A HORSE WHO WORE SNOW SHOES.

Mr. Brown had to go to his camp at Pine Tree Valley, which is in the midst of the mountains in California.

His men were cutting down the giant trees, and piling them in readiness for the Spring freshet, or floods of the river, when the snows melted.

Then they would slide them down the mountain sides to the little villages below.

There was a great deal of snow on the mountains, and Mr. Brown knew it would be hard work climbing to the camp, but Lady Gray was strong, and used to it.

Lady Gray was Mr. Brown's pet horse, and carried him everywhere. She was always happy when her master was in the saddle.

But to-day the snow was very deep and soon Mr. Brown had to get off, throw away the saddle, and lead her. They had to stop very often, and lean against the trees and rocks for support, while they rested and regained their breath.

In places the snow was so deep and soft, that they sank above their knees. Late in the afternoon they reached the camp nearly exhausted, and it was several days before they were able to return.

The snow was still deep and Mr. Brown knew he must go back on snow-shoes, but he was afraid Lady Gray would have to be left behind.

Finally one of the men suggested making her some snow-shoes. They cut four round pieces of board, twelve inches across, and fastened them on with rope. Lady Gray seemed to understand what they were for and tried very hard to walk in them.

She was very awkward at first and could hardly stand up, but by practicing a little every day she was soon able to manage nicely.

So Mr. Brown and Lady Gray both returned on snow-shoes, and how every one did laugh when they saw them.

But Lady Gray never could have done it if she had not tried.

THE ANGRY BOBOLINK.

Pretty little bobolink In your satin coat, Trimmed with white across the neck Black about the throat, Why so angry do you seem?

Why so fierce your mien?

That you're scolding somebody Plainly can be seen.

"Don't you know," says bobolink, As he shakes his head, That my nest is hidden in This soft gra.s.sy bed?

Somebody has come too near, And I wish to say There is no admittance here Pa.s.s the other way.

"If my gentle little wife Sits so calm above, It's because she knows I'll guard This dear nest we love."

Fear not, pretty bobolink, Sing your joyous song, Never will I trouble you, Sing, the whole day long.

HOW HIRAM SPENT HIS SHRIMP MONEY.

"I wish my mother had a ring like those the ladies wear at the hotel,"

said Hiram Green to himself one day. "There isn't one of those ladies as pretty as my mother; she ought to wear rings too."

Hiram was the son of a fisherman, but the fisherman had died when Hiram was a little boy. Hiram's mother took in sewing and fancy work to earn money to support herself and her son. He helped her what he could out of school hours, and in vacation. He had two uncles who wad taught him how to catch shrimps. With the money he earned by selling them he could buy things for his own use or pleasure. He had a bank almost full of what he called his "shrimp-money." He did not mean to count his money until the bank was full.

Now Hiram loved his mother more than anything else in the world.

Whenever he dreamed of being rich some time, as boys often do, it was not for himself he wanted the money, but that his dear little mother might drive in a carriage, drawn by a pair of horses with clanking chains.

The sight of the flashing gems on the hands of some of the summer visitors at the fishing village in which he lived had added a new article to the list of beautiful things his mother was some day to own. He had heard that just one single diamond was sometimes worth five hundred dollars or more. This had discouraged him very much. But one day happening to pa.s.s a shop in the neighboring town he saw a number of rings displayed in the window. Diamond rings which flashed and sparkled, it seemed to him, just as those worn by the ladies in the hotels. He stopped fascinated, ana pressed his face against the gla.s.s eagerly to see if any prices were marked upon them. Imagine his surprise when he saw upon the largest one a tag marked $4.75. He looked again to see if he had not made a mistake. Perhaps it was $475.00. But no, he knew enough about figures to see that he was right the first time.

Home he went as fast as he could get there, and ran up into his bedroom.

Then, for the first time since he had begun to save his "shrimp-money"

he opened his bank and counted its contents. "Three dollars and twenty-two cents!" he cried, "almost enough. I was going to buy something for myself this time, but I'll have that ring before another week."

Hiram worked early and late for the next few days. He caught more shrimps than he had ever caught in the same length of time, and sold them readily.

"I think there must be something you are wanting, very much, my boy,"

said his mother.

"Yes, there is," replied Hiram.

At the end of the week he had the sum he desired. Hurrying to the shop where he had seen the ring, before going inside he gave one hasty, almost frightened look into the window. Could it be gone! No, there it was flashing and sparkling as before.

That evening, he placed it on his mother's finger. She looked at it in surprise. "It is yours, mother," he cried, proudly, "your very own, I bought it with my shrimp money. I was determined my mother should have a ring as handsome as those ladies wear."

"My dear boy," said his mother, while something as bright as the shining stone flashed in her eyes, "Not one of those ladies can value their rings as I shall value mine."

Years afterwards Hiram learned that what he had bought for a diamond was only a bit of gla.s.s.

"Did you know it then, mother?" he asked.

His mother nodded. "And you never told me."

"It was brighter to me than any real diamond," she said, "the brightness I saw flash in it was the unselfish love of my boy."

THE ANT'S HOUSE.

"What a curious picture that is at the head of this story." That is what I think I hear some of the "Little Ones" say. "What does it mean?" some one asks. It looks like a procession of ants. That is just what it is.

A procession of ants all marching off to find a new home. Some one has destroyed their old one. Let us hope no one did it on purpose.

The ants are very busy and very nice little creatures. If their houses are stepped upon, or injured so as to be useless the ants immediately go to work to repair damages. They do not sit down and fuss about it first, but I have no doubt they let each other know what they think. And how do you suppose they do this? By touching each other with their tiny feelers.

After they have talked in this way, and decided what is to be done some of them take the eggs from the ruins and carry them to a safe place.

Look carefully at the pictures, and you will see that almost every ant is carrying an egg. They know that if they lose the eggs all the young ants inside the eggs will be lost too.

While ants do not seem to have a very keen sense of hearing, their sense of smell is very strong. And where do you think it lies? In the same little feelers with which they talk to each other. The first ant's house seen in the round picture has been cut in two to show you how wonderfully these little creatures can build.

It was made by the ants that live in tropical countries. The house at the back of the picture has not been disturbed. Does it not look as if an architect had planned it? Ask some of the older people in your family to tell you something more about ants. There is much more of interest in regard to them than I have s.p.a.ce to write you.