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"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,
And said: "Why, Pet, I have just now dreamed
Of a little angel who came and seemed
To kiss me lovingly on my face.'
She pointed right at the very place.

"I never told her 'twas only me,
I took her hand and we went to tea."

St. Nicholas.

THE DISCONTENTED BUTTERCUP.
Down in a field, one day in June,

The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had soared too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy,

For daisies grow so trig and tall ;
She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck
In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be

The same old tiresome color,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 'Perhaps you'd not mind trying

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To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day, when you are flying ?"

"You silly thing!" the robin said;
"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,
And think no flower above you.

"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 bé 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
A modest violet grew;

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colors bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;

And there diffused a sweet perfume
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

Jane Taylor.

WHAT THE WINDS BRING.

WHICH is the wind that brings the cold?
The North-wind, Freddy, and all the snow;
And the sheep will scamper into the fold,
When the North begins to blow.

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 That cows come shivering up the lane When the East begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the flowers?
The West-wind, Bessy; and soft and low,
The birdies sing in the summer hours
When the West begins to blow.

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. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too ?"

"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
As his sweet eyes searched my face-
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said, "I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter,

Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

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