81 THIRD EVENING. THE KID. ONE bleak day in March, Sylvia, returning from a visit to the sheepfold, met with a young kidling deserted by its dam on the naked heath. It was bleating piteously, and was so benumbed with the cold, that it could hardly stand. Sylvia took it up in her arms, and pressed it close to her bosom. She hastened home, and showing her little foundling to her parents, begged she might rear it for her own. They consented; and Sylvia immediately got a basket full of clean straw, and made a bed for him on the hearth. She warmed some milk, and held it to him in a platter. The poor creature drank it up eagerly, and then licked her hand for more. Sylvia was delighted. chafed his tender legs with her warm hands, and soon saw him jump out of his basket, and frisk across the room. When full, he lay down again and took a comfortable nap. She The next day, the kid had a name bestowed upon him. As he gave tokens of being an excellent jumper, it was Capriole. He was introduced to all the rest of the family, and the younger children were allowed to stroke and pat him; but Sylvia would let nobody be intimate with him but herself. The great mastiff was charged never to hurt him, and, indeed, he had no intention to do it. Within a few days, Capriole followed Sylvia all about the house; trotted by her side into the yard; ran races with her in the Home Field; fed out of her hand, and was a declared pet and favourite. As the spring advanced, Sylvia roamed in the fields and gathered wild flowers, with which she wove garlands, and hung them round her kid's neck. He could not be kept, however, from munching his finery, when he could reach it with his mouth. He was also rather troublesome in thrusting his nose into the meal-tub and flour-box, and following people into the dairy, and sipping the milk that was set for cream. He now and then got a blow for his intrusion; but his mistress always took his part, and indulged him in every liberty. Capriole's horns now began to bud, and a little white beard sprouted at the end of his chin. He grew bold enough to put himself into a fighting posture whenever he was offended. He butted down little Colin into the dirt; quarrelled with the geese for their allowance of corn; and held many a stout battle with the old turkey-cock. Everybody said, "Capriole is growing too saucy, he must be sent away, or taught better manners." But Sylvia still stood his friend, and he repaid her love with many tender caresses. The farm-house where Sylvia lived was situated in a sweet valley, by the side of a clear stream, bordered with trees. Above the house rose a sloping meadow, and beyond that was an open common, covered with purple heath and yellow furze. Farther on, at some distance, rose a steep hill, the summit of which was a bare, craggy rock, hardly accessible to human feet. Capriole, ranging at his pleasure, often got upon the common, and was pleased with browsing the short grass and wild herbs which grew there. Still, however, when his mistress came to see him, he would run, bounding at her call, and accompany her back to the farm. One fine summer's day, Sylvia, after having finished the business of the morning, wanted to play with her kid; and missing him, she went to the side of the common, and called aloud, "Capriole! Capriole!" expecting to see him come running to her, as usual. No Capriole came. She went on and on, still calling her kid with the most endearing accents, but nothing was to be seen of him. Her heart began to flutter. "What can have become of him? Surely somebody must have stolen him, or perhaps the neighbours' dogs have worried him. Oh, my poor Capriole! my dear Capriole! I shall never see you again!"—and Sylvia began to weep. She still went on, looking wistfully all around, and making the place echo with "Capriole! Capriole! where are you, my Capriole ?" till at length she came to the foot of the steep hill. She climbed up its sides, to get a better view. No kid was to be seen. She sat down, and wept, and wrung her hands. After a while, she fancied she heard a bleating like the well-known voice of her Capriole. She started up, and looked towards the sound, which seemed a great way overhead. At length she spied, just on the edge of a steep crag, her Capriole peeping over. She stretched out her hands to him, and began to call, but with a timid voice, lest in his impatience to return to her, he should leap down and break his neck. But there was no such danger. Capriole was inhaling the fresh breeze of the mountains, and enjoying with rapture the scenes for which nature designed him. His bleating was the expression of joy, and he bestowed not a thought on his kind mistress, nor paid the least attention to her call. Sylvia ascended as high as she could towards him, and called louder and louder, but all in vain. Capriole leaped from rock to rock, cropped the fine herbage in the clefts, and was quite lost in the pleasure of his new existence. Poor Sylvia stayed till she was tired, and then returned disconsolate to the farm, to relate her misfortune. She got her brothers to accompany her back to the hill, and took with her a slice of white bread and some milk, to tempt the little wanderer home. But he had mounted still higher, and had joined a herd of companions of the same species, with whom he was frisking and sporting. He had neither eyes. nor ears for his old friends of the valley. All former habits were broken at once, and he had commenced D free commoner of nature. Sylvia came back crying, as much from vexation as sorrow. "The little ungrateful thing!" said she-" so well as I loved him, and so kindly as I treated him, to desert me in this way at last! But he was always a rover!" "Take care then, Sylvia," ," said her mother, "how you set your heart upon rovers again!" HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT. ROBINET, a peasant of Lorraine, after a hard day's work at the next market-town, was returning home with a basket in his hand. "What a delicious supper shall I have!" said he to himself. "This piece of kid, well stewed down, with my onions sliced, thickened with my meal, and seasoned with my salt and pepper, will make a dish fit for the bishop of the diocese. Then I have a good piece of barley-loaf at home to finish with. How I long to be at it!" A noise in the hedge now attracted his notice, and he spied a squirrel nimbly running up a tree, and popping into a hole between the branches. "Ha!" thought he, "what a nice present a nest of young squirrels will be to my little master! I'll try if I can get it." Upon this, he set down his basket in the road, and began to climb up the tree. He had half ascended, when, casting a look at his basket, he saw a dog with his nose in it, ferreting out the piece of kid's flesh. He made all possible speed down, but the dog was too quick for him, and ran off with the meat in his mouth. Robinet looked after him-" Well," said he, "then I must be content with soup-maigre—and no bad thing neither." He travelled on, and came to a little public-house by the road side, where an acquaintance of his was sitting on a bench drinking. He invited Robinet to take a draught. Robinet seated himself by his friend, and set his basket on the bench close by him. tame raven, kept at the house, came slily behind him, A. and, perching on the basket, stole away the bag in which the meal was tied up, and hopped off with it to is hole. Robinet did not perceive the theft till he ad got on his way again. He returned, to search for is bag, but could hear no tidings of it. Well," says ie, "my soup will be the thinner; but I will boil a slice of bread with it, and that will do it some good, at least." He went on again, and arrived at a little brook, >ver which was laid a narrow plank. A young woman coming up to pass at the same time, Robinet gallantly offered her his hand. As soon as she had got to the middle, either through fear or sport, she shrieked out, and cried she was falling. Robinet, hastening to sup port her with his other hand, let his basket drop into the stream. As soon as she was safe over, he jumped in and recovered it, but when he took it out, he ceived that all the salt was melted, and the pepper washed away. Nothing was now left but the onions. "Well!" says Robinet, "then I must sup to-night upon roasted onions and barley bread. Last night I had the bread alone. To-morrow morning it will not signify what I had." So saying, he trudged on, singing as before. per ORDER AND DISORDER. JULIET was a clever, well-disposed girl, but apt to be heedless. She could do her lessons very well, but commonly as much time was taken up in getting her things together as in doing what she was set about. If she were to work, there was generally the housewife to seek in one place, and the thread-papers in another. The scissors were left in her pocket up stairs, and the thimble was rolling about the floor. In writing, the copy-book was generally missing, and the ink dried up, and the pens, new and old, all tumbled about the cupboard. The slate and slate-pencil were never found together. In making her exercises, the English dic |