LITTLE CHARLES AND THE FRUIT.

ONE day when little Charles, the good boy of whom I have told you, was on his way to school, he passed by a large orchard in which there were a great many kinds of fruit, and as the sunshine came streaming through the branches of the trees and fell upon the rosy-cheeked apples, the sweet, mellow peaches, and the red cherries, Charles thought they looked very beautiful indeed, and would go down nicely with the lunch which his kind mother

had wrapped up in a white napkin for him, and placed in the little basket he carried in his hand.

Some of the fruit hung very near the fence, and as Charles looked at it wishfully he said to himself: " How easily I could climb over there and pluck several of the apples and pears without being discovered, for there is no one in the orchard now. But that would be wrong, and if I did it I should always be sorry, and suffer dreadfully from the pangs of conscience."

So he stood there a little longer. The little birds in the trees were singing their merriest lays, the soft and balmy zephyrs of early summer were kissing the flowers as they nodded their pretty heads in the grass by the roadside, and all nature seemed rejoicing in its strength.

Many times Charles looked up at the fruit, and thought how easy it would be to take it, but every time he did this the small voice would say: "That would be wrong, Charles," and he would resolve not to make any such break.

But pretty soon a bright thought struck him, and his pure young face lighted up with a sunny smile. "I will go to the owner of the orchard," he said, "who lives in yonder house, and tell him how I have conquered temptation. Then he will give

THOMAS TOUGH.

me all the fruit I want, because that is the way sturdy farmers always do in the little books I get at Sunday-school."

So he went boldly up to the farm-house, but just as he entered the gate a fierce dog grabbed him by the seat of his panties and wiped the ground with him for a few moments. The nice lunch that his mother had put up for him was distributed all over the yard, and his new jacket looked as if it had been out with the boys. When the farmer heard the

noise he came running out of the house and called off the dog. "What do you want, my little man?" he said to Charles.

So Charles told him he had been tempted to take the fruit, but would not do so because it was wrong. And then he asked the man for some fruit.

The farmer looked at him for a moment, and then he said: "I have two more dogs, both larger than the one you tackled, and unless you are out of here in three jerks of a lamb's tail, they will be lunching, and you will be quite conspicuous in the bill-of-fare."

So Charles ran quickly away, not even stopping to ge his basket. A little way down the road he overtook Thomas Tough, who was eating a delicious peach.

"Where did you get that peach, Thomas?" asked Charles. "Over in that orchard,” replied Thomas.

"I waited until the

Old Crank who owns the place had gone to breakfast, and then appointed myself receiver of the orchard."

"You are a very wicked boy," said Charles.

"Yes," replied Thomas, "I am a trifle wicked, but I keep Getting to the Front all the time, and my clothes don't seem quite so much Disarranged as yours. You will also notice that my Lunch Basket is with me, and that my piece of Pie for the Noonday Meal is not lying in Farmer Brown's Garden."

When Charles went home that evening he told his Papa what he had done. "You know, Papa," he said, "that I would sooner be right than President."

"Yes," replied his Papa, "but I am not seriously alarmed about your being President either."-Chicago Tribune.

THARE iz nothing that yu and I make so menny blunders about, and the world so few, az the aktual amount ov our import

ance.

JOSH BILLINGS.

OUR ITALIAN GUIDE.

BY MARK TWAIN.

In this connection I wish to say one word about Michael Angelo Buonarotti-I used to worship the mighty genius of Michael Angelo-that man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture-great in every thing he undertook. But I do not want Michael Angelo for breakfast-for luncheon-for dinner for tea-for supper-for between meals. I like a change, occasionally. In Genoa, he designed every thing; in Milan, he or his pupils designed every thing; he designed the Lake of Como; in Padua, Verona, Venice, Bologna, who did we ever hear of, from guides, but Michael Angelo? In Florence, he painted every thing, designed every thing, nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone. In Pisa, he designed every thing but the old shot-tower, and they would have attributed that to him if it had not been so awfully out of the perpendicular. He designed the piers of Leghorn and the custom-house regulations of Civita Vecchia. But here here it is frightful. He designed St. Peter's; he designed the Pope; he designed the Pantheon, the uniform of the Pope's soldiers, the Tiber, the Vatican, the Coliseum, the Capitol, the Tarpeian Rock, the Barberini Palace, St. John Lateran, the Campagna, the Appian Way, the Seven Hills, the Baths of Caracalla, the Claudian Aqueduct, the Cloaca Maxima-the eternal bore designed the Eternal City, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted every thing in it! Dan said the other day to the guide, "Enough, enough, enough! Say no more! Lump the whole thing! say that the Creator made Italy from designs by Michael Angelo !"

I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael Angelo was dead.

But we have taken it out of this guide. He has marched us through miles of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the Vatican; and through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has shown us the great picture in the Sistine Chapel, and frescoes enough to fresco the heavens

pretty much all done by Michael Angelo. So with him we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for usimbecility and idiotic questions. These creatures never suspect -they have no idea of a sarcasm.

He shows us a figure and says: "Statoo brunzo." (Bronze statue.)

We look at it indifferently, and the doctor asks: "By Michael Angelo?"

"No not know who."

Then he shows us the ancient Roman Forum. The doctor asks: "Michael Angelo?"

A stare from the guide. "No-thousan' year before he is born."

Then an Egyptian obelisk. Again: "Michael Angelo?"

“Oh, mon dieu, genteelmen! Zis is two thousan' year before he is born!"

He grows so tired of that unceasing question, sometimes, that he dreads to show us anything at all. The wretch has tried all the ways he can think of to make us comprehend that Michael Angelo is only responsible for the creation of a part of the world, but somehow he has not succeeded yet. Relief for overtasked eyes and brain from study and sight-seeing is necessary, or we shall become idiotic sure enough. Therefore this guide must continue to suffer. If he does not enjoy it, so much the worse for him. We do.

In this place I may as well jot down a chapter concerning those necessary nuisances, European guides. Many a man has wished in his heart he could do without his guide; but knowing he could not, has wished he could get some amusement out of him as a remuneration for the affliction of his society. We accomplished this latter matter, and if our experience can be made useful to others, they are welcome to it.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion, before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation-full of impatience. He said:

"Come wis me genteelmen!-come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo !-write it himself!-write it wis his own hand!-come!"