Village Toy-maker
All Wooden Toys Made to Order.

There was no need to knock at the door, for it stood wide open. As the two came up, a merry voice called out, “Come in, come in and see the old man.”

Inside sitting at a bench covered with paint pots, and brushes, and fret saws, and tools of all kinds, was a little old man with snowy white hair. He wore a red gown, and a little black cap, while perched on the end of his nose, was a pair of large glasses. In his hand was a paint brush, with which he was putting the finishing touch to a bright wooden soldier.

“That's the last of that bunch,” he said, as he placed it upon the floor, beside a row of five others, all in red coats and trousers of blue, and high black busbys, all shining and new.

At once they all sprang to their feet, and started to march, two by two, out of the shop. The shop was stacked full of all kinds of toys, made out of wood—some not quite finished, others awaiting a finishing coat of paint.

The old man himself was a merry old soul, and he showed them the whole of his stock—even letting Peter play with some of the toys.

“I don't allow all the children who come here to touch my treasures,” he said, “but I see you're a nice gentle child. The last one who came was horrid and rough, and he broke up and chipped at least half of my toys, as he ran round the village.”

“I'll be most careful,” said Peter.

“My mother says I take the best care of my toys.”

“I'm quite sure of that,” the old man replied.

Peter could not take his eyes from a bright yellow scooter that stood by the door.

“You can have a ride on it, if you like,” smiled the old man.

Peter was more than delighted, and he set off at once down the street.

Unfortunately, as he rounded the corner he ran bang into a number of red-coated soldiers, scattering them all in the dust. Up jumped the officer in command and blew his whistle. Down the street came dashing a white wooden ambulance. It did not take very long to stow the injured soldiers inside. Two were broken, and most of the others were covered with scratches, and chipped.

Peter ran back to the Toy-maker's shop, feeling dreadfully sorry for what he had done—dragging the scooter behind him.

“I couldn't help it, I really couldn't,” he sobbed as he burst into the shop. The ambulance had arrived there before him, and there were the poor little soldiers, lying all in a row on the bench.

“Now, don't you cry,” said the kindly old man, “to the best of us, accidents happen. I'll soon put them right with a dab of my paint.”

“Time's getting on, so I think we had better be moving along,” said Bingo. So bidding their kind friend good-bye, they found their way out of the shop. Following a small winding road, they came to the edge of the village. Along an embankment a green train was puffing and sending up clouds of cotton-wool smoke. It stopped at a red painted station—panting and letting out steam.

“We'll catch the mountain express,” said Bingo; and they hurried along and scrambled on board.

(To be concluded.)