The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe (Musaicum Christmas Specials). Amanda M. Douglas

a fraud, and more trouble to me than all my money."

      With that, Joe sat her up on his shoulder, and she laughed gleefully.

      Granny lighted a candle, and began to prepare for supper. While Charlie set the table, Granny brought out the griddle, and commenced frying some Indian cakes in a most tempting manner. Joe dropped on an old stool, and delighted Dot with a vigorous ride to Banbury Cross.

      Kit stood beside him, inhaling the fragrance of the cakes, and wondering at the dexterity with which Granny turned them on a slender knife.

      "I don't see how you do it. Suppose you should let 'em fall?"

      "Ho!" said Charlie, with a sniff of disdain. "Women always know how."

      "But they can't come up to the miners," suggested Joe. "They keep house for themselves; and their flapjacks are turned,—as big as Granny's griddle here."

      "One cake?"

      "Yes. That's where the art comes in."

      "They must take a shovel," said Charlie.

      "No, nor a knife, nor any thing."

      With that Joe shook his head mysteriously.

      "With their fingers," announced Kit triumphantly.

      "My mother used to bake them in a frying-pan," said Granny. "Then she'd twirl it round and round, and suddenly throw the cake over."

      "There!"

      Kit gave a nod as much as to say, "Beat that if you can."

      "That isn't a circumstance," was Joe's solemn comment.

      "But how then?" asked Charlie, who was wound up to a pitch of curiosity.

      "Why, they bake them in a pan too, and twirl it round and round, and then throw it up and run out of doors. The cake goes up chimney, and comes down on the raw side, all right, you see, and drops into the pan before you can count six black beans."

      "Oh, I don't believe it!" declared Charlie. "Do you, Granny?"

      "They'd have to be pretty quick," was the response.

      "You see, a woman never could do it, Charlie," Joe continued in a tormenting manner.

      "But, Charlie, a miner's cabin is not very high; and the chimney is just a great hole in the roof," explained Hal.

      "'Tory, 'tory," said Dot, who was not interested in the culinary art.

      "O Dotty! you'll have a piece worn off the end of my tongue, some day. It's high time you were storing your mind with useful facts; so, if you please, we will have a little English history."

      "What nonsense, Joe! As if she could understand;" and Florence looked up from her pretty worsted crocheting.

      "To be sure she can. Dot comes of a smart family. Now, Midget;" and with that he perched her up on his knee.

      Charlie and Kit began to listen.

      "'When good King Arthur ruled the land,

       He was a goodly king:

       He stole three pecks of barley-meal

       To make a bag pudding.'"

      "I don't believe it," burst out Charlie. "I was reading about King Arthur"—

      "And he was a splendid cook. Hear his experience,—

      'A bag pudding the king did make,

       And stuffed it well with plums;

       And in it put great lumps of fat,

       As big as my two thumbs.'"

      Dot thought the laugh came in here, and threw back her head, showing her little white teeth.

      "It really wasn't King Arthur," persisted Charlie.

      "It is a fact handed down to posterity. No wonder England became great under so wise and economical a rule; for listen—

      'The king and queen did eat thereof,

       And noblemen beside;

       And what they could not eat that night,

       The queen next morning fried,'—

      as we do sometimes. Isn't it wonderful?"

      "Hunnerful," ejaculated Dot, wide-eyed.

      "I hope you'll take a lesson, and"—

      "Come to supper," said Granny.

      Irrepressible Charlie giggled at the ending.

      They did not need a second invitation, but clustered around eagerly.

      "I'm afraid there won't be any left to fry up in the morning," said Joe solemnly.

      After the youngsters were off to bed that evening, Joe began to talk about his good fortune again.

      "And a dollar and a half a week, regularly, is a good deal," he said. "Why, I can get a spick and span new suit of clothes for twelve dollars,—two months, that would be; and made at a tailor's too."

      "The two months?" asked Florence.

      "Oh! you know what I mean."

      "You will get into worse habits than ever," she said with a wise elder-sister air.

      "I don't ever expect to be a grand gentleman."

      "But you might be a little careful."

      "Flo acts as if she thought we were to have a great fortune left us by and by, and wouldn't be polished enough to live in state."

      "The only fortune we shall ever have will come from five-finger land," laughed Hal good-naturedly.

      "And I'm going to make a beginning. I do think it was a streak of luck. I am old enough to do something for myself."

      "I wish I could find such a chance," said Hal, with a soft sigh.

      "Your turn will come presently," Granny answered, smiling tenderly.

      Joe went on with his air-castles. The sum of money looked so large in his eyes. He bought out half of Mr. Terry's store, and they were to live like princes,—all on a dollar and a half a week.

      Granny smiled, and felt proud enough of him. If he would only keep to business, and not go off to sea.

      So on Friday Joe piled up his books, and turned a somerset over them, and took a farewell race with the boys. They were all sorry enough to lose him. Mr. Fielder wished him good luck.

      "You will find that work is not play," he said by way of caution.

      Early Monday morning Joe presented himself bright as a new button. He had insisted upon wearing his best suit,—didn't he mean to have another soon? for the school clothes were all patches. He had given his hair a Sunday combing, which meant that he used a comb instead of his fingers. Mr. Terry was much pleased with his promptness.

      A regular country store, with groceries on one side and dry goods on the other, a little sashed cubby for a post-office, and a corner for garden and farm implements. There was no liquor kept on the premises; for the mild ginger and root beer sold in summer could hardly be placed in that category.

      Joe was pretty quick, and by noon had mastered many of the intricacies. Old Mr. Terry was in the store part of the time,—"father" as everybody called him. He was growing rather childish and careless, so his son instructed Joe to keep a little watch over him. Then he showed him how to harness the horse, and drove off with some bulky groceries that he was to take home.

      "All things work together for good, sonny," said Father Terry with a sleepy nod, as he sat down by the stove.

      "What things?"

      "All things," with a sagacious shake of the head.

      This was Father Terry's favorite quotation, and he used it in season and out of season.

      The door opened, and Mrs. Van Wyck entered. She gave Joe