of melodies is her best-known work. But in reality half of the books in your world are the productions of her mind; for she dictates to mortals and they write. Still, they never give her the credit, which is a piece of gross injustice, according to my way of thinking. However, her style is unmistakable; that is my only comfort."

While Father Gander is talking, he has gently led Irene across the fields, and the two now find themselves upon the brink of what seems like a yawning precipice.

"If you please," says Irene, "what is this hole?"

"It is one of the spots which you have often seen upon the surface of the moon," answers Father Gander, "and which many of you mortals imagine to be mountains. In reality, they are the passages which lead to our home."

"The little stars brought me up to see the Yesterdays."

"Ah, the Yesterdays," says the queen, gently, and all the bright creatures about echo, very softly, "The Yesterdays!"

Then there is a short silence.

"Memory!" calls the queen, and, in answer to her call, there comes the strangest little man. His face is old and wrinkled, and one minute it looks sad, while the next it looks as bright and happy as possible, and then, again, it appears gay and fanciful. His voice is changeable, and beginning with a sad complaining tone, ends with a sound that is not unlike a piece of dance music. Memory," says the queen, "this little girl

would like to see the Yesterdays.” Memory gives her a sharp look from head to foot. "Come, follow me," he says, "you are one of

"Good-bye, dear fairies; good-bye, all of you!"

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Irene complies, and, upon re-opening her eyes, finds herself in a most wonderful spot. She is in a large and brilliantly beautiful hall; so far from being dark, it is flooded with light which proceeds from millions of tiny winged creatures that flit about the place. As Irene learns from Father Gander's explanations, these insects are called ignes fatui,-creatures which have come to live in the moon, because on the earth people doubt their existence; and though, in the world, they are rather uncertain and misleading lights, in the moon they are forced to behave. The walls of this apartment are blazing with precious gems, and Irene scarcely dares to stir, for the whole floor is composed of diamonds and pearls. But now Father Gander is presenting to her a crowd of strange beings, who gather about the new-comers; here are all the well-known characters of the "Mother Goose Melodies"; here are the ogres and dwarfs of ancient fable, and here the beloved fairies with Oberon and Titania at their head. Irene just laughs a glad little laugh, and cries in joyful surprise :

For there is a heavy mist before her eyes, and she can see only a few indistinct figures moving back and forth.

Memory waves his hand, and mutters a few unintelligible words. The mist vanishes, and Irene perceives that she is in a hall, larger and brighter than the first, and filled with graceful, beautiful women. They move so gently to and fro that they seem almost to float upon the air; and as they glide past her, a faint, far-off music reaches her ear, and seems like some half-forgotten air.

"Come in order! in order!" calls Memory, and a band of white-robed maidens quickly place themselves before the little girl.

"What Yesterdays are you?" queries Irene. "We are the Yesterdays of your infancy," returns one of the group. "Mine?"

"All the Yesterdays in the room are yours, dear child. You could not see those of other people." "I love you," says Irene; "you look so happy." "We are happy, for we have nothing to be sorry for," say the maidens, as they glide away.

And now comes another band. Beautiful they are, all of them, and light in movement as the zephyrs; but some of the number, sad to say, wear upon their faces an expression which is anything but peaceful.

"Why do you frown so?" says Irene to one damsel; you are not like the rest."

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“Alas!” answers the Yesterday; "when I was 'To-day' you frowned upon all who approached you, and I must forever frown."

"Your voice is harsh and loud Irene.

began

boy spoke to you in angry tones, and you prayed for him that night, although he had made your

heart ache."

answer.

Irene is silent. Then she passes on to the next bright form.

"Oh, you are prettier than all the rest! And what beautiful flowers!" and she takes hold of the Yesterday's garland of roses, but draws back with a cry of pain. "It pricked me! Why did you not tell me of the thorn?"

"Ah," says the Yesterday, mournfully, "when I was 'To-day' you were full of happiness and glee, but your pleasures stung, for they were selfish. You had no thought of any one but yourself."

"Come here, dear Yesterday!" calls Irene to a third, but she does not stir.

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"I will not come; for, when I was 'To-day,' you were a disobedient child.”

"I cannot come, for you were jealous of your little brother," murmurs a fourth, covering her eyes.

“Nor I, for you were uncharitable, and spoke unkind words of a little playmate," says a fifth. "Nor I, because your thoughts were discontented," says a sixth.

Little Irene casts down her eyes, a few tears run down her cheeks, her breast heaves, and, bursting into sobs, she sinks upon the ground and buries her face in her hands.

"Oh, Yesterdays, I am so sorry! oh, I am so sorry!"

"Don't be discouraged, little one," says Memory, kindly; "look up,-here are more coming." And through her tears Irene sees the most beautiful Yesterday of all, whose face is covered with smiles.

her arms.

"When I was 'To-day,'" she whispers, "poor Irene bore a bitter sorrow, for her loved father left the world for ever. But her troubles only turned her eyes heavenward, and though she wept and mourned for him whom she had loved so dearly, she strove to lose all thought of self, and comfort her heart-broken mother."

Irene gives a deep sigh and says:

"Yes, I remember you very well. You were sad, dear Yesterday; but you were the best of all." "Sorrow is never hurtful in the end, if it is rightly met,” murmurs the Yesterday.

"I have seen enough now, Memory," says Irene, quietly; "but tell me, Yesterdays, do you always stay here?"

"We stay here, love, until you leave the world, and then we go with you to the Beautiful Land. There the Holy One will see us." "Oh no-no!" cries Irene, clasping her hands. He must not see the wicked Yesterdays, the cross, the selfish, disobedient Yesterdays. It hurts me in my heart to think that He will see them. Will it be so?"

Dear child," answers one of the maidens, "the Holy One has already seen us all. We can never be changed, we can never be other than what you have made us; but if you ask Him to forgive us, He has promised that He will do so. And there, hidden beyond that mist, are a great company of To-morrows. No, little girl, you cannot see them, -you can never see them. But remember, when each To-morrow becomes To-day, to fill it up, with right and kindly deeds, then His love will brighten every moment, and all the Yesterdays to come will be spotless, pure, and beautiful."

A dim, gray mist rises before Irene's eyes. The Yesterdays all vanish. A ray of light greets the child with a morning kiss, and, springing out of her bed, Irene cries:

"Oh, now it is To-day!"

IT was in the early autumn, when the summer vacation was fast drawing to a close, and the very next week the children must look up books, buckets and slates, to begin again the routine of the school-room for another year. No wonder, then, that the busy brains of Mr. Butler's two funloving children, Fred and Fannie, were crowded with plans for extracting the very essence of fun out of the few remaining days of freedom.

Fred and Fannie were twin brother and sister, eleven years old. One bright morning, their mother said, at breakfast, to their older brother:

"Joe, I wish you could get me a good lot of inuscadines to make some jelly for winter use." Joe, always ready to please, thought a moment, and replied:

"I must carry some wheat to mill to-day, but to-morrow I'll see if I can find any along the creek about two miles from here, where we went for scaly-barks last year,-don't you remember, Fred?"

"Oh yes!" said Freddy; "it was a beautiful place. You know we wished Fannie had gone with us, for it was not damp along the creek at all,

Here Joe stopped him, saying:

"Well, if mother says so, Fannie shall go and see all those wonders for herself. You and she will be great help in picking up the muscadines, and you can carry your dinner, and make a picnic of it."

Their teeth flashing and eyes dancing, the colored children climbed in, and Kitty, feeling that she had introduced Sandy, turned to the little girl and asked her name.

"Dey calls me Babe, but dat aint my name. I 'most forget what my name is; does you 'member,

Mamma, does n't it take more than three people to make a picnic?"

The mother smiled, and took the hint by saying: "As you seem to think it does, you may invite Nannie and Kitty Harris, and their cousin Hal, to go with you; don't you think so, Joe?"

“Yes, I'll have to go in the wagon, and there will be room enough for all, and the muscadines besides."

A happy day that was to the five children, and the next morning found a merry group in front of Mr. Butler's door, with baskets in hand, waiting for Joe. Soon he came, in the new farm-wagon, with its gorgeous body of green and red, and its high spring seats. Two large gray mules were drawing it, and looked proud of their fine equipage.

A hamper was lifted in for the muscadines, and in it lay a bag filled with something hard and knobby, which Joe said was his contribution to their dinner. Baskets were securely tucked away under the seats, and the children climbed in while the mother stood at the gate, telling Joe to take good care of his precious freight, and cautioning the children about health and safety.

A crack of the whip and off they go,-past fields of rustling corn, shaking their plumy tassels in the morning breeze, past fields of early cotton, whitening with the "fleecy staple" as it bursts the boll, and hangs out invitingly to the pickers, who with bags and baskets dot the fields,—until they come to a hill. As the mules go toiling up its sunny slope the children spy in front of them two grotesquelooking darkies, with blue buckets on their arms. They were barefooted and ragged, but chatting as merrily as the party in the wagon.

"Who are those children,-do any of you know?" asked Joe; for their buckets made him think that probably they were on the same errand as themselves.

"I think the boy has worked for us sometimes; his name is Sandy," said Kittie Harris. Joe stopped and called out:

“Hullo, Sandy, where are you traveling?" "We'se gwine atter muskidimes, we is; we hearn we kin git two-bits a bucket fer 'em in town."

“We are going to look for some, too," returned

"Did n't Mammy say sumfin 'bout Sinai ?" "Dat's it. I knows now. Yes 'm; my name 's Sinai Sarepta Jones."

By this time they had passed the fields, and turned from the road into a dense forest that skirted a large creek. After driving as far in as possible, they stopped, took the mules out, and set out on the search for vines. Joe divided the party into twos, taking little Nannie with him because she was the youngest. Hal and Fannie set off together, Fred and Kittie took another direction, and Sandy and Sarepta still another. Fannie's eyes proved brightest, for she soon called out, lustily: "Come this way; I've found them!" There was the vine with its bright shining leaves, and beautiful purple grapes, stretching from tree to tree until it made one large arbor, shading twenty or thirty square yards of ground. As soon as jackets and hats could be thrown aside, up went the boys, and down came the grapes, bouncing and bumping on the heads of the girls, who hastened to do their part by filling the baskets. Joe came down from his tree, when he found all were employed, and said he would look for another vine, and also select a place for their dinner. Meanwhile, the fingers worked busily, and the merry voices made the old forest ring with a music not often heard in its shaded depths.

Before long, a call from Joe summoned all to the spot he had selected for the picnic dinner. It was on the banks of the creek, and under the very beeches that Freddy had so admired before. Just there, a huge tree had fallen across the stream, making a bridge by which one could easily cross to the opposite side. Over there, Joe had set fire to an old dead tree trunk, which was sending up such myriads of red sparks and wreaths of graceful smoke, that the children saw only the beauty thus presented, and many were the exclamations of delight as piece after piece of the burning wood fell to the ground, and the sparks flew up in all directions through the green arches above. When the dinner of sandwiches, cakes, etc., had been spread, Joe told Sarepta to go to the fire and bring his share of the repast. Tripping across the log to the foot of the burning stump, she found a lot of sweet-potatoes roasted in the ashes, and a row of roasting-ears, all nicely brown, stood in front