Sometimes kind persons gave him money, and then he always looked happy.  But many times he got nothing for his music, and then he was very sad; for he lived with a cruel master, who always beat him when he came home at night without a good round sum.

One day last spring, he had worked very hard; but people were so busy moving, or cleaning house, that, when night came, he had very little money.  He felt very tired:  so he went home with what he had.

But his cruel master, without stopping to hear a word from the little fellow, gave him a whipping, and sent him out again.  He came to my gate, long after I had gone to bed, and played and sang two or three songs; but he did not sing very well, for he was too tired and sleepy.

Just across the street, in an unfinished building, the carpenters had left a large pile of shavings.  Pedro saw this by the moonlight, as he went along; and he thought he would step in and lie down to rest.  His head had hardly touched the pillow of shavings before he was asleep.

He dreamed about his pleasant home far away in Italy.  He thought he was with his little sisters, and he saw his dear mother smile as she gave him his supper; but, just as he was going to eat, some sudden noise awoke him.

He was frightened to find it was daylight, and that the sun was high in the sky.  In the doorway stood a kind gentleman looking at him.  Pedro sprang up, and took his fiddle; but the gentleman stopped him as he was going out, and asked if that pile of shavings was all the bed he had.  He spoke so kindly, that Pedro told him his story.

The gentleman felt so sorry for him, and was so pleased with his sweet, sad face, that he took him to his own home, and gave him a nice warm breakfast; and, being in want of an errand-boy, he concluded to let Pedro have the place.

Pedro has lived happily in his new home ever since; and, though he still likes to play on his fiddle, he has no wish to return to his old wandering mode of life.

COUSIN EMILY.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

  THE PARROT’S LAMENT.

  Swinging in a gilded cage,
    Petted like a baby’s doll,
  Thus I spend my dull old age,
    And you call me “Poll.” 
  But in youth I roved at will
  Through the wild woods of Brazil.

  When you ask me, “What’s o’clock?”
    Or repeat some foolish rhyme,
  And I try your speech to mock,
    I recall the time
  When I raised my voice so shrill
  In the wild woods of Brazil.

Sporting with my comrades there,
How I flew from bough to bough! 
Then I was as free as air: 
I’m a captive now. 
Oh that I were roaming still
Through the wild woods of Brazil!

JANE OLIVER.

[Illustration]

WHAT THE DOVE LOST.

Uncle Tom was walking slowly down the street, one sunny day, when he saw a boy put his hand into a paper bag, take out a lemon, and throw it at a plump gray pigeon that was trying to pick up some crumbs which had been thrown out.