Part 18 (1/2)

marched out of the house, headed by President Eunice, the secretary and treasurer following, while the editor, all in a flutter, carrying the precious paper laid flat in an atlas, brought up the rear. The president sat down, gravely, in a big chair reserved for her, while the secretary took a seat by her side, though she cast a longing look at the hammock, which was regarded as undignified. The editor, vainly trying to control her smiles and restrain her dimples, stood behind the table, and began.

”I copied the top part of it from a real newspaper, auntie,” she said, opening the sheet. ”Now, boys, remember, if you laugh the least bit, I'll stop. And, oh, auntie, I forgot to say that the boys wrote some of the atoms.”

”Atoms?” repeated Auntie Jean, puzzled.

”_Atoms!_ Miss Scricket, oh, ho!” called Archie; then, recollecting himself just in time, he clapped his hands over his mouth.

”That's what you said they were, I thought,” said Cricket, anxiously.

”Don't you know, auntie, those little things that come between the stories, and all that? General atoms. I have written it down.”

”Items, dear,” said auntie, soberly.

”Items--atoms,” repeated Cricket, thoughtfully, comparing the sounds.

”Yes, of course. How silly of me. I'll change it right away. Well, the boys wrote most of them, anyway. Now, I'm all ready,” and Cricket cleared her throat, and began.

The Echo.

SERELLA CARLILLIAN, _Editor_.

NO. 1. _Marbury, Wednesday, July 15th, 18--._ VOL. I.

DELL'S COMPOSITION.

”Oh, dear!” sighed Dell Ripley, ”next Friday is Composition Day, and I've got to write a composition. What subject shall I take, mamma?”

”Are there not any subjects in your school composition-book?”

asked Mrs. Ripley, a pleasant looking lady of apparently thirty-five.

”Yes'm, but not any I want. Oh, it seems to me that I saw a book up-stairs in the garret with something about compositions in it,” and, shaking back her floating curls, the little girl bounded from the room. She ran up the garret stairs, and then began to look for the book. At last she found it, and eagerly opened it, and, as she opened it, a paper fluttered to the floor.

She picked it up, and saw the name ”Amy Willard” on it. ”Why,”

she thought, ”it's something of Aunt Amy's,” and she read it. It was a composition.

”Joan of Arc,” cried Dell, ”splendid subject, and splendid composition. I wish I could write one as nice.”

”Why not take this one?” asked the tempter. Then there was a very long struggle in Dell's heart, but the tempter conquered, and Dell carried the composition down to her own room to copy it. When she had finished it, she read it over, trying to think that it sounded just like any of her own, and that no one would ever know it.

”It sounds just like mine,” she said, trying to get rid of that uneasy feeling. ”I guess I'll just change this sentence and that one.”

”Have you written your composition, dear?” asked Mrs. Ripley, pleasantly, as Dell came slowly down-stairs, and out on the piazza.

”Yes'm,” answered Dell, very low.

”You look tired, dear.”

”I am.”