THE HUSBAND WHO WAS TO MIND THE

HOUSE

BY GEORGE WEBBE DASENT

Once upon a time there was a man so surly and cross he never thought that his wife did anything right in the house. So one evening, in haymaking time, he came home, scolding and scolding.

"Dear love, don't be so angry; there's a good man," said his wife; "to-morrow let's change our work. I'll go out with the mowers and mow, and you shall mind the house at home."

Yes, the husband thought that would do very well. He was quite willing, he said.

So, early next morning, his wife took a scythe over her neck, and went out into the hayfield with the mowers and began to mow; but the man was to mind the house, and do the work at home.

First of all he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a while he grew thirsty, and went down to the cellar to get a drink of sweet cider. Just when he had knocked in the

bung, and was putting the tap into the cask, he heard overhead the pig come into the kitchen.

Off he ran up the cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as fast as he could, to look after the pig, lest it should upset the churn. But when he got up, and saw the pig had already knocked the churn over, and stood there, routing and grunting amongst the cream which was running all over the floor, he was so wild with rage that he quite forgot the cider barrel and ran at the pig as hard as he could.

He caught it, too, just as it ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick that piggy lay for dead on the spot. Then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand; but when he got down to the cellar, every drop of cider had run out of the cask.

Then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the churn again, and so he began to churn, for they must have butter for dinner.

When he had churned a bit, he remembered that the milking cow was still shut up in the barn, and hadn't had anything to eat or drink all the

morning, though the sun was high. Then all at once he thought 'twas too far to take her down to the meadow, so he would just get her up on the housetop-for the house, you must know, was thatched with sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there.

Now the house lay close up against a steep hill, and he thought if he laid a plank across to the thatch at the back he could easily get the cow up.

But still he couldn't leave the churn, for there was his little babe crawling about on the floor, and "if I leave it," he thought, "the child is safe to upset it." So he took the churn on his back, and went out with it. Then he thought that he would better water the cow before he turned her out on the thatch. He took up a bucket to draw water out of the well; but, as he stooped down at the well's brink, all the cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and so down into the well.

Now it was near dinner-time, and he hadn't even got the butter yet; so he thought he would best boil the porridge. He filled the pot with water, and hung it over the fire. When he had done

that, he thought the cow might perhaps fall off the thatch and break her legs or her neck. So he got up on the house to tie her up. One end of the rope he made fast to the cow's neck, and the other he slipped down the chimney and tied round his own thigh. He had to make haste, for the water now began to boil in the pot, and he had still to grind the oatmeal.

So he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the cow off the housetop after all. As she fell she dragged the man up

There he stuck fast;

the chimney by the rope. and as for the cow, she hung half-way down the wall, swinging between heaven and earth.

Now the wife had waited and waited for her husband to call her home to dinner. At last she thought she had waited long enough, and went home. When she got there and saw the cow hanging in such a queer way, she ran up and cut the rope in two with her scythe. As she did this, down came her husband out of the chimney; and when his old dame came inside the kitchen, there she found him standing on his head in the porridge-pot.

Adapted.

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

There the wrinkled old Nokomis
Nursed the little Hiawatha,
Rocked him in his linden cradle,
Bedded soft in moss and rushes,
Safely bound with reindeer sinews;
Stilled his fretful wail by saying,

"Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!"

Lulled him into slumber singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet!