With joyful haste, Mandy lifted the heavy festoon of nets, and crawled under.  There, in the warm, sunny gloom, lying all rosy and tumbled, with his clothes around his neck, and the old red shawl hopelessly tangled round the bare and active legs, lay baby, cramming his fists in his mouth or tossing them about, while he talked stories to the gleams of sunlight that flickered down through the meshes of the nets.

How he had managed to roll so far, Mandy did not stop to wonder about.  She scooped him up into her arms, the bare legs kicking and struggling, and crawled with him into the open air.

There she sat, hugging him close, with her cheek resting on his head, when the tired, anxious mother, hurrying on ahead of Bub, came running down the hill.

Many times after that, the baby was a “bother” to Mandy, but she was never heard to call him so.

THE SILLY GOOSE.

(An Old Story Re-told.)

BY E.A.  SMULLER.

[Illustration]

  There’s a queer old story which you shall hear. 
  It happened, once on a time, my dear,
  That a goose went swimming on a pond,
  A pleasure of which all geese are fond. 
  She sailed about, and to and fro,
  The waves bent under her breast of snow,
  And her red feet paddled about below,
  But she wasn’t a happy goose—­oh no!

  It troubled her more than she could tell,
  That in the town where she chanced to dwell,
  The saying of “stupid as a goose,”
  Was one that was very much in use. 
  For sneers and snubbing are hard to bear,
  Be he man or beast I do not care,
  Or pinioned fowl of the earth or air,
  We’re all of the same opinion there.

  Now, as she pondered the matter o’er,
  A fox came walking along the shore;
  With a pleasant smile he bowed his head,
  “Good-evening, Mrs. Goose!” he said. 
  “Good-evening, Mr. Fox!” quoth she,
  Looking across at him tremblingly,
  And, fearing he had not had his tea,
  Pushed a trifle farther out to sea.

  She had little harm to fear from him;
  For, with all his tricks, he could not swim,
  And, indeed, his voice was sweet and kind. 
  “Dear Mrs. Goose, you’ve a troubled mind;
  I only wish I could help you through,
  There’s nothing I would not gladly do
  For such a beautiful bird as you.” 
  Which sounded nice, and was really true.

  “Well, then, Mr. Fox,” the goose replied,
  “It hurts my feelings, and wounds my pride,
  That in these days my sisters and I,
  Who saved old Rome by our warning cry,
  Should be called the silly geese.  Ah, me! 
  If I could learn something fine, you see,
  Like writing, or reading the A, B, C,
  What a happy, happy goose I’d be!”

  “Now, would you, indeed!” Renard replied
  As the floating fowl he slyly eyed;
  “I hardly know what ’tis best to say,
  Let’s think about it a moment, pray,
  I may help you yet, my dear, who knows?”
  So he struck a meditative pose,
  And thoughtfully laid his small, red toes,
  Up by the side of his pointed nose.