A Second Reader

May is the one who can make her talk best. She goes behind her and holds out a bit of cake. "Here, Polly," she says, "you know me." "Yes," drawls Polly, "I know you. You're good children." That makes them laugh, and Polly does not like that. "Don't laugh," says May.

When Polly has all she wants, she will say, to school now, children, go to school."

Then off they run as fast as they can, for they know it must be time.

This will all be said over again the next day, but each time it seems just as funny as before. Sometimes the children used to talk about her strong, stout legs.

How her toes point, -two straight in front, and two back!" they would say.

Or, "What a queer bill she has, and how funny she looks when she eats!"

But Polly did not seem to like it.

"I don't blame her," said May; we shouldn't like to have any one do it to us. We won't do it any more."

They hope she will say some new thing; but she has only three sayings for them: "I like you," "You're good children," and "Go to school.”

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;

Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away;

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled;
Yet for old sake's sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.