It was a walrus bellowing in the bay.  Sammy turned toward the blue water.  As he turned, he saw the minister standing near his chapel.  Sammy thought of the text he preached from, the Sunday before, and he began to repeat it to himself: 

“Love your enemies—­”

“I guess I will let Billy stay here about an hour,” said Sammy, meditating.

“Bless them that curse you—­”

“I guess I will let Billy stay here half an hour.”

“Do good to them that hate you—­”

“I guess I will let Billy stay here ten minutes.”

“And pray for them which despitefully use you—­”

“I guess I will take Billy out now!” And Sammy ran towards the prisoner.

“Billy, are you hurt?”

Billy turned his head away, ashamed to speak.

“Let me take your foot out.”

Billy’s foot was about as fat as a bear’s in July, and it came hard.  He shook his head.  His tongue stuck to his mouth like a clam to his shell, and moved not.  Neither could he step.

“I will take you on my back, Billy!” said Sammy.

And that’s the way they went home.  Billy in his dress generally looked like a seal standing on his hind flippers, and Sammy resembled one also—­nevertheless it was a pleasant sight.

NANNETTE’S LIVE BABY.

A good many years ago, in the city of Philadelphia, lived a little girl, named Nannette.

One summer afternoon her mother went to pay a short visit to her aunt, who lived near by, and gave her little girl permission to amuse herself on the front door-steps until her return.  So Nannette, in a clean pink frock and white apron, playing and chatting with her big, wax “Didy,” which was her doll’s name, formed a pretty picture to the passers-by, some of whom walked slowly, in order to hear the child’s talk to her doll.

“You’se a big, old girl,” she went on, smoothing out Didy’s petticoats, “and I’ve had you for ever and ever, and I’se mos’ six.  But you grow no bigger.  You never, never cry, you don’t.  You’se a stupid old thing, and I’m tired of you, I am!  I b’leve you’se only a make b’leve baby, and I want a real, live baby, I do—­a baby that will cry!  Now don’t you see,” and she gave the doll’s head a whack—­“that you don’t cry?  If anybody should hit me so, I’d squeam m-u-r-d-e-r, I would!  And then the p’lissman would come, and there would be an awful time.  There, now sit up, can’t you?  Your back is like a broken stick.  Oh, hum, I’m tired of you, Didy.”

Leaving the doll leaning in a one-sided way against the door, Nannette posed her dimpled chin in her hands, and sat quietly looking into the street.  Presently a woman came along with a bundle in her arms, and seeing Nannette and “Didy” in the doorway, went up the steps and asked the little girl if she would not like to have a real little live baby.