"I went up close, but I didn't speak One word, but I gave her on her cheek The softest bit of a little kiss, Just in a whisper, and then I said this: 'Grandmother, dear, it's time for tea.' "She opened her eyes and looked at me, 6 And said: Why, Pet, I have just now dreamed To kiss me lovingly on my face.' "I never told her 'twas only me, St. Nicholas. THE DISCONTENTED BUTTERCUP. Down in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, A robin who had soared too high, Was resting near a buttercup For daisies grow so trig and tall; And buttercups must always be "Dear robin," said this sad young flower, Perhaps you'd not mind trying 66 To find a nice white frill for me, Some day, when you are flying ?” "You silly thing!" the robin said; 66 "I think you must be crazy! I'd rather be my honest self Than any made-up daisy. "You're nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you; Be the best buttercup you can, "Though swallows leave me out of sight, We'd better keep our places; Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies. "Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here where you are growing." Sarah A. Jewett. THE VIOLET. Down in a green and shady bed Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, And yet it was a lovely flower, Yet there it was content to bloom, And there diffused a sweet perfume Then let me to the valley go, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility. Jane Taylor. WHAT THE WINDS BRING. WHICH is the wind that brings the cold? Which is the wind that brings the heat? The South-wind, Katy; and corn will grow, And peaches redden for you to eat, When the South begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain? The East-wind, Arty; and farmers know Which is the wind that brings the flowers? Edmund Clarence Stedman. PAPA'S LETTER. I WAS sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard, "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mus'n't be 'isturbed. "But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do. "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." "No, no, mamma; me wite letter, Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait But the eager face was clouded, So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted Then I said, "Now, little letter, Clattered loud the little shoes. |