How many times had the sp

told the fly what she knew not true?

Why did she believe him time?

Have you ever known a person be caught by a piece of flatt like the spider's?

George Macdonald (1824-1902) was a Scotch poet. He wrote many poems and stories for children. "The Wind and the Moon'' is especially pleasing.

2

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep on a heap

Of clouds, to sleep

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon-
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

3

He turned in his bed: she was there again.
On high in the sky,

With her one ghost eye,

The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

4

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge and my wedge

I have knocked off her edge.
If only I blow right fierce and grim,

The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

5

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread
"One puff more's enough

To blow her to snuff!

One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer glum will go the thread."

6

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air nowhere

Was a moonbeam bare;

Far off and harmless the shy stars shone:
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

37

So now I haste to my quiet nook

In yon dewy meadow-good-night, Sir Rook!"

2

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend, With a haughty toss and a distant bend;

"I also go to my rest profound,

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground;
The fittest place for a bird like me

Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree.

3

"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams,
Soaring too high to be seen or heard,
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

4

"I trod the park with a princely air,

I filled my crop with the richest fare;

I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,

And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;

I looked and wondered-good-night, poor thing!"

5

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice "I see no cause to repent my choice;

You build your nest in the lofty pine,

But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy ?"