Be a real beast until you see a Perfect Boy. And O, ain't you going to have a time of it in travelling over Europe, Asia, and America? Come here.' "Down went Arter into the moss. He felt the bitten edge of an acorn-cup scratch his nose, and that was all. He was drowsy then, still smelling beefsteak and honey. After that he knew he was in the dark. The castle and the pigeons and the Druid seemed a thousand years old, and so far off that they were not more than an inch big. Then a miserable daylight came, and he itched dreadfully; he thought he was going to scratch himself with his hand, and found that it was a Paw. He knew, then, that he was a young bear, with his 'troubles all to come.' He was not exactly like other bears, though, for this one idea was in his bear-mind, he must find a Perfect Boy, if he ever wanted to be Prince Arter again. So he left the Old Creature who had enchanted him, and went to California. There was no Perfect Boy in Sacramento, San Francisco, San José, and the other Sans, and he came to New York, accustomed by this time to bear-being, and often suffering like a bear. And this is the reason why Mr. Dinks and I heard the whizzing from him. If he had been a cat, it would have sounded like a purring. Cats' purrs are often used in pulling chestnuts out of the fire for the numerous monkeys residing in New York with hand-organs."

"Mother, I am cheated by your talk," cries Lolly Dinks. "The bear has gone, he is out of sight."

It was true. We looked down the crooked Bowery, and up into Union Square. The statue of Washington could n't tell a lie, nor the truth either, and we saw no bear, no enchanted prince.

"There is no Perfect Boy in our family, that is certain, Lolly Dinks," I said. "If the bear had found him here, we would have given him a party this very evening. He should have had some Ottawa beer, and danced a polka with Aunt Persimmons. Where, O where is the Perfect Boy?" Elizabeth Stoddard.

A

MAY-FLOWER'S VISITORS.

LL the valley was brown and bare,

The elms and maples had nothing to wear,

When sweet little May-flower came to town,
In her bonnet pink and her satin gown.

Under a pine her tent was spread,

With a carpet of leaves for her dainty tread;
And there, as the South-wind brings report,
The shy little beauty held her court.

The first that came was a Zephyr gay,

Who snatched a kiss ere he went his way;

She blushed and frowned, but he laughed in glee,
And flew to boast of his robbery.

Then followed a Bluebird troubadour,
His melting strains in her ear to pour,
And her fragrant breath, as he struck his lyre,
Sighed to the song of his heart's desire:

"A pilgrim I, from the groves afar,

Where the orange gleams like a golden star,
Where the plashing waves in sunshine break ;
I have left them all for love's sweet sake!"

From his winter castle, her face to see,
On dauntless wing, came a knightly Bee;
She poured him a cup of her sweetest wine,
And he pledged her, "For ever and ever thine!"

With a sudden rush and a gusty roar,
The North-wind knocked at poor May-flower's door,
But she gazed in his face with a smile so brave,
That he hurried back to his ice-bound cave.

One sad little Snow-flake, left all alone, -
The last pale child of the Winter gone,
Flying a thousand vague alarms,
Fell, wearied out, into May-flower's arms.

Over the trembling stranger form
She folded her mantle close and warm,
But an icy chill through her bosom went,
And her slender strength was almost spent.

Down from the cloud-land fields of blue,
Swift to her aid a Sunbeam flew ;

One eager look in his shining face,

And fainting May-flower took heart of grace!

He touched the Flake with his fairy wand;

"Sweet Flower!" he said, "by the king's command, Thus shall thy pure deed stand confessed!"

And it nestled, a Dew-drop, on her breast!

Mary A. P. Humphrey.

LITTLE HEROES.

I.

JACQUES FORRESTIER, JOSEPH BARRA, AND PIETRO DA CORTONA.

AS you are all old enough to be school-children, you have probably read

in your histories something about Alexander; who was, without doubt, the greatest conquering hero of ancient times. To-day, if war is declared, men try to have a reason or at least a pretext for it; but in ancient times men conquered a country simply for the sake of proving that they could do it. They ravaged kingdoms, destroyed the people, razed the cities, and fired the country, in order to have the noble pleasure of saying that no one was able to prevent their doing all these grand things.

Now, although Alexander was very generous and had a great many very noble and lovable traits about him, and although many of his acts would attract any high-spirited boy (the taming of the wild horse Bucephalus, for instance), and fill him with a spirit akin to that which actuated Alexander, yet his is not the kind of heroism that I should wish you to emulate. Accordingly I will tell you one or two stories of other kinds of heroism.

There is a fable that Lysimachus, having offended the Emperor Alexander, was thrown into the arena to struggle with a famished lion, which was a way they had of punishing offenders in those times. When the infuriated animal rushed upon him, Lysimachus suddenly wrapped his arm in his mantle, sprang forward, seized the lion's tongue and tore it out, which so wounded the beast that he died. Before passing judgment upon the probability of this story, I wish you to hear another which I believe, because dates and localities are given which seem to be in some measure a guaranty of its truth.*

About the beginning of the last century, in a certain village in France, near Vitry, in Champagne, there lived a peasant, the father of a boy very small for his age, who was called Jacques Forrestier. In that country the very name of wolf is a terror to all children and to most grown people. In the winter when the ground is covered with snow, an encounter with wolves is anything but pleasant, for, urged by famine, they do not hesitate to attack even men. Now Jacques, who had a horror of these cruel beasts, and who, being gifted with a valiant heart, desired to exterminate them all, demanded of his father one day how he could best fight them; "for," added he, "if I meet one I mean to kill it."

Considering this question as dictated by the simple curiosity of the little fellow, or by his childish vanity, the father answered by repeating a pleasantry which he had probably heard related by some juggler trying to amuse the simple villagers. "I will tell you the surest way to kill a wolf, Jacques. As he always comes upon you with his mouth wide open, thrust your arm

* See Eugene Muller's "La Jeunesse des Hommes Célèbres," to which the writer has been largely indebted in the preparation of these sketches.

down his throat, until you reach the tail; then, pulling at his tail, you turn your wolf, like a stocking, wrong side out."

"But," said Jacques, who took it all seriously, "I am small; my arm would not reach to the tail of the wolf!"

"In that case," answered the father, "I think that in thrusting the fist well down the throat you will succeed in choking him."

"Good! Thank you!" said the child, who went away thoughtful on one side while the father went away smiling on the other.

That year (1789) the winter was very severe. The country was covered with snow; and the wolves pushed their explorations, in open day, into the middle of the villages and even into the very farm-yards. One morning

the parents of Jacques, having gone out, had left him in the house to take care of his little sister, yet in the cradie. The door, which was left unlatched, opened suddenly, and a young wolf appeared. It had doubtless smelt the tender flesh; and without ceremony it sprang towards the sleeping child.

But the famished creature had counted without the lesson given to little Jacques, who had taken it very seriously and had thought it over many times. Without hesitating an instant, he threw himself before the wolf, which turned furiously against him; and, closing his fist, the brave boy thrust it into the mouth of the animal. The wolf struggled, but Jacques, pressing his other hand upon his neck, pushed it to the angle of the wall, where he held it tightly squeezed, with his fist crammed down its