Georgie was a sharp-eyed little fellow still in frocks, who saw
everything, and blurted right out what he thought of it. One morning,
while he was playing with his toys at his mother's feet, a lady called,
bringing with her one of the homeliest little pug-nosed pet dogs that
ever lived. Georgie was all attention at once, and his eyes followed
Pinkie wherever he went. Presently the little dog came and sat right
down before him, and looking straight in his face, wagged his tail, and
seemed delighted to see him. Georgie stared at him for a while, and then
looked up earnestly into the lady's face, then at the dog, and then at
the lady again, as if trying to make out a puzzle. Finally, when he had
settled it, out it came. "Mamma," he asked, "hasn't Mrs. Donson dot a
nose just like Pinkie's?" and the worst of it was that it was true.
Mamma tried to smooth the matter over, but Mrs. Johnson never forgave
Everybody has heard of the little girl who, on being asked, after her
first visit to an Episcopal church, how she liked the service, replied
that it was "all very nice, only the man preached in his shirt
sleeves." That story may or may not be true, but it is true that a
little girl in New Jersey said on a similar occasion, "Oh, mamma, the
minister had on a long white apron to keep his clothes clean."
Another young church-goer, the daughter of a well-known Baptist
clergyman in Brooklyn, who was a critic in her way, and who had a faint
suspicion that anecdotes generally were "made up" for the occasion, went
one day with her father to hear his Thanksgiving sermon. He told a
melting story about his poor blind brother who, notwithstanding his
infirmity, was always cheerful and happy. The audience was deeply
impressed, and many, including the speaker himself, were moved to tears.
On her return home, Mary, we will call her, said, with deep earnestness,
"Papa, when you were telling that about Uncle Nat this morning, did you
say the real truth, or were you only preaching?"
A four-year-old Sunday-school girl did the best she could with a
question that was asked of the infant class. Said the teacher, reading
from Isaiah, xxxvii. 1: "'And it came to pass, when King Hezekiah heard
it that he rent his clothes.' Now what does that mean, children—he
rent his clothes?" Up went a little hand. "Well, if you know, tell
"Please, ma'am," said the child, timidly, "I s'pose he hired 'em out."
(This is an actual fact, and the name of the town where it occurred
begins with "M.")
A pretty anecdote is told of a little girl to whom the unseen world is
very real. "Where does God live, mamma?" she asked, one evening, after
saying her prayers.
"He lives in heaven, my dear, in the Celestial City whose streets are
paved with gold."
"Oh yes, I know that, mamma," she said, with great solemnity; "but
what's His number?"
Doubtless she expected to go there one day, and wanted to make sure of
finding the way.
"How does the Lord make cats?" asked an inquisitive little fellow, who
was always trying to find out the whys and wherefores of things. "Does
He make the cats first, and sew the tails on, or does He make the tails
first, and sew the cats on?" Every clergyman who comes to the house is
asked the same question, but no satisfactory reply has yet been given.
He threatens now that unless he finds out very soon, he will take his
favorite Topsy all to pieces, and see for himself.
A little girl in Oil City is just recovering from a severe attack of
scarlet fever. During her illness she has been greatly petted by her
indulgent parents, who bought her any number of toys and nice things. A
few days ago, as she was sitting up, she said, "Mamma, I believe I'll
ask papa to buy me a baby carriage for my doll." The brother—a
precocious youngster of only six years of age, spoke up at once, and
said, "I would advise you to strike him for it right away, then; you
won't get it when you get well."
A little girl went timidly into a store at Bellaire, Ohio, the other
morning, and asked the clerk how many shoe-strings she could get for
"How long do you want them?" he asked.
"I want them to keep," was the answer, in a tone of slight surprise.
It was just after Christmas, and Kenneth's mind was full of the story of
the Babe who was born at Bethlehem. When, therefore, he was taken into
mamma's room to see his new little brother, he looked with wonder on the
dainty cradle, trimmed with lace and ribbons, wherein the little baby
lay, and asked, in an awed whisper, "Mamma, is that a manger?"
A neighbor asked a little girl the other day if her father wasn't one of
the pillars of the Miamus M. E. Church. "No, indeed," she warmly
replied; "they don't have any pillows there."