"Perhaps I did," I responded.

"And did your friend who is to go to sea really promise to bring you said monkeys, said birds of paradise, said pineapples, and said pony?"

No," I replied; "but I really have an old friend who is going to sea, and he'll bring me anything I ask him to.”

"Oh! oh! oh!" swept round the room again. "He really has an old friend who is going to sea, and he'll bring him anything he asks him to!"

At this

Nods and winks passed from one to another, and Hulm was told that no further testimony was needed. They were evidently in a hurry to conclude the case, and felt themselves cut short in their forms of proceeding. moment a strange silence seized the assembly. All eyes were directed toward the door upon which my back was turned. I wheeled around to find the cause of the interruption. There, in the doorway, towering above us all, and looking questioningly down upon the little assembly, stood Mr. Bird.

"What does this mean?" inquired the master.

I flew to his side and took his hand. The officer who had presided explained that they had been trying to break Arthur Bonnicastle of lying, and that they were about to order him to report to the master for correction.

Then Mr. Bird took a chair and patiently heard the whole story.

"The boy has a great deal of imagination," he said, "and a strong love of approbation. Somebody has flattered his power of invention, probably, and to secure admiration, he has exercised it until he has acquired the habit of exaggeration. I doubt whether he has done much that was consciously wrong.

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"I am glad if he has learned, even by the severe means which have been used, that if he wishes to be loved and admired he must always tell the exact truth, neither more nor less. If you had come to me, I could have found a better mode of dealing with him. But I venture to say that he is cured. Aren't you, Arthur?" And he stooped and lifted me to his face and looked into my

eyes.

"I don't think I shall do it any more," I said.

Bidding the boys disperse, he carried me downstairs. into his room and charged me with kindly counsel. I went out from the interview humbled, and without a revengeful thought in my heart toward the boys who had brought me to trial. I saw that they were my friends, and I was determined to prove myself worthy of their friendship.

A SUNDAY IN AUSTRALIA

CHARLES READE

It was the month of January; a blazing hot day was beginning to glow through the freshness of the morning. The sky was one cope of pure blue, and the southern air crept slowly up, its wings clogged with fragrance.

"Is not this pleasant, Tom? - isn't it sweet?"

"I believe you, George! Snuff the air as we go; it is a thousand English gardens in one.”

"Ay, lad! it is very refreshing — and it is Sunday, but in England there would be a little white church out yonder and a spire like an angel's forefinger pointing from grass to heaven, and a tinkle-tinkle from the belfry that would turn all these other sounds and colors and sweet smells holy as well as fair on the Sabbath morn."

Tom laughed and told George he admired the country for these very traits, and asked, "Where are we going, George?"

"Oh, not much farther; only about twelve miles from the camp."

"Where to?"

"To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom."

The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven

o'clock they came upon a small squatter's house and premises.

"Here we are," cried George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.

The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground around it. They passed to the back of the house, and there George's countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass plot and gravel walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them gold diggers.

Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird. "Well, but what is the lark you talked of?" "This is it."

"This? This is a bird."

"Well, and isn't a lark a bird?"

"Oh, ay! I see. Ha ha ha!"

"Hold your cackle," cried one; "he is going to sing." Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, the little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after a while he seemed to revive his memories and call his ancient cadences back to him one by one.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave