I am a great boy six years old, and I take "The Nursery." Some of the stories I spell out myself; but the most of them mamma reads aloud to my little brother Albert and me.

Last summer, we all went to visit an uncle who lives on a large farm. We had just the best kind of a time. There was a big dog, named Rover, that would play with us for hours. He would run after and bring back a ball or stick, or any thing that we would throw for him. He would "speak," "roll over," "sit up and read," and do lots of funny tricks.

Then there was a white horse twenty-five years old, and just as sleek and fat as a colt. Old Whitey has lived on the farm ever since he was a little colt. Old as he is, he is still able to do a great deal of work.

One day Uncle Wash was ploughing, and he put me on the back of Old Whitey. Well, I liked that very much, and began to cluck, and jerk the reins, to make him go along; when in an instant, without any warning, he pricked up his ears, kicked up his heels, and ran away, leaving the plough behind.

I can't tell you how scared I was. I held on as long as I could; but it was of no use. The old horse ran through swamps and bogs, and dropped me, head first, in the mud and dirt. I was hurt on my head and side, but I would not cry because I was too big for that. When the men got to me, I was hunting for my hat.

After getting rid of his load, the runaway coolly walked up to the barn, and stood looking as mild as a lamb. I didn't have any faith in Old Whitey after that, though his master said he never knew him to do such a thing before.

Woodstock, Vt.