“Where are you going, Papa, muffled up with such a burden?  Come and eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the brambles.”

Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be very much frightened.

“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried.  “Don’t throw me in the brambles.  They will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart.  Oh, I pray you, rather throw me in the fire.”

“Aha, little rogue, big rogue!  Aha, Brother Rabbit!” exclaimed Brother Goat, exultingly, “You don’t like the brambles?  Well, then, go and laugh in them,” and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of pity.

Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began to laugh.

“Ha-ha-ha!  Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!—­ha-ha-ha!  A better bed I never had!  In these brambles I was born!”

Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself.  Brother Rabbit was safe.

A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.

SONNY’S CHRISTENING

BY

RUTH McENERY STUART

This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic monologue.  There is only one speaker, but we know by his words that another is present and can infer his part in the conversation.  This story has the additional values of humor and local color.

SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’

[Footnote:  From “Sonny, a Christmas Guest,” by Ruth McEnery Stuart.  Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co.  Reprinted by special permission.]

Yas, sir, wife an’ me, we’ve turned ‘Piscopals—­all on account o’ Sonny.  He seemed to prefer that religion, an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have the family divided, so we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can.

I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first.  Seem like I never will git so thet I can sass back in church ‘thout feelin’ sort o’ impident—­but I reckon I’ll chirp up an’ come to it, in time.

I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, even in our own Methodist meetin’s.

Sir?  How old is he?  Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—­but he showed a pref’ence for the ‘Piscopal Church long fo’ he could talk.

When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced a-takin him round to church wherever they held meetin’s,—­’Piscopals, Methodists or Presbyterians,—­so’s he could see an’ hear for hisself.  I ca’yed him to a baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was three.  I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it might make a good impression; but no, sir!  The Baptists didn’t suit him!  Cried ever’ time one was douced, an’ I had to fetch him away.  In our Methodist meetin’s he seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way.  An’ the Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all.  Ricollect, one Sunday the preacher, he preached a mighty powerful disco’se on the doctrine o’ lost infants not ‘lected to salvation—­an’ Sonny?  Why, he slep’ right thoo it.