"
"Goody gracious, mamma!"
"There she goes again!" cried the father; "now we shall have another
fit!"
"Hush, hush, my love! you must go to sleep now, and not talk any more."
"Well, kiss me, mamma, and let me have your hand to go to sleep with,
and I'll try."
Her mother kissed the dear little thing, and took her hand in hers, and
laid her cheek upon the pillow, and in less than five minutes she was
sound asleep, and breathing as she hadn't breathed before since she had
been fished out of the water, nearly three weeks back, on her way to
Fairy-land.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A FADED LEAF OF HISTORY.
BY REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.
One quiet, snowy afternoon this winter, I found in a dark corner of one
of the oldest libraries in the country a curious pamphlet. It fell into
my hands like a bit of old age and darkness itself. The pages were
coffee-colored, and worn thin and ragged at the edges, like rotting
leaves in fall; they had grown clammy to the touch, too, from the grasp
of so many dead years. There was a peculiar smell about the book which
it had carried down from the days when young William Penn went up and
down the clay-paths of his village of Philadelphia, stopping to watch
the settlers fishing in the clear ponds or to speak to the gangs of
yellow-painted Indians coming in with peltry from the adjacent forest.
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