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Oh, let me stay, please let me stay!" he said. "I have come all the way with dear Hirschvogel!"

The man answered kindly, "Poor little child! tell me how you came to hide in the stove. Do not be afraid. I am the king."

Karl was too much in earnest to be afraid; he was so glad it was the king, for kings must always be kind, he thought.

"Oh, dear king!" he said with a trembling voice, "Hirschvogel was ours, and we have loved it all our lives, and father sold it, and when I saw that it really did go from us I said to myself that I would go with it, and I do beg you to let me live with it, and I will go out every morning and cut wood for it and for all your other stoves, if only you will let me stay beside it. No one has ever fed it with wood but me since I grew big enough, and it loves me; it does indeed!"

And then he lifted up his pale little face to the king, who saw that great tears were running down his cheeks.

"Shan't I stay with Hirschvogel?" he pleaded.

"Wait a bit," said the king. What do you want to be when you are a man? Do you want to be a wood-chopper?"

"I want to be a painter," cried Karl. "I want to be what Hirschvogel was. I mean the potter that made my Hirschvogel."

"I understand," answered the king, and he looked

down at the child, and smiled. "Get up, my little man," he said in a kind voice; "I will let you stay with your Hirschvogel. You shall stay here, and you shall be taught to be a painter, but you must grow up

to be a very good man, and when you are twenty-one years old, if you have done well, then I will give you back your beautiful stove."

Then he smiled again and stretched out his hand. Karl threw his two arms about the king's knees and kissed his feet; and then all at once he was so tired and so glad and hungry and happy, that he fainted quite away on the floor.

Then the king had a letter written to Karl's father,

telling him that Karl had drawn him some beautiful charcoal pictures and that he liked them so much he was going to take care of him until he was old enough to paint wonderful stoves like Hirschvogel.

And he did take care of him for a long time; and when Karl grew older, he often went for a few days to the old home, where his father still lived.

In the little brown house stands Hirschvogel, tall and splendid, with its peacock colors as beautiful as ever, the king's present to Hilda; and Karl never goes home without going into the great church and giving his thanks to God, who blessed his strange winter's journey in the great porcelain stove.

-KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA A. SMITH.

(Adapted from Ouida.)

plead'ed: begged.

A MUSICAL CONTEST OF LONG AGO

Most of my young readers know the wonderful story of King Midas and the Golden Touch, how everything he laid his hands on was turned to shining, yellow metal. But there is another story about him, which, though not so well known as that of the Golden Touch, also shows that King Midas was sometimes not so wise a monarch as he should have been.

You may have heard how Pan, the god of the woods,

first made the flute from the reeds that grew by the river. Now this same Pan was a great favorite with King Midas, and the king thought him the finest musician in the world. The nymphs of the woods, also, loved to hear Pan play on his flute, and at last he became so used to hearing his praises sung that he, too, thought himself the greatest musician in the world; and one day he went so far as to ask the great god Apollo to enter with him into a contest of musical skill.

Apollo, the sun god, was the sweetest singer in the world; therefore it was a very bold thing indeed for Pan to challenge him. In spite of this, Apollo agreed to take part in the trial.

The place of meeting was a lofty hill, not far from the palace of King Midas. As judge, they chose the ruler of the mountain, a mighty king with long white locks and flowing beard, and large dreamy eyes that seemed to have looked on the hills about him for hundreds of summers and winters.

Midas, clothed in a purple robe, sat at the judge's right hand, while grouped about them were the nymphs and the satyrs, and all who were eager to be present at the coming contest. In front of the judge stood Apollo with his golden cloak and shining lyre, and Pan himself, with his goatskin flung loosely about his shoulders. A strange and beautiful picture it must have been.

Pan was the first to play, and, amid a breathless silence, he lifted his flute of reeds to his lips.

There was something in his music that belonged to the woods and the rivers. You could almost hear the gurgling of the brooks and the sighing of the wind in the trees, with now and then a strange cry, as though a wild beast had been suddenly startled from its den. Yet for the first time, the listeners found his music a little rude and wild; somehow it did not seem to fit the place or the occasion. Midas, alone, expressed great delight at his favorite's playing and called him to sit by his side.

When Pan had finished, Apollo stepped to the front. His hair gleamed like the sun's bright rays, and his eyes shone like stars. He threw open his rich golden mantle, and, seizing his lyre, began to play such sweet, heavenly music that all the listeners wept for joy. Even Pan threw down his flute before this wonderful singer, who could move people to laughter or to tears by touching the strings of his lyre.'

When Apollo had finished, all the people ran up to him with cries of praise and thanks, and crowned him with a laurel wreath of victory. But Midas, foolish King Midas, said that, to his taste, Pan's music was far more beautiful than the sun god's. To punish him for this stupid use of his ears, Apollo changed them to long, furry asses' ears.

In great excitement the king locked himself in his