eing the baby's feet?" How should you like to have a dreadful pain under your apron, and have everybody call you "a little cross thing," when you couldn't speak to tell what was the matter with you? How should you like to crawl to the top stair, (just to look about a little,) and pitch heels over head from the top to the bottom?
Oh, I can tell you it is no joke to be a baby! Such a thinking as we keep up; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to get our brains knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a sensible baby, who is in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait to grow up.
TEARS AND SMILES.
It was a very hot morning in August, when little Floy stopped to look in at a city fruiterer's window. There were bright golden apples, nice juicy pears, plump bunches of grapes, luscious plums and peaches, and mammoth melons. In truth, it was a very tempting show, to a little girl, who lived on dry bread and milk, and sometimes had not enou
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