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And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, Sank in his heart, and ceased for shume.

"I am hot, so hot!" she sighed and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead."

Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case,
And drew a thick veil over his face.

"Cloud, go away, and don't be rude;
I am not-I don't see why you should."

The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint! and no water beside!"

And the dew came down its million-fold path; But she murmured, "I did not want a bath."

A boy came by in the morning gray;
He plucked the harcbell, and threw it away.

The harebell shivered, and cried, "Oh! oh!
I am faint, so faint! Come, dear wind, blow."

The wind blew softly, and did not speak.
She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

"Sun, dear sun, I am cold," she said.
He rose; but lower she drooped her head.

"O rain! I am withering; all the blue
Is fading out of me;-come, please do."

The rain came down as fast as it could,
But for all its will, it did her no good.

She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly;" and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next


She'll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear.
George Macdonald.


"PLEASE wear my rosebud for love, papa," Said Phebe with eyes so blue.

"This sprig of myrtle put with it, papa,

To tell of my love," said Prue.

Said Patience, "This heart's-ease shall whisper,


Forget not my love is true."

Papa looked into the laughing eyes,

And answered, to each little girl's surprise:


My darlings, I thank you, but dearer than these-
Forgive me far dearer are bonnie sweet-peas!"
Then he clasped them to his heart so true,
And whispered, "Sweet P's-Phebe, Patience,

and Prue!"

Lillian Payson.

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[If the subjoined poem is not remarkable for its reach of thought, it certainly is remarkable as being only one of a volume written by a little English girl, Maude Edgerton Hine, when less than eight years old. Assuredly Chatterton himself was not more of an infant prodigy than the juvenile author of these lines.]

THE day was hot, the sun shone out
And burned the little flowers,

Who earthward dropped their weary heads
And longed for cooling showers.

One little daisy, hot and tired
And scorching in the sun,
Had altered much, for fair was she
When the morning had begun.

"Come, put yourself beneath my shade!" A graceful fern thus spake;

"For if you stay out there, dear flower, You'll shrivel up and bake."

So daisy leaned towards the fern
And hid beneath her shade,
And on the fern's cool mossy root
Her burning petals laid.

No sunlight fell on her, but, oh!
poor fern had it all;

She drooped down low, and lower still,
Who once was straight and tall.

"Daisy," she said, "I'm dying fast, My life is near its end.

My time with you is almost past,
So farewell, little friend."

Then daisy wept, her tears ran down
Upon the poor fern's root.

A thrill of fast returning life
Through the languid fern did shoot!

Full soon she grew quite fresh again,
No longer did she burn;
For little daisy's tears of love
Had saved the dying fern.


ONCE I knew a little girl,
Very plain;

You might try her hair to curl
All in vain;

On her cheek no tint of rose
Paled and blushed, or sought repose;
She was plain.

But the thoughts that through her brain Came and went,

As a recompense for pain,
Angels sent;

So full many a beauteous thing,
In her young soul blossoming,
Gave content.

Every thought was full of grace,
Pure and true,

And in time the homely face
Loveliest grew;

With a heavenly radiance bright,
From the soul's reflected light
Shining through.

So I tell you, little child,
Plain or poor,
If your thoughts are undefiled,
You are sure

Of the loveliness of worth;
And this beauty not of earth
Will endure.

Mary Lacey.

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