the hand, and carried her off, knitting and all, to the library.

"Now, please," said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was
too tall for her.

"Stop a minute!" cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, "the
horse-hair tickles my legs."

"Put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do," said Dot.
"_Now_, Aunt Penelope."

"No, wait," groaned Sam; "it isn't big enough; it only covers one leg."

Dot slid down again, and ran to Sam.

"Take my handkerchief for the other."

"But what will you do?" said Sam.

"Oh, I don't care," said Dot, scrambling back into her place. "Now,
Aunty, please."

And Aunt Penelope began.


"THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.

"I suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and
fancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. Perhaps it is
because I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims