--KATE LOUISE BROWN.

DANDELION

Dandelion, dandelion, Where's your cup of gold?

Where's your jacket green and trim That you wore of old?

Then you nodded to the birds In a jaunty way, And you danced to every tune The breeze could play.

Dandelion, dandelion, Age comes creeping on, And your wig is snowy white, Golden locks are gone; But you've had a merry time Since your days began, And even now you're a cheery, Blithe old man.

--GEORGE COOPER.

THE FARMER'S WHEAT FIELD

stalk threshed breeze flour plump healthy bearded grain forth neighbor thousand cheer

There was once a stalk of wheat that grew in the middle of a field. It was very tall and it lifted its head high and nodded in the wind.

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All around it were a thousand other stalks not quite so tall. Every one was looking up at the sun and bowing to its neighbor, and saying, "Good morning."

"How bright and golden we are!" said the tall stalk; "and how beautiful we look, standing together like a great army of soldiers!

The sun shines to cheer us. And when the gentle rains fall, how sweet and refreshing they are!"

"Yes, yes!" said the other stalks, waving back and forth in the morning breeze. "All the world is very kind to us. We have nothing to do but to live and grow and become bright and golden like the sun."

"Ah," said the tall stalk. "It is true that we must live and grow and become yellow and golden. But after that, there must be something else for us to do."

The very next day the farmer came into the fields to look at his wheat. He took some of the bearded heads and rubbed them between his hands. They were full of plump, round, golden grains.

"What fine flour these will make, and what good bread for little Alice," he said. "The wheat is fully ripe and it must be cut at once."

Then all the golden-headed stalks waved back and forth in the wind.

"Now we understand it all," they whispered. "It is for the sake of the farmer's fair little girl that we are here.

"She must live and grow and be healthy and beautiful. There is nothing that can help her to do this so well as good bread made from the best of wheat."

Very soon the golden stalks were cut. The wheat was threshed and ground into the finest of flour. And then the flour was baked into fresh, white loaves of bread.

But little Alice did not know that her bread was made of the wheat that she had seen growing in the big field where the daisies bloomed.

--W. E. BALDWIN.

THE SONG OF THE WHEAT

Back of the bread is the snowy flour; Back of the flour is the mill; Back of the mill the growing wheat Nods on the breezy hill; Over the wheat is the glowing sun Ripening the heart of the grain; Above the sun is the gracious G.o.d, Sending the sunlight and rain.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD MILL WHEEL.]

THE SONG OF THE MILL WHEEL

Round and round it goes, As fast as water flows,-- The dripping, dropping, rolling wheel That turns the noisy, dusty mill.

Round and round it goes, As fast as water flows.

Turning all the day, It never stops to play,-- The dripping, dropping, rolling wheel That keeps on grinding golden meal.

Turning all the day, It never stops to play.

Sparkling in the sun, The merry waters run Upon the foaming, flashing wheel That laugheth loud, but worketh still.

Sparkling in the sun, The merry waters run.

--SELECTED.

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Boats sail on the rivers, Ships sail on the seas, But the clouds that sail across the sky Are prettier far than these.

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There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please, But the bow that bridges heaven, And overtops the trees, And builds a bridge from earth to sky Is prettier far than these. Christina G. Rossetti.

THE APPLE-TREE MOTHER

I.

reason mischief pasture couch bitter exclaimed sloping steam

The old apple tree had stood in the corner of the pasture for so many years that no one could tell when it was planted.

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