"I move we have some more stories," said Horace the next evening, as they were sitting in the twilight. "It's your turn, Gracie."

"Well, I don't know but I'd as soon tell a story as not," replied Grace, pushing back her curls; "I reckon Pincher wants to hear one, he begins to wag his tail. I can't make up any thing as I go along, but I can tell a sober, true story."

"Certain true, black and blue?" asked Prudy, who always would have something to say, whether she knew what she was talking about or not.

"Didn't I ever tell you about our school-dog out West, aunt Madge? You see it was so queer. I don't know where in the world he came from. He had one of his eyes put out, and was 'most blind out of the other, and only a stump of a tail, and didn't know how to get his living like other dogs."

"O dear, it was so funny he should take it into his head to come to school, now wasn't it, auntie? He knew Miss All'n just as well as could be, and used to go with the rest of the scholars to meet her every morning; and when she patted him on the head, and said 'Good old doggie,' it did seem like he'd fly out of his wits."

"Then when she rang the bell he trotted in just as proud, hanging down his head as meek as could be. He thought she rang the bell for him as much as any of the rest of the scholars. His seat was right by the stove on the floor—it wasn't a seat, I mean; and he just lay there the whole living time, and slept and snored—you see he was so old, auntie! But then we all loved him, we just loved him so! O dear me, it's as much as I can do to keep from crying, and I don't know how any body could help it!"

"What was I talking about—O, he used to walk round under the seats just as sly sometimes, and put his nose into the dinner baskets. I tell you he liked cake, that dog did, and he liked meat and mince pie. You see he could smell, for his nose was as good as ever it was, and the girls used to cry sometimes when he picked out the nice things."

"But then we just loved him so, you know, auntie! Why, we thought he was just as good as any body. He never bit nor growled, that dog didn't, not a mite. There wasn't one of us but he loved,—'specially Miss All'n."

"Now wasn't it too bad Mrs. Snell made such a fuss? She didn't love that dog one speck,—I don't know as she ever saw him,—and she didn't care whether he was dead or alive. I just know she didn't."

"I'll tell you how it was. Sometimes he got locked up all night. He'd be asleep, you know, by the stove, or else under the seats, and Miss All'n would forget, and suppose he was gone with the rest of the scholars."

"Well, he was a darling old dog, if he did chew up the books! I just about know he got hungry in the night, or he never would have thought of it. How did he know it was wrong? he didn't know one letter from another. He spoiled Jenny Snell's spelling-book, I know, and lots of readers and things; but what if he did, auntie, now what of it?"

"I ain't crying any thing about that, I wouldn't have you to think! But you see Mrs. Snell made a great fuss, and went to her husband and told him he ought to be shot."

"That Mr. Snell ought to be shot?"

"Now, Susy, I shouldn't think you'd feel like laughing or making fun.—The dog, of course; and they sent for the city marshal. You know Mr. Garvin, Horace?"

"Yes, the man that scowls so, with the scar on his nose, and a horse-whip in his hand."

"Miss All'n cried. She lifted up the lid of her desk, and hid her head, but we all knew she was crying. You see we had such a time about it. We thought he was going to carry the dog off to some place, and take care of him like he was his master, or may be shut him up, or something that way; but, do you believe, he just shot that dog right in the yard!"

"How dreadful!"

"Yes, auntie, I reckon it was! We all cried like we should kill ourselves, and put our fingers in our ears; for we heard the man when he fired the gun,—I mean we heard the gun when the man fired it,—and then it was of no use; but we stopped our ears, and Miss All'n hid her face, and cried—and cried—and cried!"

"O dear me, it did seem like we didn't any of us want to go to school any more, if we couldn't see our old dog coming to meet us, and rub his head against our dresses. And it was just as lonesome,—now it was so, auntie."

"Poor old doggie!" sighed aunt Madge.

"It wasn't you, was it, Pincher," cried Horace, seizing his dog by both ears. "I reckon if they tried to shoot you they'd catch it."

"Now, Susy, it's your turn," said Grace.

"No, Horace's; he's the oldest."

"Pshaw!" returned Horace, who had been the very first one to propose stories, "I'd like to get shut of it. Pshaw! I can't think of nothin'."

"But you must, you know, Horace; so it's no use to grumble."

"O shucks! Has it got to be true?"

"Don't say 'shucks,' Horace," said Grace, gently. "You can tell a true story, or make it up as you go along.—Come, hurry."

"I know what I'm goin' to tell," whispered Prudy to Horace.

"Well," said the boy, thinking a moment, "I'll tell my story double quick, and be done with it."

"You'd ought to see my pa's horse out West, auntie; there ain't a Yankee horse can hold a candle to him; I'll leave it to Pincher. His name is Sancho, and my ma sends him to market mornings, early, with the basket, and puts some money in, and a note to the butcher, and that horse comes back, sir, just as fast as he can trot, sir, and he has the meat there all wrapped up, and just has the basket in his teeth, this way."

"Why, Horace Clifford!" cried Grace, in surprise; "why, what a story!"

"Of course it's a story. You wanted me to tell a story, didn't you? I was just a-blowin'."

"Well, there, tell something nice, can't you, please?"

"I've told all the story I'm a-goin' to," said Horace, firmly. "Now it's Susy's turn."

"You talk about something else a while," replied Susy, "and let me be a-thinkin'."

"I'll tell one," cried Prudy, "let me, now."

"Once there was goin' to be three balls, and Cindrilla didn't have no mother, and her father didn't have no wife, so he married him one. And there was goin' to be three great big balls, and Cindrilla asked her mother if she couldn't go, and her mother said, No, indeed; she hadn't nothin' to wear. And then they started off, and her grandma came,—O, I forgot, the woman was wicked, and she made her little girls sit in the parlor, all dressed up spandy clean, and she made Cindrilla sit in the coal-hod."

"And then she told her to get a great punkin, and it turned into a gold hack, and she went off into the back shed and got the rat-trap, and it turned into two footmens,—and the king's son—O, no——"

"And then there was some bugs round there, and they was six horses, and she got in and rode on to the ball, and her shoes come off, and then the king married her, and she had the other shoe in her pocket, and he married her right off, and they're all safe now."

"All safe?" said aunt Madge, laughing; "what do you mean by that?"

"O, now she'll have a good father and a good mother, and won't sit in the coal-hod no more.—Now it's your turn, Susy."

"O dear suz! I was going to tell a story, a fairy story. It was going to be a real good one, about 'The Bravest of Lion's Castle,' and I couldn't think of a thing to say, and now Prudy has drove it all out of my head."

"Well, children," said aunt Madge, "suppose we give Susy a little more time, and excuse her for to-night? It's time for pleasant dreams now, and kisses all 'round."