The kitchen was very hot, and Aunt Christy, the old black cook, was very busy. With her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her cap all awry, she bustled about, hurrying the slow movements of the girls who were her helpers, and scolding the four little dusky children whenever they got in her way. She declared that they were all as full of mischief as they could be, and that there was not a pin to choose between them. But if one of the four did happen to be worse than the others, that one was certainly Jim.

Jim was nearly seven; his young mind was full of eager questions; he wanted to know the reason of everything, and it was really because he was so curious and prying that Aunt Christy thought him worse than the rest.

On that morning he poked about the kitchen, opening baskets and peering into dishes, until his eyes fell upon a large bright pail, which was set upon a stand too high for him to reach.

'That's a new pail. Why's Aunt Christy got a new pail? Wonder what's in it? I will see.'

So said Jim to himself; and when he found that, even by standing on tiptoe, he could not reach, the little rascal trotted off for his three-legged stool, mounted on that, put his chubby arms as far as they would stretch round the pail. A three-legged stool, however, is but a treacherous support, and this Jim found to his cost. As he stood there, it slipped from under his bare feet, and the pail, which was full of warm water and vegetables, suddenly overturned.

Poor Jim got a terrible drenching; it was lucky for him that the water was not very hot, or he would have been sadly scalded. As it was, a big turnip hit him on the head, and the handle of the pail hurt him. Wet and bruised he crept away, a sadder and a wiser boy, inwardly resolved to have nothing more to do with things which did not concern him.

C. J. Blake.