"I'D like to be a hero," said Donald, my boy, to me,

"Like St. George who killed the dragon and set the princess free.

I 'd like to ride on a prancing steed and carry a long bright lance, And kill a terrible monster.

Ah, Donald, the tales of our own day are better than legends to me:

I know of a boy in this city as brave as St. George could be.

He does not ride on a prancing steed, he is not armor-clad;

He's freckled, and rides a bicycle-an every-day kind of a lad.

But he dashed across this very street in the face of death, one day, And saved the life of a little child. - and quietly went his way.

Glad with the joy of the morning, she stood on the crossing there,

With her shining eyes and tripping feet and flying flossy hair,

Half baby elf, half cherub, and wholly filled with glee,

In the bright September sunshine, careless and blithe and free,

Clapping her hands in pure delight at the sight that met her eye

A sight that froze my heart with fear, yet I could not make a cry.

For just beyond her came the sound of a startling, clashing gong.

A fire-engine dashed down the street, the horses fierce and strong

Running, racing at furious pace that none could check or stay

And the baby girl, unknowing, was standing right in the way!

The driver strained at the bits full strength, but he saw the child too late; He could not - could not swerve his steeds to save her from her fate!

THE Ways and Means Committee was in session on the shed roof. Properly mama should have been chairman of this committee; but a chairman who has been ill, and is very weak and totally discouraged, is likely to be a damper on proceedings. "Little Miss Hopeful" made an excellent chairman.

"I wrote Uncle Jim," she said. "Much good that 'll do!" said Fred. "Did n't mama write him, and did n't the letter come hustling back from the Dead-letter Office?"

"I wrote to the old home place in New Hampshire."

"Well, you are a genius!" cried Joe, with a burst of laughter. "Why, Uncle Jim has n't been there in years."

"That's why I wrote," retorted Little Miss Hopeful, whose really true name was Becca. "Don't you know how it is in stories? No matter how far they wander, they always come back at last to-to weep over thethe tombs of their ancestors; and usually at Christmas-time. And every year, as long as I live, I 'm going to write to Uncle Jim. Then," she continued, her eyes growing larger and darker, some day he 'll come back and find his folks all gone, and he 'll wander about, feeling very sad; and he 'll pass the little old post-office; and the old postmaster will see him and say, 'Are n't you Jim Lawrence? Here's a letter for you.' Then he 'll open it and-"

"You little goose!" gasped Joe. "Don't you know that in real life things never happen as the authors say they do in story-books?"

Why, Joe Wilson," said Becca, "they do, too! There was old Mrs. Graham's son, that had to wash for a living,-I mean she had to wash for a living,-and he went to the Klondike and came back rich; and now she has a lovely house, and everything."

"Pshaw! Why, Uncle Jim might not answer, anyway," said Joe. "He has n't seen mama for years, and he never saw us-"

"Joe, for shame on you!" snapped Becca, her eyes flashing. "You know he 'd come on the next train. Would n't you?"

"Yes, I would," said Joe, "but—” He did n't finish the sentence. He had long ago learned that it is useless to argue with a girl. What can a fellow do with a creature that flies at him like a whirlwind, taking his breath away, and does n't leave him a leg to stand on, when all the time he knows he is right? A dignified silence is the only resource.

Anyway, we don't know that he 'll get it this Christmas," Fred remarked. "How much money is left now?"

"Five dollars and twenty-three cents and a postage-stamp," replied Becca. "I counted it yesterday."

"We ought not to have come way out here to Arkansas," said Fred.

"No," Becca agreed; "but mama did n't know. It's a warm climate, and we have no rent to pay, and she thought we could raise things; and so we can if we live till spring. If we only had a little more money!" and as she concluded she bounced up and stamped on the shingles with wrathful impatience.

"Calm yourself or you'll go through this old roof, sis," said Fred. "I wonder how papa happened to get hold of this place?"

"In trade some way, mama said, and it was all the creditors left us. I suppose they thought a little farm away down in Arkansas was not worth taking. They had never seen it. I do think it is the loveliest spot on earth," said Becca, looking about with dreamy delight. If only one could live on beauty! The wee, whitewashed shanty was not comfortable, but it was exceedingly picturesque as it clung like a swallow's nest to the steep, woodsy slope. Below, Kimball's Creek, crystal clear, swept singing around the hill. Beyond the creek was a level stretch of magnificent timber with a tangled undergrowth of vines and shrubs. was lovely even in winter.

It

"If we can only manage till spring," said Joe. Then the black fear that they had been resolutely keeping down lifted its ugly head. It was a fear too awful to speak of-too awful even to think of. Little Miss Hopeful pushed it bravely away.

"About Christmas," she said. "No use to talk about that," groaned Joe. "Of course we can't have a dinner, or presents. I told mama we did n't expect any thing, but she only cried the more; and of course we can't decorate the house: she could n't bear to see it."

"But I've a plan," continued Little Miss Hopeful, her eyes beginning to sparkle. "We'll go to the empty cabin across the creek, and decorate both rooms with cedar and mistletoe, and have a Christmas tree. I've a lot of colored paper and candles left from last Christmas. And we'll have an old English Christmas, like the one told about in the Sketch Book.' We'll act it all out."

"Yes, that'll be great!" Joe exclaimed. "There are loads of mistletoe up the creek." "I thought I should get the money for a bicycle this year," said Fred, rather dismally; "but I'd rather have all the roast turkey I could eat than forty bicycles."

Becca's face twitched. She was hungry,

who prefers a meal of roast turkey to a bicycle has been pretty well starved.

"Come!" she cried hastily, springing to her feet. "Let's go look at the cabin."

As they ran down the road, they stopped short with exclamations of dismay. A thin blue streak was rising from the trees around the cabin. "Oh, dear!" said Becca. "Some one must have moved in!"

As they drew a little nearer they saw a covered wagon with two lean horses tied behind it by the cabin door; and on the bank of the creek sat three children, sunning themselves. 'Have you moved into the cabin?" Becca asked pleasantly.

The oldest child nodded. "Our folks thought we 'd stop thar a spell," she said.

"I suppose you will be there until after Christmas," said Becca.

"I dunno," said the girl.

Becca saw that the children's feet were bare. "Does your mother allow you to go barefoot in the winter?" she asked severely.

Then Becca's active, generous little mind flew off on another tack.

"I'd be willing to give her Emmeline, but I could n't give up Alice," she said.

"Pshaw! why, you need n't to," said quickwitted Joe. "She'd be happy as they make 'em, with Emmeline. And I'll give the biggest boy my musical top."

"I'll give my toy soldiers to the littlest kid," said Fred. "I'm getting too big to play with 'em, and it 'll be a good way to break off."

"If we had any extra shoes we could give 'em some, but these are all I have," said Becca, pausing and regarding them gloomily.

"Nonsense!" said Joe, cheerily. "If you gave 'em their choice they 'd take the toys." "Yes, they would!" said Fred. "We can give 'em a Christmas they 'll remember as long as they live. That little kid's eyes pop clear out of his head when he sees those soldiers!"

Little Miss Hopeful's face took fire again. "Oh, oh!" she cried, hopping up and down like a very active cricket. We'll go there Christmas, and decorate the east room, and have the Christmas tree, and give 'em the things. Oh, what fun!"

The next morning the children went to call on their new neighbors. A sad-faced but kindly woman met the children at the door.

Come right in and set down," she said hospitably.

A tall, thin, pale-faced man sat humped over the fire, coughing now and then. Poor Becca winced as she looked at him, for she saw on his face the same look of illness and despair that darkened her own mother's.

"Was it you-'uns that was talkin' to my chillen down at the branch yesterday? Wall, sissy, I'm 'shamed that we can't do better by our chillen," her thin

said the woman, face flushing. "But 'pears like we've hed the wust luck. Craps a-failin' an' critters adyin', an' pa 's ben sick, an' so much of the time we 've ben on the road. Our chillen hain't hed

no kind o' raisin', an' that 's a fact. 'Pears like we done fergot it all, we 've been so poor."

There was a slight pause in the conversation, and Becca seized the opportunity.

"We wanted to ask you if we might decorate the east room to-morrow and have a Christmas tree there, and we would like so much to have your children help us with it."