manliness, and for this purpose held him suspended by his heels over the ledge of a little river, threatening to douse his head in the stream unless he uttered a swear-word. Wattie stubbornly refuses for a time, then attempts a compromise with a word all too mild to satisfy his tormentors, and at last, as he feels the water playing with his forelock, lets out a reluctantly orotund "dom "-which is to serve his brothers, from then on, as a Damocles sword for immediate use should he ever show signs of sneaking again. Let him play the tell-tale, and their father should know that once he had said "dom."

One cannot help remarking how much better a time the boy in fiction has than the girl; but here, no doubt, it will be said that the reason is simple, and that fiction here is but once more faithful to life. There are, as we have seen, sad and lonely boys in fiction; but for the most part, from Tom Jones to Huckleberry Finn, the lot of the boy, particularly the bad boy, is perhaps of all human lots the most enviable. No created being has so much fun out of life, and carries things with so high a hand. With all his sad and haunted children, Dickens's pages are alive with the high spirits of impish boys. When Little Nell goes on one of her frightened errands to Mr. Quilp, that gentleman has occasion to administer some energetic thwackings to an unregenerate office-boy; but, alas for the reformative efficacy of corporal punishment! what do Little Nell's gentle eyes see, as Mr. Quilp and she push off in the wherry to cross the Thames, but that so recently chastised youngster doing a de

risive pas seul on his head, on the edge of the wharf, for the benefit of his master. Such flibbertigibbets are as dear to Dickens's heart as they were to Shakespeare's and Scott's.

The boyhood of Thackeray's characters is always vivid with reality. Vanity Fair may fade and Esmond grow to seem rococo, but the youth of Pendennis will never lose its dash and savor. Similarly, Meredith's subtle psychology may well come to seem an ingenuity of weariness, but the boyhood of Richard and Ripton, of Beauchamp and Harry Richmond, will not soon lose its gusto; and how grateful one is, amid the endless labyrinth of The Egoist, for the boyish laughter of Crossjay. But, of course, the arch-creator of boys is that great humorist who recently took with him to the grave so much of the gaiety of nations, yet bountifully left so much of it behind, of which even the passage of Time, more perilous to humorists than death itself, can hardly rob usthat deep-hearted comedian who was so great an artist of laughter because of the tears and the poetry that were in him, compounded with all the drollery-that Mark Twain who could alike create for us a Tom Sawyer and a Huckleberry Finn, tell with all a poet's insight and pity the story of Joan of Arc, and weave a fantasy at once so dream-like and so human as The Prince and the Pauper. Only one other writer of our time has approached him in the understanding of that whimsical animal the boy, that many-sided genius who has told us the story of The Drums of the Fore and Aft, and set Kim astride of the old cannon in the market-place of Lahore.

M

R. TOM TWITTER slapped the door shut on a saucy gust of wind with the triumphant air of having excluded every variety of woe and aggravation with the flakes and wintry draught. It was a cold night; it blew high, with a dust of snow in the gale, and there was aggravation enough in the frosty darkness for Mr. Twitter's bones, and woe enough for his spirit in the sullen cross-currents of work-people going past in the bitter obscurity. But having closed the door with a swift and victorious bang, Mr. Twitter hopped around, cocked his head, and perked about his little shop, in glances of the sharpest, from the floor to the ceiling and all over the walls, with a shining smile of satisfaction. He twittered-that is to say, he chuckled and he snatched off his cap, and stamped his feet, and rubbed his hands, and began to turn a jovial rosy color. He cried, blithely, "Hello there, all you little folks!" and, "Ah-ha, ye rascals!" and, "How-dy do!" Then he slipped off his great coat quick as a flash, and trimmed the lights, and dashed at the scowling stove and gave it a furious shaking; whereupon the little shop, which had been gloomy and silent in the absence of the singular proprietor, glowed with light and warmth and awoke to vociferous jubilation.

Mr. Twitter was a spare fellow, with a lean, shaven face, furnished with pleasantly snapping gray eyes, fun-loving lips much used to pursing, and a long, agreeably curved nose like a beak of engaging proportions. He was jaunty and rosy and nimble; and he sparkled with genial friendliness from his flashing bald pate to the polished tips of his toes. His eyes twinkled, his face shone, his rounded waistcoat expressed its satisfaction, his legs were of a humorous cut and habit. Standing presently in the middle of the floor, his long legs spread wide, his hands

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deep down in his breeches pockets, his head cocked once more, his ears wide open, his eyes twinkling, his brows lifted so high in delighted expectation that each described a tall isosceles triangle, Mr. Twitter cried again: "Ah-ha, ye little scallawags! Glad t' see the old gentleman, eh? Everybody hungry?" And he went Tweet, tweet!" with ingratiating sweetness, as if addressing a canary with fluency and the most intimate familiarity in its own language; and he whistled with furious authority, as if summoning a wilful old dog to his heels. And in spite of these loud and happy salutations, there was not a soul in the shop. Not a soul! But had such a shocking assertion confronted Mr. Twitter he would instantly have demolished it—with argument, with contempt, with ridicule; and all quite to his own satisfaction. "Not a soul in the shop? Preposterous!" Mr. Twitter might have snorted. "Not a soul? Ha! There are souls on the shelves, souls under the counters, souls in the shop windows, souls suspended from the ceiling. Not a soul? Bosh!" Mr. Twitter fancied he had kept that little shop long enough to know what he was talking about!

There he stood, at any rate, alone and expectant in the middle of the floor, exquisitely delighted, going "Tweet!" and "Tweet, tweet!" and thrilling and warbling away as if absorbed in amiable conversation.

"Tweet?" inquired Mr. Twitter, archly. "Tweet, tweet, tweet!" was the reply. "Tweet, tweet!" Mr. Twitter expostulated.

Whatever this last communication amounted to-and there is, of course, no means of telling-it evoked a storm of twitters and chirps in remonstrance.

"Tweet!" Mr. Twitter was compelled to agree.

In short, Mr. Twitter was the keeper

of an animal-shop; and if he were not on conversational terms with every friendly bird and beast therein domiciled, he was either a rogue of vast pretensions or an old fellow devoted overmuch to tomfoolery in his idle moments.

Except for a slight list to starboard, and a rakish little tilt to the roof, and an air of defiant old-fashion, Mr. Twitter's establishment was outwardly correct in every particular. It was a little old building of white frame, two-storied, with something additional in the way of a high-angled garret. It had wide shop windows below, lifted somewhat above the pavement and flanking a broad, black door with a brass knocker and fluted white columns; and it had a row of greenshuttered windows above, coming close to the eaves and frankly thrown back, as if the apartment beyond had nothing in the wide world to conceal. Running the width of the shop, over the windows and doors, was the legend: Thomas Twitter. It indicated merely that one Thomas Twitter did business within. Something more was communicated by an obscure little sign over the door: Twitter Academy. But concerning the sort and worth of the learning imparted within no information was betrayed; the toothsome little mystery remained discreet and inviting: Twitter Academy-and not another word.

Tom Twitter's astonishing argument with the canaries, which he had now pertinaciously renewed, was interrupted by the shy arrival of a customer from the windy night. The door opened; a blast of snowy wind leaped in, but a soft closing of the door shut out the eager, frosty crowd of gusts behind. And there stood the Little Girl-a dear, dark little creature of an elderly gravity, with a shawl over her head and a lively bundle, snugly wrapped in a corner, held close and anxiously in her warm arms. She was not such a patron as Tom Twitter was used to receiving; there was no equipage outside there was no maid, there was no footman. The Little Girl was lowly and alone. Tom Twitter turned, without for an instant remitting his contention with the birds; and having discovered the Little Girl's shy waiting, and having divined her errand, and having been saddened a

little, perhaps, by her delicate loveliness dwelling in the inimical tenement world, he proceeded to deal with her precisely as if she had been of exalted station, practising his tricks all the more willingly, no doubt, because she was not. That is to say, he smiled, he performed a charming bow, he smiled once more, with his head on one side and his eyes twinkling, and he lifted a gravely warning finger to command discretion.

"Hush!" he whispered, darkly. "One moment, please!"

Thereupon Tom Twitter redoubled his assault upon the contumacious canaries in the little cages. He whistled in all sorts of ways; he pleaded, he argued, he scolded, he asserted, declared, replied, rejoined, and retorted; he warned and expostulated, all with many oratorical tricks of hands and countenance; and he concluded at last with a rapid peroration of trills and chirps by which any but the most obstinately opinionated canaries known to the ornithologists must surely have been convinced of their error. And by this time, as Tom Twitter had foreseen and intended, the Little Girl was so absorbed in the singular affair so delighted with Tom Twitter's behavior, which was more like a story than anything she had hitherto encountered and altogether so charmed with Tom Twitter's politeness-that her shyness had vanished and she seemed to have known Tom Twitter all the days of her life.

"Were you talking to them?" she demanded, her dark eyes wide with wonder. "I sha'n't commit myself," said Tom Twitter, flatly.

"I almost believe-"

"Not a word!" cried Tom Twitter.

The Little Girl gravely regarded him. "I believe you were," she declared, making up her mind. "I really do." It was a delicious adventure.

Very well," said Tom Twitter; "you may think what you like. I'm not responsible."

"You were!" the Little Girl exulted.
"Don't expect me to deny it."

Well!" the Little Girl gasped. "I never heard of such a thing. I shouldn't have believed it if I hadn't caught you at it. I did catch you, didn't I?"

"Observe that I say nothing," Tom

Twitter protested, as if thoroughly warned that whatever he might say would be used against him. "Not a word, mind you! And now," he rattled on, in guilty haste to divert the Little Girl's attention, his eye sharply on the struggling bundle in her arms, his forefinger pointing, "how much d'ye want for that dog?"

The Little Girl jumped. She stared horrified at Tom Twitter; and she retreated a step, her dark eyes widening still, and she gripped the bundle with such tight affection that it emitted a small yelp of complaint. And had Tom Twitter not at that very instant luckily burst into a tintinnabulant peal of laughter she would have bolted and vanished for good and all.

suit. "What's the matter with that dog?" he demanded.

"Oh, he's sick."

"So?" said Tom Twitter, softly.

"Yes, indeed," the motherly little creature sighed; "he's been ailing for quite a while."

"And you fancied," Tom Twitter demanded, "that the Twitter Academy for the Higher Education of Canines was a hospital?"

"Isn't it?" the Little Girl plainted.

"It is!" Tom Twitter admitted at once. "At any rate," he qualified, with a pompous little lift of the chin, "in common with all other modernly equipped and conscientiously conducted establishments for the care and education of the young

Tom Twitter was twinkling in such a reassuring and contagious fashion-and he looked so very much like a pert robin -and the whole affair was so obviously nothing but the most delectable tomfoolery that the Little Girl could not help smiling as she shook her head.

"Why not?" Tom Twitter wanted to know.

"Why-why-" the Little Girl faltered, amused with Tom Twitter's stupidity, 66 why, because, of course!"

"No answer!" Tom Twitter complained.

"Because I love him!"

"I'll bet you wouldn't take twenty-five dollars for that dog," said Tom Twitter, with his head sagely on one side.

The Little Girl opened her eyes. "You wouldn't give me twenty-five dollars for him, would you?" she inquired, anxiously. "Not I!"

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite sure? Ha, ha! Well, rather!" "I'm very glad," said the Little Girl, vastly relieved. "Because," she explained, "if you offered me twenty-five dollars for my dog I should simply have to sell him."

cation of Canines has a perfectly appointed infirmary in connection and a competent physician in constant attendance. Myself being," he added, in a very sweet way, "the competent physician." And he bowed most politely. "Do I do?"

The Little Girl shrewdly looked him over. "Yes," said she, positively. "Name of the dog?" Tom Twitter inquired, delighted.

Alexander."

"Age of the dog?"

"He's really quite a baby."

"How did you come by the dog?"

"I found him," the Little Girl replied. "That is," she corrected, being a precise little thing, "he found me. It's really the same thing, I suppose."

Tom Twitter delicately withdrew a corner of the shawl and discovered a plebeian and woebegone countenance. He said, "Hum!" in a non-committal way. Then he frowned and pursed his lips. This was ominous. "Do you love the dog?" he asked.

The Little Girl sighed.

"I perceive," said Tom Twitter, coldly, "that you do not."

"I do!" declared the indignant Little

"That being so," said Tom Twitter, sagely, "we shall have to look very carefully into this. This way with the patient, if you please."

It was blowing high: a bitter wintry darkness without; and Tom Twitter's lit