The children looked at each other, wondering what was coming, then fastened their eager eyes on the reader, who began as follows:

Once upon a time there lived a funny, bustling, little old gentleman, who thought that dogs, horses, cats, and monkeys, ought to live just as he did; that is, first and foremost, to behave with perfect politeness, learn to read and write, sit at the table and eat their meals with knives and forks, and sleep in French bedsteads, all tucked up warm. He even insisted on their wearing clothes and patent leather boots, and they ran clattering about the house on their hind legs, with trousers and coats on, and their tails dangling out behind, like a pocket handkerchief out of a pocket.

The little bustling old gentleman was a bachelor. He had tried about twenty-nine times to get married, but the ladies, one and all, insisted that the dogs, cats, and monkeys must be turned out of the house, if they consented to come in, which was very disagreeable and unreasonable, and made the old gentleman so mad, he said to himself he would see them to Jericho first; so making each one in turn a very low bow, for he was the very pink of politeness, he took himself off, and that was the last of getting married.

So his family consisted of four fine dogs, six beautiful cats, eight comical monkeys, one fat cook, and one fat coachman, two thin housemaids, and nobody knows how many grooms and footmen—and they all lived together, a great deal happier than Barnum’s happy family, and what do you suppose was the reason? Why, they were taught by the bustling little old gentleman to be perfectly polite. I forgot to tell you that his name was Lord Chesterfield.

One day Beppo—one of the family—a handsome brown and white spaniel, went out for a walk. As soon as he got out of sight of the house, he dived into a bramble bush, and scratched off all his clothes, for they plagued him to death, and he trotted joyously along, whistling—

Presently he came to a fine river, and was just thinking he would take a swim, when he heard a piercing scream, and something went splash into the water.

Beppo rushed to the brink just in time to see a little golden-haired child disappear under the rippling waves.

In he dashed, like a flying-fish, swam like lightning to the spot, and caught the little child’s dress in his mouth; then turning, swam back, and laid it, drenched and gasping, on the green bank, just as the nurse, her face white with terror, and her limbs trembling, was struggling to reach the shore.

The poor woman caught the beautiful child in her arms and kissed her, and thanked Heaven for her rescue. Then she patted and hugged Beppo, who stood wagging his tail and shaking the water out of his long silky hair. “Ah, madam,” he said, with a very polite how, and his fore-paw on his heart, “I am truly grateful that I was made a spaniel: if I had been a stupid poodle-dog I should have been afraid of the water, and the poor little darling would have been drowned.”

“Why!” exclaimed the nurse in astonishment, “is it possible you can talk?”

“Yes, ma’am, my master, the Lord Chesterfield, will have it, though I’d much rather bark; and he makes us eat at the table out of plates, and cut our food with knives and forks, when I think a marrow-bone to gnaw, out in the court-yard, is as nice again; but he says gnawing bones is perfectly dreadful, and we must learn to eat politely.”

“Well, that is very funny! I shall tell about it as soon as I get home.”

So the nurse hastened away, with the pretty child, and was soon telling the frightened mother how little Lucy had run away from her, and tumbled into the river, and how the beautiful spaniel, who could talk like a Christian, had saved her life.

The grateful mother went out the next morning and bought a splendid gold collar, and had this inscription engraved upon it: “For the noble and brave dog Beppo, who saved little Lucy’s life.”

When the parcel came, the little bustling old gentleman opened it, and reading the words on the gold collar, called Beppo to him.

“Why, only look at this splendid collar, my good fellow,” he cried; “why did you not tell me of your adventure?”

“I only did my duty,” Beppo modestly answered.

“Ah! I am quite proud of you. I shall give you a dinner-party, and you shall carry round the invitations yourself.”

“May I invite little golden-haired Lucy?” asked Beppo. “I should like to so much.”

“Certainly,” said Lord Chesterfield; “suppose you write the note yourself; it will be a very delicate attention.”

Down sat Beppo, joyously, and soon he had penned this fine invitation:

This was not exactly the right way to word it, but you see his education was not yet completed.

Then the little bustling old gentleman wrote the rest of the notes; for Beppo was rather slow, and ran his tongue out in the most fearful manner, in his anxiety to spell the words right, and then they were nicely sealed up in envelopes, and he put them all together in a pretty little basket.

And now the coachman was ordered to bring out the state carriage and four horses, and Beppo, sitting up inside on his hind-legs, very grand, and no doubt exceedingly uncomfortable, carried the notes of invitation to the most fashionable dogs of his acquaintance.

Three of the dogs to be invited lived in the house, as you know; but they had notes as well as the rest, for that is the way to be perfectly polite. I dare say you have many a time heard people say something like this—

“Oh, it don’t make any difference what there is for dinner when you come, because we are so intimate; but I should be mortified to death, not to have every thing nice when General Fusbos is invited, as he is such a stranger.”

This is abominable manners—as if you ought not to treat those you love far better than a stranger. It always makes me very indignant when such a remark is made to me; and I sincerely hope you will profit all your life by this hint about true politeness from our friend Beppo.

You can’t have a great many at a dinner party, you know; so you must be careful to invite the most agreeable people, and as many ladies as gentlemen. Beppo knew this as well as you, and so you may be sure he had taken great pains to have a pleasant party.

The next morning there were a great many people ringing at the little bustling old gentleman’s door, and each one left a note.

Beppo ran into a corner with them, as fast as they arrived, and read them in a great hurry. At last one came, very pretty, of a three-cornered shape, and smelling of roses. The moment Beppo opened it, and glanced at the contents, he danced around the room for joy, waving the note in the air with one of his fore-paws. Then he rushed up to his master, exclaiming—

“She’s coming! my Lord Chesterfield, she’s coming! Just fancy how delightful to have her sweet face and golden curls among our hairy muzzles! Oh, we must be very polite, and make her as happy as possible.”

It was a lovely summer’s day. The sun turned the ripples of the river into shifting gold, and there was singing, and buzzing, and whispering, and laughing everywhere; all felt kind and loving. Even the hideous old scarecrow in the cornfield allowed Beppo, in his joy, to dash at him and playfully throw him down, bang! on his old red nose, and he never once attempted to get up; for he said, in his pine-wood heart—

“I’m a brute, after all, to frighten the poor birds out of their wits. I’ll just lie down here and take a nap, and let the dear little things have a good time for once.”

Oh, it was charming to see that even an old scarecrow could be polite, which, after all, is only another name for loving-kindness.

Just before five o’clock, the nurse brought little Lucy, dressed in blue, and looking like a fairy. Strange to say, although only four years old, she was not in the least frightened, but put her soft white arms around Beppo’s neck, and said, “Oh, I love oo, good dog!” and hugged him so kindly, that he would have given all the world to have had her tumble into the water again, so that he might save her life once more.

The little bustling old gentleman took her by the hand, and showed her all over his curious old house, with its suits of rusty armor, great stag horns nailed to the walls, and queer black-looking paintings; and Beppo followed wherever they went, gently wagging his tail, and answering every question with admirable politeness.

And now all the dogs who had been invited had come, and were sitting in the parlor waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, talking and laughing as pleasantly and properly as the king, or the president, or you, or I.

Of course, the first thing any one said, after “How-de-do?” was, “It’s a fine day!” because that’s the solemn rule in all polite society. Then, of course, they went on to say it was worse weather last week, and would be better weather next week; and after about a dozen more deeply interesting remarks upon the weather, the dinner-bell rang, and made them all jump. But the very next instant they sat down again, trying to look as if they were in no sort of hurry, as it would have been very bad manners to rush pell-mell down stairs. Everybody knows that.

First the little bustling Lord Chesterfield stepped out, leading Lucy with the utmost consideration and politeness. Then Beppo made a low bow to a very respectable old lady-mastiff, and begged the honor of handing her into dinner, to which she graciously consented. Then a very tall stag-hound, with an uncommonly sharp nose, paired off with Flora, a beautiful pointer; while a large, grave, middle-aged Newfoundland dog made himself agreeable to an Italian greyhound of no particular age; at least she never liked to tell how old she was, and almost always had the snuffles. Then a pert little black-and-tan terrier skipped up to a coquettish King Charles, and said “would she make him the happiest dog in the world?” upon which she shook her silky ears, and putting her head on one side, and half shutting her beautiful black eyes, lisped out “she would;” while a fat poodle, invited because she was so exceedingly genteel, and a Skye terrier, also used to the very best society, brought up the rear; and thus they marched two and two, with the utmost propriety, into the dining-room.

And now see this elegant party at the table. The little bustling old gentleman at the foot, and Beppo, whose back is turned to you, at the head, with Lucy at his right hand.

I forgot to tell you that our friend had requested a private interview with my Lord Chesterfield, about an hour before dinner.

“Well, sir, what do you wish?” he asked.

“My dear master,” said Beppo, respectfully, “you know very well that the dogs who will come to my dinner-party will none of them have on coats or pantaloons, or hooped skirts. I do not wish to mortify them, so please let me wear my natural suit for this once, and only my gold collar.”

The little bustling old gentleman turned upon him with a look of rage, enough to petrify a milestone.

“Is this your gratitude?” he roared, “when I am spending all my days in teaching you to live and dress like a gentleman?”

Then, recollecting all of a sudden that he was setting a very bad example of politeness, he put on a remarkably sweet expression, and added in the mildest tone—

“Excuse me; I forgot myself. I believe—well—yes, upon the whole, as this party is given in your honor, you may do as you please to-day.”

“Bow, wow, wow!” barked Beppo, in a perfect ecstasy of delight, and leaping with all four feet in the air. “Bow, w-o-w-w! Oh, my goodness!” he continued, suddenly stopping; “I forgot myself, or rather you, sir. Please to forgive me; I could not keep the bark in; and it is utterly impossible to stop wagging my tail, I am so happy.”

“Ah! how short is life!” sighed Lord Chesterfield; “I am afraid I shall die before my dogs, cats, and monkeys come to perfection!”

But you ought to have seen how elegantly they arranged themselves at the table, bowing and smiling the whole blessed time. It was something worth looking at, I can tell you—all sitting up as fine as you please, five on each side. The waiters, who were rigged out in regimentals, tied white napkins around their necks, at which, I must confess, there was some snarling and a bark or so, and one or two tried to wriggle out of them; but at a grave, severe look from my Lord Chesterfield, they gave up with a low whine, which was much better than could have been expected.

Beppo had a fine piece of beef to carve, and his master a pair of roasted chickens; but all the rest of the dishes were pies of different kinds of birds—pigeon-pie, snipe-pie, woodcock-pie, poll-parrot-pie, owl-pie, cat-bird-pie, and booby-pie, for a booby is a bird as well as a dunce.

Oh, my goodness! how they did want to dive into these delicious pies with their paws. If they had dared, they would have behaved exactly as most people do on board of steamboats, where they pounce on all the dishes they can reach at once, and empty them pell-mell on their plates. I have seen oysters, pie, roast beef, salt fish, and ice cream, all mixed up on the same plate—a perfectly horrible mess; and that was because these greedy people had not the first idea of politeness or courtesy one to another, and the want of it made them behave like pigs.

“Shall I help you to a slice of the chicken, madam?” said Lord Chesterfield to Lucy.

“If you please,” said Lucy, with a pretty little bow and smile.

“What part do you prefer, madam?”

“I like the merry sort, if you please,” answered the dear little thing—meaning the merry thought.

Now this was perfect good manners. Some people would have said, “Any part—I’m not at all particular,” and would have been very impolite, for then the carver would not be sure he should suit them; so, when you are asked, always choose a part.

“Will you have chicken?” asked Lord Chesterfield of the respectable old lady-mastiff.

“Oh, oh! give it to me! I want some,” squeaked out the little black-and-tan terrier, quick as a flash, before the old mastiff could utter a syllable.

What an awful look he got from the bustling little old gentleman! and the mastiff faced round upon him with, “Sir, you’re a disrespectful puppy,” and glared in a way to frighten him into fits; while the stag-hound opposite stuck his sharp nose up in the air, and remarked in a whisper to Flora, the beautiful pointer, that “really, young America was getting too impudent for any thing.”

Beppo looked imploringly at his master to forgive little Snap this time, as he was young and silly, and hastened to put a delicious cat-bird, with crust and gravy, on his plate; and after this the dinner went on splendidly, except that the greyhound of no particular age kept her tongue waggling out of her mouth very nearly the whole time, on account of the snuffles, which prevented her from breathing freely. It was not very elegant conduct, but as she couldn’t help it, nobody looked at her; and that, you’ll own, was the politest way of behaving under the circumstances. The fat poodle and the Skye terrier talked a little in French about it, to be sure, but as nobody else understood what they said, and as they smiled all the time, the rest took it for granted that they were admiring their neighbors, and felt highly gratified.

Everybody ate and drank with all the decorum and delicacy of our city aldermen, who ought to be held up as examples of courtesy, honesty, and moderation, to the whole universe. They did not leave so much as a bone on their plates; but I am sorry to say they were in rather too much of a hurry at dessert, for most of them burned their mouths severely with the hot cracker pudding, and Snap, the black-and-tan terrier, declared that it must have been made of fire-crackers.

But, take it all in all, it was a splendid entertainment; and, after it was over, the ladies went back to the parlors, and talked about the last fashions. “Ears were to be cut off closer than ever, for terriers,” said the King Charles; and “red, white and blue collars were considered rather old-timed,” was observed by the beautiful pointer; “that is, unless the army did something decided at once, then they would be the rage again immediately.” The gentlemen of course talked of nothing but money, money, MONEY, as men, the dogs!? always do, when they get together, and if Lord Chesterfield had not made the signal to move, they would have stayed there talking about money to this day.

Lucy had taken the pretty little King Charles spaniel in her lap, and they had a most delightful chat together, which ended in their vowing everlasting friendship to each other, and promising to exchange visits every day, for, as the King Charles was one of Lord Chesterfield’s family, this could be very easily done.

When the gentlemen came up stairs, they had coffee, and then, as it was getting dark, the little bustling old gentleman ordered the gas to be lighted, and proposed some music. First, Lucy played “Old Dog Tray,” with one little white finger on the piano, and then she lisped out, in her sweet way, “I know a pretty ’tory.”

“Ah! tell it!” cried all the company, gathering gently round her, for there was no pushing, or squealing—“Here, let me come in! don’t crowd so!” No, indeed! for that would have been any thing but polite. They all fastened their eyes on the lovely little girl, who stood resting her arm on Beppo’s neck, so proud and happy to have it there, and in her sweet voice, like a robin’s song, she began:

“Oh! I tant say any more,” said Lucy. “What a pity!” and she bent down her lovely golden head, and blushed.

“Oh yes, what a pity!” echoed all the company. “It was so sweet; but we thank you very much for this; it was beautiful!”

“Will oo sing for me?” asked Lucy.

“Certainly,” they all cried with the utmost readiness; “our voices are not very good, and will sound horridly after your sweet tones, but you may be sure we shall do our best.”

They selected a hunting song with a chorus, and sure enough, with the exception of the stag-hound, whose voice was melody itself, you might have supposed it a compound of distressed rats, an old pump-handle, ungreased cart-wheels, a poker on a tin pan, and the spiritual rappers quarrelling together; for it was all squeal, howl, whine, grunt, and groan, of the most dismal description; but as they really tried with all their might and main to sing a good song, everybody looked pleased, because they took the will for the deed, and made the best of it. Do you observe that, my young friends? Well, never curl your lips with contempt, or make fun of any honest, kind-hearted effort to entertain you. Try to be pleased and thankful: take the will for the deed, and, my word for it, you will find a delicious glow come into your heart, and a lovely expression in your eyes; all your ugly thoughts will fly away to the bottomless pit, and you will find yourself really loving the one you meant to ridicule.

Presently there came one of those long, solemn pauses which will take place, do your best, when you have company, and Lord Chesterfield hastened to propose a game. As they were nearly all young and frisky, with the truest politeness, he proposed a frolicsome play, though he would much rather have had a sober talk on politics himself. Mind this, if you have a little party, don’t insist on doing what you like best, and taking all the prettiest and best things, but study the wishes of your guests, and do what pleases them most.

So Lord Chesterfield proposed the game of the “Family Coach,” to assist their digestion, which was hailed with bounds of delight by all except the old lady-mastiff, and the middle-aged Newfoundland dog, who preferred to take a quiet chat together, which ended in a nap on the sofa; but as they smiled and nodded to each other all the same, the rest concluded they were only shutting their eyes, as very sentimental people do when they talk, and so no offence was taken at their sleeping before company, and the poor old things had a very refreshing time of it.

The little bustling old gentleman appointed himself master of ceremonies, and there not being dogs enough for a grand frolic, introduced a few of the cats and monkeys; who were so enchanted at the chance to come in, that they frisked, and danced, and made a very narrow escape of screaming for joy and becoming perfectly riotous with the fun of the thing; and that, you know, would not have been polite.

I have a great mind to write down the way Lord Chesterfield made them play this game. I think you will like to know. So here it is.

Usually, you must invent a story about the “Family Coach,” as you play; but unless you are very bright and quick about it, there is not much fun. The next time you have a little party, play this game as it is set down here. I have never seen any written before, and I think, if you use this story, you will have a real funny time.

In the first place, Lord Chesterfield gave them all a part or name, which they must by no means forget, and the point is, that when your name is called, you must get up instantly, twirl around quickly, and sit down again; and when “Family Coach” is mentioned, everybody in the play must get up instantly, twirl around quickly, and sit down again.

There were little Lucy and twenty-eight dogs, cats, and monkeys to play, and they each took one of these parts:

Then the good old gentleman began, speaking rather quickly—

“Once upon a time, in a certain tumbledown old house in the country, there existed a family heir-loom, in the shape of a Family Coach.”

All the dogs, cats, and monkeys bounced up with such a whirl, that they looked like whipping-tops, with their own quickly whisking tails for whips, and dear little Lucy, in her haste and delight, tumbled over sideways, and fell softly on the carpet. She did not hurt herself the least bit, but jumped up laughing, to Beppo’s great joy, and the play went on.

“To be sure, the Family Coach was rather worn out: the wheels were none of the best; the axles were nearly rotten; the linch-pins were rusty; the box tottering, and the whole Family Coach decaying.

“But then the old lady who owned it thought it worth all the new ones from here to Kamtschatka. The fat poodle and the coach-dog couldn’t live without it. The fat poodle barked, and the coach-dog wagged his tail for joy whenever it appeared. Indeed nobody knew whether the old lady, the fat poodle, the coach-dog, the coach-dog’s tail, the coachman, or the footman, was most delighted at the event, when one day the old lady ordered out the Family Coach.

“Immediately the footman told the coachman, the coachman told the coach-dog, the fat poodle heard of it and barked, and the Family Coach groaned in every part under the rubbing and the scrubbing that was bestowed upon the pole, the reins, the traces, the box, the fore-axles, the hind-axles, the fore-wheels, the hind-wheels, the lamps, the foot-board, the steps, the windows, the doors, the linch-pins, the hubs, the spokes, and the springs.

“At last, the off-leader and near-leader the off-wheeler and near-wheeler, were harnessed to the pole and traces; the blinders and reins were in apple-pie order; the lamps were lit, and the coachman mounted the box; the footman, the foot board; the old lady got inside, and the fat poodle was following, when, lo and behold! the coach-dog got jealous, seized the fat poodle by the leg, and made him bawl, ‘Ki-i! ki-i!’

“Then the coachman flourished his whip, the footman fell off the foot-board laughing, and the old lady nearly fainted. But a crack of the whip on the coach-dog’s tail made him let go, and the poor fat poodle got inside with a piece out of his leg; the leaders and wheelers pranced and danced, the axles groaned, and the Family Coach started.

“For some time all went on beautifully; the wheels rolled smoothly around; the leaders and wheelers trotted comfortably along; the coachman only cracked his whip for show; the footman amused himself by going to sleep; the old lady nodded inside; and the fat poodle stared out of the windows and doors, and grinned and made faces at the coach-dog, who had to run underneath.

“Presently the roads became rough, and the springs began to pitch the Family Coach about. The axles groaned, the linch-pins became shaky, the hubs were in a pucker, the spokes gave a warning crack, and the footman woke up with a prodigious jerk, that nearly took his head off. The coachman now gathered up the reins and cracked the whip in earnest; the old lady squeaked, and told the coachman to be careful; the coachman got saucy, and said he knew his own business best; the fat poodle began to turn pale, and the coach-dog took precious good care to keep himself and his tail out of danger.

“But oh! ah! alas! the very next minute the Family Coach went pounce into a great mud-hole. The coachman jumped off the box, the footman tumbled off the foot-board, and both tried to lift the fore-wheels and hind-wheels, but they found they couldn’t do it. Then they got back to their places; the coachman cracked his whip tremendously; the off-leader and near-leader, off-wheeler and near-wheeler, bounced and jumped, and pranced and danced, till their blinders were twisted into their eyes; the pole rattled; the reins and traces creaked; both the axles groaned; but the wheels wouldn’t turn.

“At last, slap, bang! with one tremendous crash! the linch-pins came out, and the wheels rolled off; the two leaders and two wheelers ran away with their blinders; the lamps were smashed; the doors and windows broken; the fat poodle fell on the old lady; the old lady tumbled down on the floor, which broke through, and all came pounce on the poor coach-dog, who lost his tail by its being squeezed off; and coachman, footman, old lady, fat poodle, and coach-dog lay all jumbled up amid the ruins of wheels, axles, reins, traces, whip, pole, lamps, foot-board, steps, windows, doors, linch-pins, hubs, spokes, and springs which once composed that splendid old fossil, the Family Coach.”

There were lots of forfeits to redeem, notwithstanding the natural quickness of little Lucy and the dogs, cats, and monkeys to whirl and spring about. Of course you know that if you forget to turn around when your name is called, you must pay a forfeit. The redeeming of these made an immense deal of laughing and chattering. The dogs acted funny, the cats funnier, and the monkeys funniest of all; while little Lucy’s eyes sparkled like diamonds, and she danced and sang the whole time; so, upon the whole, it was quite as delightful a party as one made altogether of good little boys and girls; for the best of all was, that not a single cross bark, snarl, mew, chatter, or squeal was heard; and I for one would much rather be invited to a party of perfectly polite and good-natured dogs, cats, and monkeys, than to one of children who wanted to slap and scratch. Wouldn’t you?

“Oh you funny, funny Aunt Fanny!” cried the children, laughing heartily, “to make dogs and cats teach us politeness; who ever heard of such a thing before?”

“That’s what I call pretty sharp shooting,” said Fred.

“And the shot must have gone through and through you,” observed Kitty, quietly. “You remember how you pulled my chair from under me just as I was going to sit upon it yesterday, and made me come down bang on the floor.”

“Yes, and you shook the room so, I thought it would crack the looking-glass; and then you looked round so astonished and silly, I almost died laughing.”

“Oh, Fred!” exclaimed Aunt Fanny; “is it possible you were so rude? If I were an absolute monarch, I would condemn you to be upset once a day for a week in exactly the same manner. I am a great believer in the kind of punishment the boys call ‘tit for tat.’ If a boy should cut the string of your kite, I should cut the strings of all his kites for a whole season, explaining every time—‘That’s for punishment, my fine friend. I don’t think you’ll cut another boy’s kite-string in a hurry.’”

Fred turned very red; but, standing up, he said pleasantly, “Here, Kitty, come and upset me.”

She ran behind his chair, but he did not think she would play this trick before company, and he turned quickly, with such perfect confidence, as she snatched the chair away, that he came down with a most tremendous thump! which made the very windows rattle, amid the shouts and laughter of the rest.

“How do you like it?” asked Aunt Fanny, quietly.

“Not much,” said Fred, grinning in rather a rueful manner. “I’m cured, though. I don’t think I shall upset anybody again; and just let them try it on me—that’s all.”

At this they all laughed harder than ever, and declared that Aunt Fanny’s rule for punishment was the very “best they had ever heard of.

“But do you not see, my darlings,” she said, seriously, “that it only proves the glorious wisdom of Our Saviour’s golden rule? Whenever you are tempted to play a trick, or say a sharp thing, just stop one moment, and ask yourself, ‘Would I like to have this done or said to me?’ If you ask yourself this question honestly, the little monitor which God has placed in all your hearts, will answer you so faithfully and kindly, that you would be very naughty children not to listen to its whisperings.

“And now let me tell you the true definition of politeness. It is ‘real kindness kindly expressed.’ Don’t forget this. Put this definition in your pop-guns, and fire it off as often as you can, and, my word for it, everybody you shoot will come to love you dearly. For my part, I should like to dine off such shots, red-hot, every day of my life. And so good night, little Pop-gun youngsters, and pleasant dreams to you all.”

“Ah, dear Aunt Fanny! please stay a little minute longer,” cried all the children, running to kiss her. “It’s so very early.”

“Well, I believe I will stay just long enough to ask your advice about something.”

“Oh dear, yes! Ask away. We love to give advice.” And the six children immediately tried to look as wise as twelve large owls, or as Governor Wise of Virginia, who, they said, kept it all in his name, and nowhere else; while Aunt Fanny, with a very grave face, proceeded to observe—

“This story finishes the first volume of ‘Pop-Guns.’ Do you think it will do to go with ‘Nightcaps’ and the rest? or do you advise me to burn it up?”

“Burn it up!” screamed the children, running again to her and kissing her. “No, no, no; pray, don’t. Have them printed, and we will read them twenty times, and play the ‘Family Coach’ too! Let’s play Family Coach now.”

And so they did; though, as there were only ten of them, Sophie had to be all the four horses, Kitty the coachman, footman, and old lady; while mamma, papa, Aunt Fanny, and the rest, were all sorts of things at once. But they had great fun, and were perfectly wornout with laughing, particularly when little Bob had to twirl round, which he always did in such a desperate hurry, that he tumbled over his own legs, and upset himself every time.

And, after that, the forfeits were enchanting; for Aunt Fanny knew a great many funny ones; and Fred said he did “wish Aunt Fanny was a ‘real true child,’ so they could have her to play with them the whole time;” which speech, she declared, was the very finest compliment she had ever received; and Uncle Fanny (that’s Aunt Fanny’s husband) said—

“Well, Peter, I always said you were about six months younger than either of your children, and now I am surer of it than ever.”

“What makes Uncle Fanny call her ‘Peter?’” whispered Kitty to Lou. “He always does it. He did it in one of the ‘Mitten’ books.”

“Because he thinks it teases me,” said Aunt Fanny, whose ears are very sharp, and heard the whisper.

“Why, Peteretta! does it tease you?” said Uncle Fanny.

“There! he is at it, worse than ever: let’s all go and shake him,” cried Aunt Fanny.

The six children rushed at him pell-mell—and he got a splendid shaking—little Bob squeezing one knee and tickling him almost to death; Peter the other, while the rest of the children shook him just where they could get at him.

“Ah! he’s sorry,” cried Kitty, in a sweet, coaxing voice; “hear how he sighs!”

Sure enough, Uncle Fanny was sighing, because he could not laugh any more, he had got so weak; but he caught at dear little Kitty’s comforting word, and gasped out, “Oh yes, I’m sorry, dreadful sorry—I’ll never call Peter Aunt Fanny again—I mean, Aunt Peter, Fannyretta—I mean—oh, Peter!! I will be good!”

Aunt Fanny had given his ear a good pinch, and the children laughed harder than ever, to see him holding up his hands, and pretending to be afraid of a little woman about half his size, and they were just going to shake him again, when he ran for his life, and, getting out on the front stoop, declared he would not come into the house again.

So they had to let Aunt Fanny go to him, after she had promised not to be long before she fired off another pop-gun at them.

And they promised her to be always kind and good to their little companions, and make the very best use of their time—as Philip Wiseman did at last—and to “practise true politeness” everywhere, and towards everybody, like Beppo and his friends.

After Aunt Fanny went away, the children were so anxious to impress upon her mind the serious importance of having the first volume of Pop-guns printed immediately, that they called a mass meeting in the corner, before they bid their parents good-night.

“I say,” said Fred, “let’s write one of those things papa reads out of the paper, when any great man dies, beginning with, ‘Whereas,’ and going on with a whole lot of ‘resolves’ full of compliments.”

“But I don’t want Aunt Fanny to die,” cried little Bob, beginning to rub his eyes.

“Oh no! She isn’t going to die. But we don’t want her to burn up our Pop-guns,” explained Lou, kindly.

“Oh!” said Bob, and looked quite comforted.

So Fred got a sheet of paper, and filling a pen very full of ink, for fear it might dry up before he got it to the paper, he began to write; and by dint of breathing very hard, and bouncing up and down in his chair after finishing every sentence, he soon completed this elegant set of resolutions:—

“There!” cried Fred, reading the manifesto over with admiration, but with a vague idea that they did not sound quite right, particularly the last one. “There! Now we must sign our names—ladies first.”

So Sophie and the rest signed; and Aunt Fanny got the resolutions before breakfast the next morning, and had a good laugh over them.

But she sent the stories to Mr. Sheldon, and here they are for her darlings out in the world.

The children to whom they were read have promised to make her happy by trying to profit by the good examples given, and avoid what is unlovely and sinful. Will you try too? Ah! tell Aunt Fanny that you will,—and that our Father in Heaven may help you, shall be her daily prayer.