Kansas University Weekly.
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hind so that she could conveniently make faces at her brother.
At last they reached the pasture-ground. Dickon threw himself down in the shade of the few trees which grew upon the hillside, and, pulling a book out of his pocket, began to read. Seraphima did not know what to do. Dickon was "thorny," and the morning would seem so very long. At last, she seated herself dejectedly upon the ground, and began pulling up all the grass and flowers within her reach, crooning, in the meantime, to herself.
Suddenly she stopped and crouched forward, her eyes wide open with terror. A clod, just in front of her, was moving-something was pushing it up-up!
"Dickon! Dickon!" screamed Seraphima, "He's a comin'! He's a comin'! De Debbil's comin' to get me!"
Seraphima's shrill little voice became shriller, and her eyes opened wider and wider with fright.
"Oh, de debbil am a comin', Dickon! I'll be good! I will be good!" and then falling upon her knees, and clasping her tiny hands, Seraphima began in a jerky voice:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die"—
Dickon burst into loud shouts of laughter. Seraphima was all fire in an instant. Forgetting "de debbil," her repentance, and everything, she snatched up the very clod under which his Satanic Majesty, in the shape of a large, green beetle, was making his way to the light, and threw it with all her strength straight at Dickon's face. Wonderful to relate, it hit him squarely upon the nose, and the blood spurted in every direction.
Without a word, Dickon ran to the brook below, and flung himself on the ground by its side.
Seraphima stood still, watching him anxiously. Her face was pale, and working with conflicting emotions. At last, her good angel got the better of her, and running as fast as her little legs could carry her, Seraphima knelt by
Dickon's side.
"I'se gotted de debbil behin' me, Dickon," she said, "an' I'm sorry I hitted you,—but I won't hug you 'cause I'm mad at you. Oh Dickon! Are you going to die?
Dickon answered not a word nor moved an inch. There was absolute silence for two or three minutes. Then, in sorrowful persuasion, Seraphima, the Elf, continued. "Say Dickon, if you're goin' to die, mayn't I have your spotted puppy dog?"
Dickon laughed, and Seraphima laughed too; and hand in hand they ran back to the hill-side.
"D' you want to hear the story about the bad little girl, and the good wolf who ate her up?" asked Dickon.
"Um—Yes'm," said Seraphima, meekly.
And then—well, to cut a long story short. Seraphima, like the clock, has "run down" again. ETHEL A HICKEY.
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The Character of Charles Lamb.
It has been said that the writings of Charles Lamb cannot be fully appreciated or understood without a knowledge of the character of the man. This in itself is a sufficient cause for a study of his life and a perusal of contemporary accounts of his characteristics. As students of literature, then, we have a reason for making a close analysis of Lamb's character. From the cold, unsympathetic standpoint of literary criticism this study is necessary. But laying aside its value as an aid to criticism, the subject is one of the deepest concern to those touched by the unique essays of Elia and consequently interested in their author. To one so touched there comes the wish that he might have known the man who could compose such delightful little gems of literary composition. There comes a desire to know something of the life and character of the author—a desire neither critically unsympathetic, nor idly curious, but inspired by a genuinely affectionate interest.
Charles Lamb's life and experiences were of the kind that either makes or mars character. Ruined in prospects as he was in early life, the