Five Mice in a Mouse-trap, by the Man in the Moon.

"Nay, my sister, for fear I fall.
And wouldst thou come if thou heardst me call?"
"Now choose thee, choose thee thy way of death,
For soon thou shalt draw thy latest breath.
We all have sworn that to-day we'll see
The last, fair Michikee Moo, of thee!"

Whittlesy Whanko, hidden near,
Each and all of these words did hear.
He summoned his braves, all painted for war,
And gave them in charge each guilty squaw.
"Take Wah-wah-bocky, the Blue-nosed Goose!
Take Ching-gach-gocky, the Capering Moose!
Take Peeksy Wiggin, and Squawpan too,
And leave me alone with my Michikee Moo!
This one away to the mountain-top,
And there her head ye shall neatly chop.
This one away to the forest's heart,
And shoot her down with a poisoned dart.
This one away to the river-side,
And there let her be the Manitou's bride.
Away with them all, the woodlands through.
For I'll have no squaw save Michikee Moo!"
Away went the braves, without question or pause,
And they soon put an end to the guilty squaws;
They pleasantly smiled when the deed was done,
Saying "Ping-ko-chanky! oh! isn't it fun?"
And then they all danced the Buffalo dance,
And capered about with ambiguous prance;
While they drank to the health of the lovers so true,
Brave Whittlesy Whanko and Michikee Moo.

"I wish I had an Indian doll, Mr. Moonman!" said Fluff one night, after I had sung this ballad to her. "A little pappoose! it would be so nice!"

"Nothing is easier!" I replied. "Take Katinka, there, who has long black hair; stain her face and neck with walnut juice, and paint her with stripes and spots of red and yellow. Then wrap her up in a blanket and put some beads round her neck, and you have an Indian doll. She will be a truly lovely object, according to Indian ideas, which indeed may not be quite the same as your own, but what of that?"

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Moonman!" said Katinka, who was spending the night on Puff's bed. "I am very sure my dear little mother will do nothing of the kind. Walnut juice, indeed! and for me, who have the finest complexion in the doll-house! You might take Sally Bradford, now, and she would not look more like a witch than she does now; but I am a French doll, and am not used to such treatment."

"Don't abuse Sally Bradford, Miss!" I said. "She is an excellent doll, for whom I have a great respect; and as for your fine complexion, why, we all know that 'handsome is as handsome does;' and I should like to know who does all the work in the doll-house. But speaking of witches, I wonder if Puff has ever heard the story of the witch who came to see little Polly Pemberton. That is a queer story."

"No, I have never heard it, Mr. Moonman!" cried Puff eagerly. "Was it a real witch? do tell me the story!"

"Oh! as for being real," I replied, "that is none of my business. My business is to tell the story which I will do. I heard a little girl in New Haven, telling it to her brothers and sisters the other night, and she frightened them half out of their wits. I will try to tell the story just as she did. Did you know, children, that there were witches in old times? well, there were, or people thought there were, which came to much the same thing for the witches. Hear this story, and then see what you think about the matter.

"Well, once there was a little girl, about eight years old. I shall call her Polly, but you need not feel obliged to follow my example. If you prefer to call her Kamschatka, I don't mind in the least. This little girl lived with her father and mother, in a little red cottage which stood quite by itself near a thick wood. Every day her parents went to the village, which was a mile or more away, to work, and they left little Polly in charge of the house, for she was a good and quiet little girl, and never was lonely or sad. One day Polly was sitting by the window, knitting, when she saw a queer-looking old woman coming along the road; such a queer old woman. Have you ever seen a picture of Cinderella's fairy godmother? well, she looked just like that, pointed hat, red cloak, and all. When the old woman saw Polly, she stopped, and looked earnestly at her; then she hobbled slowly up to the door and knocked. Polly ran and opened the door. "How are you, my child?" said the old dame; "let me in. I'm your grandmother." Polly had always been taught to be respectful to old people, so she let the old woman in, and politely handed her a chair; but she could not help saying, as she did so, "excuse me, ma'am, but I don't think you can be my grandmother." "That shows how much you know about it!" replied the old woman; "how old are you?" "Eight years old," said Polly. "Very well!" said the old woman; "now I am ninety-six years old, just twelve times as old as you are; therefore, I'm your grandmother." "But I don't see – " began Polly. "Oh, if you want to argue about it," said the old dame, "here we are," and she drew from her pocket a small book, and opening it, read aloud, "Take a little girl eight years old, and multiply her by twelve; what will be the result? Answer: her grandmother. There!" she said, triumphantly, "what do you think of that?" Poor Polly did not know what to think of it. She looked at the book, which looked exactly like Colburn's Arithmetic. "Is that Colburn's Arithmetic, ma'am?" she asked timidly. "Colburn's Fiddlestick!" said the old woman, shortly. "Here's another for you. Put a boy up an apple-tree, and divide him by a good sized bull-dog; what will remain? hey?" "I'm sure I don't know," said poor Polly, faintly. "Mince-meat, of course," said the old woman. "You don't know much, evidently." "What a dreadful looking cat!" thought Polly. And indeed, he did not look like an amiable animal. His green eyes shone with an uncanny light, and his long claws were constantly sheathing and unsheathing themselves, as if they longed to scratch somebody. However, the old woman certainly seemed fond of him. "Hobble-gobble!" she said, "prince of cats, black diamond, blazing emerald, attend!

Kickery punk, punkery kick,
Bring the teapot and be quick!"

The cat gave one spring, and in the twinkling of an eye he reached the cupboard where the silver was kept. Now the door of the cupboard was locked, as Polly, in her surprise, (which was fast turning into terror,) thankfully remembered. The cat, finding it locked, turned and looked at his mistress, who, striking her stick on the floor, exclaimed

"Scratchery, patchery, tooth and nail;
Open the door with a quirk of your tail."

Quick as thought the creature turned round and inserted the tip of his tail in the key hole. In a moment the door flew open, and seizing the silver teapot in his claws, the cat sprang back with it to his mistress, who, snatching the teapot, hid it under her red cloak. At this Polly sprang to her feet, with a cry of mingled fear and anger; but the witch (for this certainly must have been a witch, if ever there was one,) pointed her stick at her, and muttered some strange words which sounded like "Buggara wuggera boogle jum, Hobble-gobble!" She said this last word suddenly and sharply, and Polly was quite startled; but fancy her alarm when a large black cat crept out from beneath the red cloak, and sitting down on his mistress's knee, looked up in her face with an air of unearthly sagacity, and poor Polly fell back in her chair, unable to move hand or foot. There she sat, motionless, but perfectly conscious, watching this dreadful old hag. And what do you think the creature did next? She took some strange looking herbs from her pocket, and put them in the teapot, which she then filled with water and set on the stove. Then, calling to her cat, she began to hop slowly round the stove on one foot. The cat followed her, hopping first on one black foot and then on another, but keeping its unearthly green eyes fixed on Polly all the time. The witch kept muttering strange words like those which had thrown the spell on Polly; while her companion moved in time if not in tune.

"Buggara wuggara, boogle jum jum!
I will have all, and my cat shall have some.
Boogle jum! boogle jmm! buggara boom!
Down with the teapot and up with the broom!"

"By the time she had hopped round the stove six times, the water in the teapot was boiling furiously. The old hag stopped and said "Hobble gobble, prince of cats, produce the broom-stick!"

"The cat jumped up on the stove, without seeming to mind the heat in the least, though the iron was nearly red hot. He lifted the lid of the teapot, and took out – what do you think, now? You will never believe me, but I am not responsible for the story. He took out – a broom. A long broom, with a bright red handle, which seemed somehow as if it was alive, for it actually wriggled as the cat, leaping down from the stove, handed it to his mistress. The old woman snatched it, and waved it three times round Polly's head. Then she mounted the stick as if it were a horse, and calling once more to her cat, she rose in the air, and vanished up the chimney, the cat sitting beside her on the broom-stick, and grinning hideously at Polly as long as he remained in sight. That was truly dreadful, was it not? that comes of leaving little girls alone all day, which is a very bad plan."

"But is that all?" asked Puffy. "Doesn't it tell what became of Polly, and the teapot? You haven't told any end to the story, Mr. Moonman."

"Exactly!" I replied. "There isn't any end to it. But there is an end to this night, and that end has come. Farewell, my mouse, till to-morrow night."

And I whisked away, leaving Katinka and Puff so much astonished that one fell off the bed, and the other woke up. Wasn't that funny?

CHAPTER XV.

FOLLOWING A SUNBEAM

untie," said Downy, one morning, "I'v dere any people in de fun?"

"In the fun, dear child?" answered Mrs. Wilton. "What do you mean? people are often in fun. Is that it?"

"Oh! no, Auntie!" said Fluff, who was sitting beside Downy on the broad window-sill, eating her porridge, "I know what he means. He means 'in the sun,' but he cannot say 's,' you know, so he says 'f' instead."

"Oh!" said Aunt Grace. "In the sun; of course. I understand now. Well, Downy boy, I have never been in the sun, so I really cannot tell you. I heard of a little boy who did go once, however. Fluffy, tell Downy the little story I told you the other day, about the sunbeam. I would tell it to him myself, but I must speak to cook about dinner."

"Well, Downy," said Fluff, in an important tone, as she settled herself more comfortably on the window-sill, "Once upon a time there was a little boy, and his name was Wynkyn."

"Nebber heard dat name!" interrupted Downy.

"Well, it was his name just the same," said Fluff, "for Auntie said so. So he wanted to know what was in the sun. So somebody told him – "

"Whobody was it?" inquired Downy.

"Oh! I don't know! anybody!" said Fluff. "I wont tell it if you interrupt me, Downy."

"I wont adain!" said Downy. "Do on, Fluffy!"

"Somebody told him," continued Fluff, "that if he put his foot on the end of a sunbeam, it would turn into a golden ladder and lead to the sun. So he did, and so it did, – turned into a ladder, I mean; all shining gold, going right up into the sun. So he went up, and up, and up, and the upper he went the brighter the ladder grew. At last he came to the sun, and there were ever so many little boys and girls, all made of gold, running about and playing, and having a splendid time. And they all came and played with Wynkyn, and gave him all sorts of lovely presents to take back to the earth.

A golden hat and a golden coat,
A golden ball and a golden boat,
A slate all covered with golden sums,