“You!” fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the cradle.  “Isn’t it too much!” she continued, as she swept across the room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass.

“There, sir!” and the child’s ear rang with the box he received.  “There, sir!” and the box was repeated.  “Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to touch that hair-oil?  Just see what a spot of grease you’ve made on the carpet!  Look at your hands!”

Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean.

“There! stop! mercy!  Now see your new jacket that you put on this morning.  Grease from top to bottom!  Isn’t it too bad!  I am in despair!” And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her body drop into a chair.

“It’s no use to try,” she continued; “I’ll give up.  Just see that jacket! it’s totally ruined; and that carpet, too.  Was there ever such a trying boy!  Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to come up here.”

Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was directed to get some fuller’s earth and put upon the carpet where oil had been spilled.

Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother’s room, Tom, being once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return.  His first work there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning the coffee-mill.

“Tommy,” said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, “you know I’ve told you that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill.  See here, on the floor, where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a broom and sweep it up.  If you do so, I can’t let you come down here.”

The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the broom and swept up the dirt he had made.

“It’s all clean again now,” said the cook, pleasantly.  “And you won’t do so any more, will you?”

“No, I won’t touch the coffee-mill.”  And, as Tom said this, he sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a dive into it with his hand.

“Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won’t do, either,” said the cook.  “The knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat with.”

“Then what can I play with, Margaret?” asked the child, as he left the dresser.  “I want something to play with.”

The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out a little basket filled with clothes-pins.  As she held them in her hand, she said—­“Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with.  But remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the room, I will put them up again.”

“Oh, no, I won’t throw them about,” said the little fellow, with brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins.