Ruth, "about a cow being mother to a baby, out in the new country; did she really lie down for the poor little thing to suckle her, and low when she was creeping towards her?"
"Why, yes, Anne," answered Juliet, anticipating Mr. Barlow's reply; "and don't you remember how she licked over the baby's head and face, just as she would have done her calf's? I think such a mother is the best if you lose your real one."
"Why, Juliet, how funny!"
" ou would not think I felt funny," whispered Juliet to Ruth, with the confidence natural to childhood, "if you knew I had not eaten any thing today but a bunch of raisins, and they tasted horribly."
"Raisins taste horribly—that can't be," replied Ruth, who had not tasted them above twice in her life.
"They did—and so does cake very often to me, when we have not any thing else. Mother, as call her, sometimes sleeps all day, and she forgets we have not any thing to eat."
"Do eat some biscuits, Juliet."
"I can't—I am not hungry; I hardly ever am hungry now-a-days."
"How strange, when you have raisins and cake, and I don't get any thing but a bit of dry bread for supper; but I'm so hungry it always tastes good."
Poor Juliet, while little Ruth was plump and rosy on her dry bread, was suffering the cruel effects of irregular and improper food.
Not one of the company enjoyed the sociable more than Uncle Phil; to be sure, he took a long sound nap during Mr. Barlow's lecture; but, when
