children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy
understands every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell
me where you keep your mind."

If the boy had replied, like Alcibiades, "By the gods,
Socrates, I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been
surprised; but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a
meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm con-
viction, "In my little belly," the old gentleman could only join
in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.

There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi
had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well
as a budding philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which
caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child
ain't long for this world," he would turn about and set her
fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty,
naughty little rascals distract and delight their parents' souls.

Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but
what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the
ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature
men and women who so early show themselves accomplished
Artful Dodgers?

"No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma
to the young person, who offers his services in the kitchen with
unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.

"Me likes to be sick."

"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make
patty-cakes."

He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit;
and, by and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them,
he outwits mamma by a shrewd bargain.

"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything
you like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs,
when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.

"Truly marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his
well-powdered head.

"Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sightedqb

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