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toy kyacks, or boats, and even imitations of the 'big boat," or ship of the stranger, with sinews, or the roots of a peculiar grass for the rigging. But here as everywhere-the doll is the grand toy. No wax, china, rubber, or rags will do for the Eskimo doll. It is made of ivory or wood, carefully carved as nearly like the human figure as possible, with eyes of bits of pearly shell, inlaid. Some of them are twelve or eighteen inches tall, but most of them are six or eight inches only. As to the manner of playing with them, I suppose the Eskimo boys play seal-catching, bearhunting, sledge-riding, and dogtraining; and the girls keep house with their ivory dollies, get the meals and make the clothes, all in Eskimo fashion.

of playthings in their homes, that seem to us so dreary.

Our own toy-shops have all the wonders of Euro

pean make, but the kinds we invent ourselves are mostly mechanical toys,-creeping dolls, bears that perform, horsemen that drive furiously, boatmen that row, steam cars that go; and we have a monopoly of base balls and bats, for no other peo

ple use them. None but English-speaking people indulge in plays so violent as to be dangerous to life and limb, as is our base ball, and the cricket of our English cousins.

When we begin to talk of these games we reach the amusements of the grown-ups, which perhaps they would n't like to have called "playthings,"

"I

TELL ye, Micky, a shtroke o' good luck is afther comin' til us, and all through the freshet, that's dalin' destruction to others. Ye know Danny Casey that 's livin' in the shanty, on the very edge of the river, on the other side? It's the freshet is carryin' him away, entirely, and he not havin' time to get anythin' but the childer and the bit o' furniture to a safe place, an' he havin' as beautiful a litter o' pigs as iver was, siven o' them, and not a week old, and the wather, and the big blocks of ice floatin' up, and washin' over the pen ! An' says he to me, says Danny, says he, 'Mrs. Mc

Glinty, I know you 're a poor, lone, widdy woman, and the bit and the sup for the childer is hard to get, and you 're welcome to three o' my pigs, as foine pigs as iver you seen, an' me movin' into the loft over the Company's store, where the wife and the childer 'll be warrm and safe, but pigs is not allowed.' An' the ould one, and four of the little ones he 's afther sellin' to a man from Oil City, for a good price, so Danny 'll not be losin', an' it 's rich they 'll be, afther givin' us three foine young pigs, an' it 's beautiful an' fat, an' worth a dale they 'll be agin fall! But my tongue runs away wid me, and it 's drownding the foine little pigs is by this time as like as not! Run, Micky, darlin', wid the big basket, an' put sthraw in it an' the bit of an' ould shawl to cover them, for it 's tinder plants young pigs is!"

The few last remarks of Mrs. McGlinty were screamed from the open door, for Micky, no less delighted than his mother at the prospect of possessing "three foine pigs," had already started, on the run. And before he reached the bridge he had seen, in his mind's eye, the tails of those pigs

eleven, was the man of the family, and had taken a great deal of care and responsibility upon his shoulders, ever since the death of his father, more than a year before.

Micky found a crowd of people lining the banks of the river. It had rained, steadily, for five days, and the river was rising rapidly. It was full of ice, -huge blocks, that leaped and slid over each other, almost as if they were living things. It had been the most severe winter for many years, and the ice was of wonderful thickness. A great many logs and timbers were floating among the blocks of ice, with the roof of a shanty, a hen-coop, and a broken chair and portions of a light wooden bridge.

she had to depend upon, except the washing which she found to do now and then. Mr. Ludlow, the superintendent of the mills, was standing at the entrance of the bridge.

"Will the bridge go, sir?" said Micky, out of breath, his red hair standing out straight, under his rimless cap, and his freckled face fiery with excitement.

"Pooh! have they been trying to scare you, my boy?" said Mr. Ludlow, a red-faced, jolly man, who was always very kind to Micky. "There is n't a stancher bridge on the Alleghany!"

Mr. Ludlow was authority for Micky. He never thought of questioning his opinion. With one

bound he was on the bridge, running, not for life, he had not a shadow of fear since Mr. Ludlow had pronounced the bridge safe,—but for the pigs, almost as dear as life. Danny Casey's shanty looked as if it were almost submerged; what if the pigs had already found a watery grave? That thought lent redoubled swiftness to Micky's feet. In almost as short a time as it takes to tell it, he reached Danny Casey's deserted shanty. He only cast one glance at the shanty, and rushed to the pig-pen. It was completely under water! The blow was too much for Micky to bear calmly; he thrust his fists into his eyes, and uttered a prolonged Irish howl.

"Is it the Widdy McGlinty's bye ye are?" called a voice from a neighboring house, higher and drier than Danny Casey's, and an old Irishwoman approached with her capacious apron filled with a squealing mass, which proved to be the three little pigs. "Danny left 'em wid me, and well he did, wid the murtherin' wather covering the place intirely !"

Micky's mourning was suddenly turned to joy. He placed his treasures tenderly in his basket, amidst the straw, and covered them with the piece of a warm shawl which he had brought, and their squealings gave place to piggish grunts of satisfaction. The crowd on both sides of the river had increased, Micky noticed, as he took his way homeward, but everybody had left the bridge.

"Look here, boy, I don't know as you had better go across there. I aint sure that it's safe!" called a man.

"Pooh!" said Micky, imitating Mr. Ludlow. "There don't be a standisher bridge on the Alleghany!"

And he ran along, without a thought of fear. It had never occurred to Micky, in all his life, that Mr. Ludlow could be mistaken.

He ran very fast, and looked neither to the right nor the left, he was in such haste for his mother to see the pigs; there never were quite such pigs, Micky thought, so white, so plump, and with such bewitching quirks in their tails!

Suddenly there was a great shouting on the banks; everybody was looking and pointing up the river. A great mass of ice-blocks, piled high, one above another, wedged together into a solid, glittering iceberg, was sweeping down toward the bridge. Micky was only a little more than half way over. In spite of Mr. Ludlow his knees shook. That great, massive thing, sweeping along so swiftly, must carry everything before it!

There was a great shock. It seemed to Micky, as he said afterward, "as if the world and the sky had come together wid a bang!" A heaving and creaking of timbers, a crashing of masonry!

The bridge divided into three parts; the great mass of ice went crashing through, driving the middle portion of the bridge almost entirely under water. The icy pile seemed almost like a living thing, powerful and relentless, treading a defenseless object under its feet.

Where was Micky? He had just stepped off the middle portion, which the iceberg crushed beneath it; he was floating down the river on that part of the bridge which was near his own shore. But he was too far from the shore ever to reach it, thought Micky. There was a great commotion on the bank; hurrying to and fro, and shouting, but there seemed to be no way to release him from his dangerous position. Just here the water was comparatively free from ice. The great mass in its onward rush had swept it almost clear. But there were signs that this mass had been weakened by its collision with the bridge, and was about to break up into blocks; and, when the trembling, creaking, wooden raft upon which Micky was afloat got into the midst of great blocks of ice, it would almost inevitably be broken in pieces, or submerged. Some men were running as fast as possible down along the shore, probably hoping that Micky's frail craft would float near enough to the shore for them to rescue him, before it got among the dangerous ice blocks. It did drift nearer the shore; but the next moment the relentless ice blocks were around it, pushing it farther out toward the middle of the river. It pitched and tossed, now riding over the blocks and sheets of ice, now pushed almost entirely under them; great planks and timbers were torn from it.

"The saints preserve us!" cried Micky. "The pigs an' me 'll niver get home!"

The raft was drifting nearer the shore, but alas! it was going to pieces surely and swiftly.

"Jump! jump on to the ice cake!" cried voices from the shore.

He could see Mr. Ludlow pointing frantically to a large cake of ice which was floating by him. But the space between him and the cake was so wide that Micky was afraid he could not leap it, encumbered, as he was, by the basket.

"Never mind the basket! leave the basket!" cried voices from the shore.

“Is it lave the pigs, ye say? Niver!" shouted Micky, angrily.

But the boards were giving way under his feet, and he jumped, basket and all-and reached the ice cake. "Hurrah!" went up from the shore, whither anxiety with regard to Micky's fate had led the crowd which had witnessed the giving way of the bridge, nearly half a mile farther up the river.

But Micky's feet went out from under him as he came down, in his flying leap, on the slippery cake

of ice. The shock sent the basket, with its precious contents flying. It rolled over and over, and into the water, before Micky could catch it! But two of the "foine little pigs" were sprawling on the ice, squealing as if they fully realized the dangers through which they were passing-the other had uttered his last squeal, as he went overboard with the basket.

Micky's perils were not yet over, and he knew it, but yet the first cry he had uttered was for the loss of the pig. The cake of ice on which he stood was drifting toward the shore, but soon it might be steered out toward the middle of the river by other blocks. But some kind influence seemed to guide it; now it was very near the shore. The men had tried to launch a little boat, but near the shore the blocks of ice were so close together that it was impossible. Mr. Ludlow and one or two others walked out, stepping from block to block, to within a few yards of Micky's ice-raft.

"Now is your time, Micky!" called Mr. Ludlow, as the cake floated near. "Jump, and if you go into the water we 'll catch you!"

But alas! one of the squirming, squealing creatures dropped as he jumped, and Micky went up the river bank amid the shouts and congratulations of the crowd, happy that he was safe on land, of course, but with a great pang at his heart because he had only one pig left.

"How can I go home wid but the won pig, an' she depindin' on 'em to buy the warrm clothes next winter?" he cried.

"O, that's it, is it?" said Mr. Ludlow. "Well, I'll make that loss up to you-I ought to do it, because I told you the bridge was safe."

"Pass round the hat-let 's pay for the two pigs!" said one of the bystanders.

The hat was passed round. Two members of the iron company, rich men from New York, were there, and two or three oil princes. Every man gave something. I would n't dare to tell you how well those two pigs were paid for, lest you should doubt my veracity. Micky thought it was too good to be true.

"Let the pigs go!" called Mr. Ludlow, angrily. But even Mr. Ludlow's command was not suf

ficient to make Micky desert the pigs.

"I could'nt go home to the mother, sirr, widout the pigs, an' her depindin' on 'em!" said Micky.

pigs. But when Micky poured his pile of money into her lap, she shed tears of joy.

"The saints be praised! The foine little pigs was a sthroke of luck, after all!" she cried. And the little pig who survived such perils lived to be a great comfort to Mrs. McGlinty.

ONLY two minutes ago, mamma tucked little Irene into her warm bed, and kissed her goodnight, and here stands the white-robed child at the window looking-looking so intently that she does not hear the footsteps at the door. What is it that has drawn her with such magnetic force from her nest? is it the wonderful landscape, the fields and trees and hills all covered with snow and flooded with moonlight? No, for her eyes are turned to the sky and fixed upon the yellow moon.

"Why, Miss Irene, you naughty child," cries nurse, suddenly coming in, "what are you doing there by the window? Don't you know that you'll catch your death of cold unless you go back to bed this minute?"

"I am looking at my dear moon," answers Irene, allowing herself to be again stowed away between the blankets. "I was thinking if the yesterdays went up there, Katy: do they, I wonder? Where do they go?"

"Mercy! Miss Irene, how should I know? When they're gone, they 're gone, that's all I care about, and it's the to-morrows that bring the wrinkles and the gray hairs, though to be sure, you 're not likely to think of these for some time to come. Good-night, now, and don't get out of bed again."

And be ore Irene can think of what she is doing, she finds herself in the arms of the stars, floating gently through the air. Oh, how beautiful the white earth looks, as she rises far above it!

A little breeze rustles about with an important air, and tells a great secret to the evergreens.

"What do you think? The stars are taking a little girl up to the moon." And the snow whispers to the poor little violets who are imprisoned underground and cannot see what is going on in the world, "Little Irene has gone to look for the yesterdays."

Higher and higher rise the stars, bearing with them the happy child. They are singing sweet melodies to her; they are telling her wonderful tales of star life.

"Oh, I am all alone, says Irene, suddenly, and looks about her in dismay. What odd place is this that she sees? She is standing in the midst of a great field, which is covered with grass and stones: there are a few trees to be seen, but there is not a hill in sight, and what makes it all so strange, is that the grass, the stones, the trees and the flowers are of a bright yellow color.

“Well, I never!” cries Irene, and wonders what she shall do next.

"Ahem!" says a voice close at her side; and

For a

A beautiful star-queen comes gliding in through the window, followed by a train of tiny thoughtfairies,-fair thoughts, queer thoughts, tricksy thoughts, ill-natured thoughts, and good. moment the tricksy thoughts try to drive away the better ones, but they do not succeed; and soon Tom, the sweetest of the thought-fairies, whispers into Irene's ear, the star-queen waves her wand and all the odd little forms vanish and twelve lovely stars come dancing in at the window. They hold out their hands to the dazzled and bewildered child.

"Come quickly, darling; come quickly," they sing, "we have seen you watching us, often, and we love you, and now we are going to take you up to the moon. Make haste, pretty one!"

not more than three feet high, who is dressed all in yellow, and whose cap is covered with bells.

"Good-evening, my dear," he replies in a pleasant tone. "I am glad to see you up here. It is not often that a human child finds her way to the moon, but she is sure of a welcome if she does come." "You are very kind," answers Irene, quite relieved by the cordiality of his words. "Are you the man in the moon?"

"One of the men in the moon, my dear; but perhaps not the one of whom you are thinking. I never have been to Norwich," with a merry look and a sideways glance at the little girl. "My name is Father Gander."

"Indeed!" says Irene.

"Yes; my wife is the famous Mother Goose. You've read her books, have n't you?"

"I've read one of them," answers Irene; "a book of-of-poems; but I did n't know that she had written any others."

"Oh, well,” replies Father Gander, "the book