Summer And Winter

A boy of 10, whose constant cry for weeks has been for a velocipede "for a present, carne in from school a day or two ago and asked his mothc-r íí' shehac ever read Holmes' poems. "Oh, yes," she replied. "I knowmany of them by heart." "Do yon?" he cried. "Well, aren't they nice? Have we got thein in a book?" "No," answered his mother: "I wish we had." "I feel as if I raust have them?" said the small boy earnestly. "Don't yon suppose I could have them? Now, I'll tell you what it is"- with an air of profound conviction- "if I can't have both I believe I'd rather have Holmes' poeras than a velocipede!" "Indeed!" exclaimed his ruother, much surprised and pleased. Then, turningto the boy's father, she remarked pleasantly, "Really, I don't know but we are going to have a poet in the family." "Oh, no!" cried the boy quickly; "I'm going to be a baseball píayer, and when I grow np, you know- but I'll tell yon what," he added, snddenlv. "I mia-ht, bé