many, MANY years after his death.



STRINGING CRANBERRIES.

Arthur Bancroft was feeling very cross one morning in December.
He had a bad cold, and his mother did not think it would be wise
for him to go out-of-doors. That was why he was cross. The
skating was finer than it had been that season; every other boy
he knew was enjoying it.

He walked about the house with a very sulky face; would take no
notice of books or games, and seemed determined to be miserable.

He was standing looking out of the window when his sister Laura
came into the room. Laura carried in her hand a basket filled
with cranberries.

She put the basket on the table, took a needle from her mother's
needle book, threaded it with a long, stout thread, and began
stringing the berries.

Laura was a dear little thing! She was always busy. No one ever
heard her say, "I wish I had something to do." And she was
generally doing something for some one else.

She made a sweet little picture as she sat bending over the
basket of crimson cranberries. Some such idea may have come into
Arthur's mind as he turned and looked at her. As he watched her