Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 November 1892 — FOR OUR LITTLE FOLKS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

FOR OUR LITTLE FOLKS.

A COLUMN OF PARTICULAR INTEREST TO THEM. What Children Have Done, What They Are Doing, and What They Should Do to Pass Their Childhood Daye. A Frog He Would A-woolng Go. Sir Frog looked out one summer day. Found the aorld so bright and himself so gay, That he said. «A-woo!ng I will go, As my grandpa did, long, l.ng, ago.” It took him a day to change his coat; -And the flies he ate to clear his Zhroatf Then away, till Miss Mouse's home he seea, And pretty Miss Mouse a-tasting cheea*.

The he sang. “Ketchug. kerchug, kerchoo,” Which moans, pretty Mouse, I love but you. But pretty Miss Mouse put up her nose And tripped away on her dainty toes. Then san Sir Frog in basso line: “Kerchug; things have changed since grandpa's time.” —New York World.

Ambitious to Rise.

Mrs. Molyneux—-Why are you always so naughty? Courtney—Because papa says that little boys who are so very, very good never amount to anything. And I’m going to amount to something, if I have to be naughty all the time. — Harper’s Young People.

A Good Day.

Bev. Dr. Primrose—How is it your father always comes home from fishing on a Priday? Little Johnny—’Cause he's then §ure to find a good assortment of fish in the market. —New York Evening Sun.

A Half and a Half.

A small pupil in one of our schools stood before her teacher at recess with the half of an apple in each hand. “Which half is the biggest, Miss H ?” Her teacher was in a mood to be critical, and answered: “A half is a half, whether it’s half of an apple or half of the world. So. you see, if your apple is cut exactly in halves, one half must be just the size of the other half.” The eyes of the little pupil filled with tears as she heard this scholarry discussion. But she still held out the two ‘'halves'’ of her apple, although her little hands trembled. “I didn’t mean it that way, teacher,” she said, sweetly; “I want you to have the biggest half.” “Thank you, my dear ” said the teacher, who suddenly discovered that it took very little learning to be generous and thoughtful.

A Thief In Feathers.

Most boys who live in the country have had a tame crow at some stage of their career, and the verdict seems to be that a tame crow is more tame than any other living thing. A gentleman, talking about crows the other day, also said that crows are very brainy animals, and that a bundle of old clothes strung on a stick in a corn field never deceives a veteran crow. He can tell it from a man every time. Sevei al years ago, this gentleman said, he was keeping a dry-goods store in Nashville, and owned a pet crow. Little articles were often missed, but the shoplifter could not be detected. “One day,” he continued, “a one-hundred-dollar bill disappeared from the cash desk, ana I then hired a detective to watch the store. He was not long in spotting the thief. Mr. Crow flew away with a skein of silk thread, and he was followed. He deposited it in the hollow of an oak tree in the rear of the building, and came back for another haul. . We cut the tree down, and found It to contain more than a bushel basketful of notions of all kinds, filched from the counters, and in the lot was my one-hundred-dollar bill. He was the most successful shoplifter 1 ever knew. We irdjhneled a mock court, tried the offc nder, and passed sentence of death upon him. But it was never executed. Whether he understood the sentence, or simply realized that his occupation was gone, I do not know, but with a loud croak he flew away and we never saw him again.” —Harper’s Young People.

A Child’s Plea.

Like every other decent man, I am fond of children. Their bright, fresh faces, their clear, ringing voices, their thoughtless sayings—all have a charm for me. Were I to live my life over again I would not be the old bachelor I am to-day. Instead of spending so large a part of my years in roaming in foreign lands, I would devote it to making some sweet woman happy. The children I should most admire to lift upon iny knee would be my own children. But alas! as the poet says, “who can live youth over?” As we sow, so must we reap. And this reminds me, by a curious sort of mental association, to tell a story about one of the prettiest little Portland girls I know. I will call her Rosie, because that, I think, is a charming name for any little girl. Last summer Rosie’s mother had just put her to bed in her little room up one flight, and heard her repeat her evening prayer when a flash of lightning lit up the partially darkened room, followed by a beany peal of thunder. Rosie was frightened and wanted to go down stairs. But her mother told her there was no danger. “God is here with you, my child. Nothing can harm you where God is. ” So she consoled ana comforted Rosie, and left the chamber. Hardly had the mother got seated in the sittingroom, where her husband was reading his evening paper, when another terrific crash of thunder rolled over the house. Before the reverberating peal had fairly died away the door of

the sitting-room was opened and h ran little Rosie and threw hersel into her father’s arms, sobbing outi “Papa, papa, let mamma go up in mj room and stay with God, and you lei me stay down here with you."—Port? land Argus.