A VERY SLY FELLOW.

RIGHT here at the start I must tell you that this story is true. It all really happened, in a city whose name commences with B; and it is not Boston.

It was a clear, wintry afternoon when it happened, and the children of the street were playing over in the sunshine.

There was a long row of houses on either side of this street, which is one rather sad thing about cities, and in one of the houses Morris Bell and his friend Jack were having a royal good time together, and quite by themselves too, for Morris's mamma had gone down town, and the servants were busy ironing in the kitchen.

"I think it's splendid to be left all alone," said Jack, as they roamed through the house.

"I think so too," replied Morris. "I wouldn't have a nurse for anything," which was rather hard upon Jack, who was still in kilts, and did have a nurse, only this was her "afternoon out" as well as his.

Morris showed Jack all his Uncle Will's neckties, and a great many other things as well, and both of them tried their hand on his new banjo, but one of the strings broke, with a very loud noise, and frightened them out of his room and back to the nursery.

When it began to grow dark, Morris dragged the pillows from his mother's bed, and placing one at either end, on the rockers of his hobby-horse, he and Jack sat down for a very comfortable see-saw. Bridget put her head in at the door just then.

"Ah! Morris, but you're going to get it," she said in an angry voice; then she slammed the door and the boys heard her run down the stairs.

Jack held on to the tail of the hobby-horse and looked round at Morris; Morris held on to the mane of the hobby-horse and looked round at Jack. Perhaps they were thinking of the banjo string. At any rate, Morris said "he didn't care," and Jack said "he didn't." Once in a while they would stand up to shake the pillows, which kept sinking through in bags between the rockers, and then go rocking away again. Meantime Morris's mamma came home.

"Where are the boys?" she asked, as Bridget shut the front door.

"Oh! they're in the nursery now, Mrs. Bell, but there isn't a place in the house where they haven't been, even into our bonnet boxes, May's and mine, mum."

Morris's mamma gave a troubled little sigh as she patiently followed Bridget from room to room. Oh! Such mischievous work as met her on every side. Pincushions ripped open; bottles emptied, and bottles with their corks pulled out; burnt matches strewed about the floors; the broken banjo string, and in the servants' room, whisps of straw, and draggled bits of flowers and feathers, and ribbons—all that was left of the poor girls' bonnets.

The boys were in the midst of one of their grand shakings of the pillows when Mrs. Bell came into the room. "Why, Morris! Why, Jack!" she said very gravely.

Morris hung his head very low.

"I must go home now," said Jack.

"Indeed you must not do anything of the kind," said Mrs. Bell, and she made the boys sit down, one on either side of her, on the sofa.

"I did not mean to do it," said Morris.

"And I did not touch it at all," added Jack.

"Did not mean to do it, Morris! Did not mean to do all that! And what is it, Jack, which you say you did not touch?"

"Why, the banjo!" answered Jack.

"The string breaked of itself, mamma," Morris explained, "and I was afraid to lift it back into the case. I thought Uncle Will would rather we wouldn't bother with it."

"But the banjo is the least part of the mischief, Morris, as you know very well. I never heard of such naughty, naughty boys in all my life." Morris was crying now, and Jack was kicking the side of the sofa very hard with the heels of his boots.

"Why did you go into the girls' room at all, Morris? You know they do not like it."

"I only wanted to show Jack the pigeons on the Jones's roof," sobbed Morris.

"And who was the one to take the bonnets out of the boxes?"

"Neither of us did that, Mrs. Bell," answered Jack.

"So neither of you did that, Jack, and I suppose neither of you burnt all those matches, nor upset the bottles, nor indeed did any of the other very naughty things!"

"No, mamma, we didn't," Morris answered stoutly. Mrs. Bell looked very much surprised.

"Boys," she said, "it is very, very wrong to tell a lie about it; yes, a lie!" for neither Jack or Morris would own up to any misbehaviour beyond the meddling with the banjo.

"You may go now, Jack," Mrs. Bell said at last, "but, remember: I must come in to-morrow and tell your mother, unless you come back before then and confess to your share of this mischief."

"I do not think I will ever come in this house again," said Jack indignantly, as he strode out of the room, with his rubber boots tucked under his arm, and the belt of his little ulster flying out behind him.

After a supper of bread and milk, with never a taste of cake or jam, Morris was put to bed a whole hour earlier than his bedtime. At first he thought he would lie awake all night; but he must have changed his mind about that, for he fell asleep in two minutes, and he found affairs in a much happier state when he woke.

It chanced the next morning that Morris's sister, Lou, stood braiding her hair in front of the window, instead of the looking-glass, so instead of seeing another blue-eyed Lou gazing back at her, she looked right through it, and saw—what do you think?—a live monkey sitting astride the fence in the yard below, and staring about. Lou ran to her mother's door.

"O mamma!" she cried. "Look out the back window, quick, quick!"

Mrs. Bell stepped to the window, and then ran straight into Morris's room.

"O Morris!" she cried. "Mamma knows now that her little boy didn't do it," waking him up from the soundest little nap.

"Didn't do what?" said Morris, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

"Why, all the mischief; a monkey did it, Morris, a monkey."

"A monkey?" cried Morris, for that was enough to wake him right up. Then Mrs. Bell bundled him up in an afghan and carried him to have a look at the sly fellow.

The monkey looked up at Morris and grinned, as much as to say, "Well, didn't I get you in a pretty fix?"

"I suppose he belongs to some one and has run away," said Lou. "I'll run down and open the door of the back porch, then perhaps he'll come in and we'll keep him."

"O no! Don't keep him," urged Morris, pathetically, "because mamma could never tell what things the monkey did, and what things Jack and me did, and it's very hard to have nuffing but bread and milk for your supper when you've only breaked a banjo string."

"Morris," said Mrs. Bell, "mamma will never doubt your word again. But Lou only means to keep him till we find his owner."

So they opened the door of the back porch, and after a while in walked Mr. Monkey. Then Bridget ran up from outside and shut him in. At first he jumped around as if he did not know what to make of it, but suddenly, spying the children's hammock, he swung himself into it and lay very still for a long time.

"Perhaps he's sleepy," said Morris, who stood watching him through the glass door.

"Of course he is," answered Lou. "I guess you'd be sleepy too, if you had been out all night."

Just then some one gave the bell a good strong pull. Morris ran and opened the door, and there stood a foreign-looking little gentleman.

"Can you tell me, my leetle fellow, if my monkey has been in this house?" he asked in broken English.

"O yes! He's been here, and he's here now," Morris replied, leading the way to the hammock.

"I hope he has not done much mischief," said the gentleman.

"O yes! He has," Morris answered frankly. "He did so much mischief they thought it must be me, and put me to bed very early, with only bread and milk for my supper."

They found the monkey fast asleep. His owner gave him two or three pokes with his cane, and he opened his round black eyes. He knew his master at once, and with the funniest grin, leaped on to his shoulder, fastening his hairy little paws tightly round his neck as though he never meant to let go.

"I will look to it that he runs away not soon again," said the gentleman as he left the house.

"Then you had better tie him up very tight, sir, with a very strong chain," advised Morris, closing the door with an honest little sigh of relief.