit in a chair; but he came close up to the table and stood there, and drank his tea without slopping any over, and ate up his bread and cake.  And when he had done, what do you think he did?  Why, he went up to the piano that stood in a corner of the room and smelled the keys, and looked round at Mary.  That was to ask her to play him a tune before he went home.

Then she said, “Oh, you dear Jack!  I know what you want!” And she sat down and played some merry tune, while he pricked up his ears and put his nose down close to her fingers, he was so pleased.  Then he rubbed her shoulder with his nose, and Mary played another tune for him.

    “Now, Jack,” mamma said, “you’ve had a nice time; but you must
    go back to your stable.  Kate and Nell will miss you if you stay
    longer.”

    Then Mary opened the dining-room door, and Jack followed her down
    the long entry and out to the stable, just like a dog.—­Yours
    truly,

    B.P.

TONGUES WHICH CARRY TEETH.

You’ve heard of folks with biting tongues, I dare say, and very disagreeable they are, no doubt, though, of course, they do not actually bite with their tongues.  However, there really is an unpleasant fellow whose tongue carries twenty-six thousand eight hundred teeth!  A capital one for biting, you’d suppose.  He is nothing but a slug, though, and his army of teeth only scrape, not bite, I’m told.  Then, too, there is a sort of cousin of his, a periwinkle, who has a long ribbon-like tongue, armed with six hundred crosswise rows of hooks, about seven in a row.