soil, and the shrubs and herbage were all gnawed close. The sheep might still be hungry, but they were not starving.

seen.

Pretty soon all had shaken themselves out from the fallen snow, so that each one could be plainly Johnny counted them; none were missing, except one weakly lamb. How to get them out, now, was the question. He trod steps for himself, up the bank of snow, but the sheep would not follow; so he went home, rather late for dinner, but with a heart so merry, that it was as good as a feast. After dinner, he repaired again to the gully,

carrying a dish of salt, agreeable to flocks after green forage. He gave each of the sheep a taste, then put a little on each step, and the ewes all followed him up, and the lambs he had to bring two or three. he carried all the way home.

after them,-only One, the weakest, So they went home in regular procession; first Johnny with the saltdish in his hand and a lamb in his arms; then two ewes and a lamb; then a ewe and two lambs. It was a pleasant sight to this humble family,who certainly ate their bread and milk that night with gladness of heart.

IN the old days of Rome, when the Pope was absolute ruler, and before the present King of Italy lived there with his sweet, young wife, Holy Week, the last week in Lent, which ends with Easter Sunday, used to be celebrated so prettily that strangers went from far and near to see the spectacle. There were all sorts of processions in the streets, fine music in the churches, ceremonies in the great basilica of St. Peter, and everybody looked happy; for the Italians seem a great deal more like grownup children than like men and women. They are fond of all bright, pleasant things, and though it is their religion to observe the rites of Holy Week, the doing so gladdens them, for other reasons.

But all these ceremonies cease at the close of Easter Sunday, which is made a sort of beautiful climax to the week of celebrations. Everybody who can get there hurries to St. Peter's, the largest church in the world, you know, and the one you see illuminated in the picture. There all the most important ceremonies take place, and everybody wants to see them. St. Peter's is on the right bank of the muddy Tiber, which flows swiftly through Rome, dividing the city somewhat as the river Seine divides the city of Paris. The largest portion of the town, where most of the people live, is on the left side of the river; so when they go to St. Peter's-and that is very often-they have to cross the bridge of St. Angelo, as the picture shows. The Castle of St. Angelo is the big round fortress you see at the right; and from there a street leads directly to the great place, or piazza, as the Italians call it, before St. Peter's.

At each corner of the front of the church begins a grand covered walk, called a colonnade. For some

distance this covered walk, which has four rows of handsome pillars to support the roof, comes straight from the front of the church. Then it curves out into an oval form, and nearly surrounds the open place, which would otherwise be a square. Looking down from the roof of the church, the colonnades seem like great stone sickles, the handles joining the building, and the blades-the points toward each other—inclosing the piazza. The colonnades, favorite places for the Romans to walk in when the piazza is sunny and hot, are always crowded when the people are waiting to see or attend any of the famous ceremonials of the church.

St. Peter's itself is so big, so much bigger than any church you and I have ever seen in this country, that I am afraid you would get very little idea of it if I should say it was 696 feet at its longest part, and 450 feet at its widest. It is built, like most Roman churches, in the form of a cross, and just over the part where the arms of the cross, or transept, separate from the body of the cross, or nave, rises the great dome, which is 403 feet from the floor to the top. Beside this great dome, are two lesser but not little ones, and six, I think, really small ones; and it was the lighting of all of them which made St. Peter's so magnificent on Easter Sunday evening.

On Easter Sunday morning, there used to be a service in St. Peter's, in which the Pope took part. The great interior was crowded with ladies and gentlemen, the ladies all wearing black dresses and veils, and the gentlemen, evening dress or handsome uniforms. There was beautiful music, and chanting by the priests; and after it was over, the Pope was lifted in his great chair of state, and

borne on the shoulders of men in a long procession from the church. About noon he appeared on the gallery in front of the big dome and over the great door of the church, and looking down on the crowds in the piazza below, gave them his blessing.

This was a very pretty sight. The place was full of people; fathers, mothers, girls and boys, babies held up in their mothers' arms, and little bits of toddling children, all dressed in their best, with bright-colored garments and shining chains and rings-the Italians love jewelry, and wear all they can get all looking bright and happy, waiting patiently for the Pope to come. Even the strangers who did not think as he did were glad to see him, for he was a gentle, kindly old man, and looked very handsome, standing above the people in his white robe and rich, red cloak.

But the most splendid part of the festival was when, just at dusk, the whole church of St. Peter's was illuminated, as you see in the picture, by fortyfour hundred lamps. These were hung on all the pillars of the portico, the corners of the walls, the angles of the domes-wherever, in fact, the line of light could bring out the shape of the building. Even the great cross on the big bronze ball at the top of the large dome looked like a cross of fire. If the evening were dark, the stone walls of the building seemed to disappear, and a monster cage of flame to stand in its place.

About an hour and a quarter after sunset, when the people had begun to grow tired of this spectacle, 250 workmen would, in almost as little time as it takes to tell it, change the lamps for blazing torches. This was the most imposing sight of the day, and the people waited for it patiently for hours. It was well worth seeing, too. Travelers stood in the streets, side by side with the Romans, that they might witness what they could never witness in their own countries. Perhaps the sight will never be observed in Rome again, because for some years before the gentle old Pope, Pio Nono, died, and ever since the new Pope, Leo X., was chosen, the custom of illuminating St. Peter's has been discontinued.

Those who have seen it know how beautiful it was, and how delighted the Roman people were after spending the day in idly wandering about the city; whole families together visiting, chattering, and enjoying the sunshine, with the illuminations, and the fire-works that sometimes rose high over the gloomy castle of St. Angelo, and fell into the dark, hurrying river.

The castle of St. Angelo was built by the Emperor Hadrian, for a tomb for himself and his descendants, and for a long time their remains were placed there. But when the Goths came down from Germany, they turned it into a fortress, without asking anybody's leave, and a fortress it has remained ever since.

I WONDER if any one thinks how tiresome it is to be a little girl, and how perfectly horrid a girl's mother can be, if she chooses? No; that's the worst about grown people, they never seem to suspect that there is anything out of the way about them. They are saints in white, of course. Ah, but Kitty's mother! She is perfectly splendid. I don't know Kitty's mother very well, but they live in a "splendiferous" big house next to ours, and I often hear what goes on at the other side of the fence.

My mother makes me wait on her all day long. It's "Mary Jane, just put on your hat and run down to Bennet's, and see why they don't send the coal"; or, "Mary Jane, step 'round to Hazleton's, and tell them to send me a peck of potatoes." Very nice, to be sure. Why don't she “just run round to Bennet's," or 66 step into Hazleton's" herself, if it 's such a trifle.

Kitty's mother says: "Don't wear yourself out carrying that heavy parasol. Let Eliza hold it over your head, love." I heard her as they were walking in the garden.

Imagine my mother thinking that I could wear myself out. No, not though I ran errands and tended baby, and ran up and down stairs all day long.

And oh, once I was in the toy-shop, and Kitty and her mother came in, and her mother did actually say, "Don't you see anything here that you would like, Kitty, dear?" And "Kitty, dear," like a simpleton, said, "No, mamma."

I wish my mother would let me call her "mamma," it sounds so stylish, and makes you feel just like a girl in a book; but she says "mother" is the most beautiful name in the world. I'm sure, I don't think so.

People say that I 'm not a good little girl, and I think it's because I 'm not brought up judiciously. It spoils a child's disposition to be constantly thwarted, and that's why I do a great many things that are bad. That's why I tear my clothes so often, and make up faces behind people's backs. I'm aggravated. If my mother was not so strict about my going to school, I think I should be a much better girl. I'll tell you how I have to manage when I don't want to go. I get the twins, and begin the most interesting play that ever was. Just as we get all ready to have the party, or get into the cars for a journey, or something exciting, I stop short and say: "I can't play any more now;

it's school time." Then Lucy sets up the most awful howl, and as she has been sick, it is n't good for her to cry, so if mother 's pretty busy, and can't 'tend to her, she says: "Perhaps you had better stay at home to-day, Mary Jane. Lucy is so fretful, and will have to be amused." And then I get them into the yard, and run away and have a good time by myself. I know it is n't right, but I'm aggravated to it.

But what I particularly like about Kitty's mother is that she is so interested. in everything you do, and is so encouraging. Now, there is that composition I wrote, and mother snubbed so. At least, she said I had better try something more simple, and would n't let me give it in. It begins: "It was a beautiful spring morning, and all nature seemed to blend with one accord into each other." Well, I always thought it was real good, and when I read it to Kitty's mother, she said she thought it was beautiful, and that I would turn out a famous authoress.

All this I wrote one day in my journal. It is dated May 21st, 1879, a year ago, so now I can tell you what happened afterward when I had a chance to compare Kitty's mother with my own.

One day, Kitty's mother came to see mine. I supposed that she had come to make a call, and I thought that was splendid, 'cause I believed that she might influence her to bring me up as she did Kitty. But, oh, she had an object in coming that I never should have dreamt of. She wanted to adopt me for a companion for Kitty. I was in the room when she told my mother so, and my heart bounced, I can tell you.

I thought mother looked amused at first, and she put her hand under my chin to hold my face up to hers, and said: "Do you want to leave your mother, dear?" I really believe she thought I would n't want to go.

When I said, "Oh, mother, do let me," a great blush came over her face. "I will think it over," she said, quietly, to Kitty's mother, "and I'll let you know my decision."

She had a long talk with father when he came home. I don't think he approved of my going, but after the twins were in bed and baby asleep, she came into my room, and told me that she had concluded to let me try it for a month, while she and the children paid a visit to grandpa.

I could hardly believe my senses, for I never

supposed she would let me go, and I was wild with delight. "Kitty's mother is a perfect love," I declared, and mother kissed me gently and left me. In just a week, I began to be Kitty's mother's little girl. My trunk was carried over to the big

MARY JANE AND THE TWINS.

house, and I kissed my mother, my first mother you know, and the twins, and carried the baby to the carriage that was to take them to the station, and after seeing it drive away, I followed Kitty to my splendid new home.

I had never been in the house before. When I had seen Kitty and her mother, it had always been in the garden or the little summer-house near our own home. That is where I read my composition to them, and learned to think Kitty's mother perfection. But now I entered the tiled hall, and walked through the elegant rooms on either side of it. It just turned my head to think of living

there.

"Now we'll go upstairs, and you shall see the room that has been prepared for you," said my

mamma.

"Yes, mamma, said Mary Jane, tossing her golden curls as she glode down the marble hall." This I said out loud, but I intended to say only 66 yes, mamma," the rest came out before I knew it. You see, I was pretending I was in a book.

Kitty's mother laughed outright. "You are the most amusing child," said she; "but I should think being called Mary Jane would take the poetry out of anything."

"It does," said I, eagerly. "I want to be called May Jennie instead. Then I would be happy."

So May Jennie I became. In two or three days, I almost forgot that I ever had been called Mary Jane at all. My new mother was just elegant, I thought, and there were no errands and no baby. I did n't know just what to make of Kitty. She was n't a bit like me or any girl I knew.

When I played with her it always reminded me of the day I was shut up in the spare chamber, and made believe that my image in the glass was another little girl and tried to play with it. She would do just what I did, but she would never do anything first. She did n't care to play much, anyway. Her mother said that she was too delicate, and I felt that I ought to be too delicate, too. At first, it was great fun to pretend to be too feeble to move, and call a servant every time I wanted anything; but I got very tired of that sort of thing, by and by. One day I said to Kitty's mother: "I should like to just go and splash around in a mud-puddle as I used to do when I was Mary Jane Hunt."

I thought she never would let me, on account of my fine clothes, but she said "I am afraid you can't find a mud-puddle, there has been so little rain lately but you can tell Thomas to take the hose and make one for you."

I could n't help laughing at this plan. "I should feel pretty cheap to do that. I think I'll get a book and read instead."

"There," said she, " that just proves my theory. You never would have cared to do such things, if your mother had not been so strict. The fact is, she does n't know how to bring up children. Why, my dear, how warm you look!"

I suppose I did look warm. I felt mad. Why should she go and talk in that way about my mother? To be sure, I had complained about her to myself when I was Mary Jane Hunt, and grumbled because she made me run errands, and amuse the baby, and pick up threads off the carpet, but

About this time I began to think it was very queer I had received no letters from mother.

It's