THERE is something harder to learn, and more difficult to put in practice, than taking care of the sick, and that is, being taken care of when you are sick yourself. Kind and devoted nurses sometimes prove to be selfish and exacting invalids.

It will be some years before the younger readers of ST. NICHOLAS are intrusted with the care of others; but every number finds many of them laid aside from "books, and work, and healthful play," trying their best, let us hope, not to be impatient patients. No directions can make sick days short and pleasant; but, as they have to be borne, every one wants to form those habits which will make the burden as light as possible to themselves and others.

You may as well make up your mind at once that there is no charm which can make it easy. There is no royal way to get through measles or mumps, and even children in palaces must find sick days drag by slowly. The only way to make life in a sick-room endurable, is to remember, first and last, and always, that no amount of grumbling and complaining can take away pain. The thing to be done is to lift the burden as cheerfully as you can, and bear it with patience. Do not imagine that talking of your troubles will do any good. Every one who has had experience knows how hard it is to be ill, and those who are so fortunate as to have had no such experience will not realize your sufferings any the more if you describe every detail.

In the first place, always remember that it is not pleasant nor easy work to take care of sick people, and if you do the best you can, you will still tax the strength and patience of your friends very much.

Do not be exacting about little things, and make as little trouble as you can, and try to be grateful for everything which is meant as a kindness.

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Children are often tempted to be fretful when they are ill. A petulant Don't," or "I don't want that," tires a nurse more than an hour's watching. Do not expect your friends to take it for granted that you appreciate the many steps which they take in your behalf, without any expression of gratitude from you.

Just think how you would dislike to be called away from all your usual employments, to occupy your time in running up and down stairs on errands. How would you like to read aloud when you wanted to go out? or leave your own dinner to grow cold while you carried the salver upstairs, lest the tea and

toast should not be at their best? I presume you would be willing to do it, but would n't it be easier and pleasanter if met by a cordial acknowledgment of your kindness, instead of by a silent acquiescence? Let the ready expression of appreciation of small favors become the habit of your life, and then you will not have to make an effort to be grateful for the services which others render you when you are ill.

When you feel as Glory McQuirk did, when she used to say, "Lots of good times, and I aint in 'em," remember that you are only taking your turn out. Nobody goes through life without illness, and instead of feeling jealous of your friends who are well and able to enjoy more than you can, try to be happy in their happiness.

This is very hard, sometimes; but if you can not feel just as you ought, you can at least keep from putting your envious thoughts into complaining words. It is bad enough to be sick, without being ill-natured, too. Some invalids have learned the secret of being a help instead of a burden, their happy, patient ways making the sick-room the pleasantest place in the home. It was often said of one of these bright examples, "Helen is always so cheerful that it is impossible to realize that there is an invalid in the house."

There is another dear little friend of mine, who has lain for years in constant pain with spinal disease, who yet has courage to say, "Don't be very sorry for me, because I have so many things to make me happy, and I don't mind not being able to walk, because I have always been ill." She shortens the wakeful nights by repeating poetry from her memory, which she calls her "night library." How much happier for her and for her friends than if she spent those tedious hours in thinking of her own sufferings.

The lesson of instant obedience to rightful authority ought to be learned when one is well, for when illness comes, life or death often hangs upon the habits learned long before.

"Perhaps I have done wrong, Doctor," said the mother of a self-willed daughter, "but Amy was so unwilling to take the medicine which you ordered, that I did not give it to her."

The physician gravely replied: "Madam, you have done very wrong." When the little girl's death proved his words true, the mother realized what a dreadful alternative it is to choose between the two risks, of neglecting a needed remedy, or

putting a sick child into a passion, by enforcing an obedience to which it is unaccustomed.

Do not allow yourself to think that you are the only person in the world who does not feel perfectly comfortable and happy. It is a very bad idea to try to make yourself the center around which the whole household must revolve. People fall into this fault before they know it; so be watchful lest, when you get well, you find that a crop of selfish habits has sprung up within you to crowd out the flowers.

The tediousness of the time of convalescence may be alleviated by some simple employment of the hands, such as cutting out pictures for a scrapbook, or sorting letters, or re-arranging some of your small belongings. It is a good time, too, for a little quiet thinking, only be sure that your thoughts are not too much about yourself or your

own pleasures. Remember what favors you have received from different people, and see if you can not think of something pleasant to do for them in return. Plan your Christmas presents for your friends, and make a list of them, to refer to when you are better, and able to work. It is difficult to lay down rules for these things, because tastes differ, and what would amuse one would tire another. Some people would like to work out puzzles, or would be entertained by games of solitaire. Almost any light employment is better than listless idleness, or being constantly dependent upon others for amusement.

It is impossible to go into every detail, but if you will be careful, the next time you are sick, to see how little trouble you can make for others, and how appreciative you can be of their services, these few hints will not have been given in vain.

THE adventures of Cocquelicot, which I am about to relate, are strictly true. Cocquelicot was an Angora cat, belonging to the children of an American family, living in Paris. His mother was a splendid creature in her way. I have never seen such a puss in America; her fur, dark lead-color, and silvery white, was very fine and silky, and

COCQUELICOT FEELS HIS IMPORTANCE.

must have been several inches long on her breast, back, and feather-like tail. This distinguished cat, called "Gros Minet," belonged to a French family,

who very kindly gave one of her kittens to their young American friends.

The kitten was very handsomely marked in stripes, like his illustrious mother, "Gros Minet," but his fur was not so long and silky. He was a very saucy, playful kitten in his baby days.

In France, school-girls wear long black aprons, completely covering the whole dress; for the first two months of his life this amusing little rogue passed much of his time in the large apron-pocket of one of the American school-girls; his saucy face and bright eyes peeping curiously out at the little world about him. Very early in life, while still in the pocket, he received the name of "Cocquelicot," an original idea of his young mistress, the name translated meaning "Poppy," the wild red poppy growing in the wheat-fields of France. The three syllables, and the grand sound, were the charm of this name when applied to so small a creature, and then was he not the flower of kittens? Very soon, however, his name was abridged to "Cocque," by which title, at a later day, he became known in two hemispheres.

Yes, Cocque became a traveler; dogs follow their masters over the world, but it is seldom that cats move about much. In his pleasant home in the Rue St. Dominique, Cocquelicot led a very happy life; he grew rapidly, becoming more active and