been in the storehouse. She was laden with apple blossoms and wreaths, and carried a long pole; and she walked to the sound of music, for velvety bees hummed about her and birds of many kinds filled the air with their warbling.

"Music and dancing and flowers!" said May. "The children shall have a merry time when I am with them."

"Have you forgotten the soldiers?" asked Father Time.

"Oh! no," said May, a tender look upon her bright face. "The most and best of my flowers are for Memorial Day."

May took her place with those who had gone before, and Father Time called, "June!" saying: "Hasten all you can, dear June, for there are still many to follow you."

So June made no delay in choosing, but chose well, nevertheless, for she brought roses in such profusion that one could scarcely see her lovely face peeping out from among the flowery branches.

"Strawberries, too, good Father Time," said June; "I couldn't resist taking the strawberries, too.”

Father Time smiled fondly. People always smile upon June, for every one loves her.

"July!" called Father Time.

Into the storehouse and out again in a trice bounded a lively boy.

"The minute I saw these I knew they were what I wanted," said he, showing Father Time a package of fireworks and waving an American flag.

"Hurrah!" cried Father Time, "that's right! But have you also the book of American history?"

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"Here it is," said July; "these things were fastened to it, so I brought them all along together." Right again," said Father Time. "Flags and fireworks wouldn't be of much account without that. Now, August, go see what you would like."

August returned with golden sheaves bound upon his back, and carrying a great flower-decked basket.

"In the basket I have put as much fruit as I can carry," said August; "and yet there is so much left that whoever takes the rest will have a rich load."

"That shall be you, September," said Father Time. "Nothing would suit you better, I am sure, with your warm heart and your strong arms."

September accordingly loaded himself with beautiful fruits-apples, pears, peaches, grapes-not a bit less delicious than those which August had brought. October was next called. He was a breezy fellow. "Ha, ha!" he laughed. "Who will be welcomed more than I, with these ripe nuts and these beautiful colored leaves!"

"Oh!" said Father Time, "I fear my storehouse has no more treasures. Each one of you has taken so much. Go, look, November."

November came forward rather sadly, but looked cheerful enough after his return from the storehouse. He fairly staggered under the weight of the golden pumpkins and the big fat turkeys which he carried.

"What do you say to these?" said he triumphantly. "But the best thing is in my pocket, a paper which tells that Thanksgiving Day belongs to me."

"True enough," assented Father Time. "And now, December," said he turning to the last waiting figure, "you, I know, will find no warbling birds nor budding flowers; yet are you, above all others, a joy bearer."

December disappeared into the storehouse; but soon stepped out transfigured. No warbling birds had she, indeed, but lacked not for music; for snatches of gladdest carols burst from her lips from time to time. No fresh flowers bloomed for her in beauty and fragrance, but holly berries gleamed brightly among glossy green leaves and a delicious odor came from the little fir tree which she carried over her shoulder. Looking up, one could see a large star which shed its silvery rays upon her.

But the wondrous light that shone all about was not from star or moon or sun, but from a picture in her hand upon which she fixed her gaze. The picture was of a baby lying in a manger.

Father Time's eyes softened as he looked upon it, and his voice was full of love as he said: "Ah the best

of days and the best of gifts is yours, December. Fitting it is that you should be the last and that the love and joy that you bear should be left to the earth as the last memory of the year.

"And now, friends all," said Father Time, "will you kindly form in a procession so that each may know certainly when his turn will come?"

The twelve laden friends did as Father Time requested and filed slowly past him. He called their names as they went by, that there should be no mistake: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December." All were in their right places.

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-EMILIE POULSSON.

profu'sion: plenty, a great many.-in a trice: in an instant.— sheaves: bundles of stalks of grain bound together.-assent'ed: agreed. -transfig'ured: changed in appearance.

THE WORLD'S MUSIC

The world's a very happy place,

Where every child should dance and sing,
And always have a smiling face,
And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come,
And feel the air and light alive
With strange sweet music like the hum
Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves

At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;
While, flashing to and from the eaves,

The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;
And tall old trees you could not climb;
And winds that come, but cannot stay,
Are gaily singing all the time.

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel
Makes music, going round and round;
And dusty-white with flour and meal,
The miller whistles to its sound.

And if you listen to the rain

When leaves and birds and bees are dumb,

You hear it pattering on the pane

Like Andrew beating on his drum.

-GABRIEL SETOUN.

BERGETTA'S. MISFORTUNES

Old Bergetta lay asleep on the doorstep in the sun. This morning she was having a beautiful nap in the spring sunshine. Her two little white fore paws were gathered in under her chin, and she had encircled herself with her tail in the most comfortable way.

Now and then she lifted her sleepy lids and winked