b.u.t.tERFLIES AND BEES.

b.u.t.terflies are merry things, Gayly painted are their wings, And they never carry stings.

Bees are grave and busy things, Gold their jackets, brown their wings, And _they always_ carry stings.

Yet--isn't it extremely funny?-- Bees, not b.u.t.terflies, make honey.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GATHERING THE WATER-CRESSES.]

AN Ap.r.o.nFUL OF WATER-CRESSES.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

Cissy Mount came down to the gurgling, sparkling little brook at the foot of the hill, where Frank Hillborn and his brother Dave were gathering water-cresses.

"I'm going to Fairview, Frank," she said, "and came to ask you if you would look in on mother by-and-by, and see if she needs anything."

"Of course I will," said Frank. "But you're not going to walk to Fairview, Cissy? That's a long tramp for a girl."

"Yes, I am," she replied. "There's no other way I can go. n.o.body that I know ever drives down there. Mother wants me to try and get her some sewing to do. You know there are five or six big stores there, and mother can sew and knit beautifully. I wish I had time to pick some wild flowers to take with me. Town-people like wild flowers."

"A good many of them like something fresh and green to eat better than they do wild flowers," said Frank; "so you just take along some of these water-cresses. Aren't they beauties? They're the first we've gathered this spring, and I hope they'll bring you luck."

"But I have no basket," said Cissy.

"Carry them in your ap.r.o.n. They won't hurt;" and as she held it up, he heaped it full of moist green bunches.

"That's just like you, Frank Hillborn," said Dave, when the girl had gone. "What's the good of our owning the only water-cress brook for miles if you're going to give 'em away to everybody that comes along?"

"Everybody that comes along?" repeated Frank, with a cheery laugh. "I've only given a basketful to Ezra Lee--he lent us his fishing-line when we lost ours--and an ap.r.o.nful to Cissy Mount. Poor Cissy! Guess there's hard times at her house since her father was killed on the railroad and her mother got lame. And you know she's going to ask for work, and it most always puts folks in good-humor if you carry 'em something nice."

"All right," said Dave; "but don't you give away any more, for we want to make five dollars out of 'em this season, anyhow."

Cissy Mount walked bravely on mile after mile, until half of her journey had been accomplished. Then she stopped and looked around for a place where she might rest awhile. A pleasant little lane, on either side of which stood a row of tall cedar-trees, branched off from the main road. Into this lane she turned, and sat down on the gra.s.s near the side gate of a fine garden. And as she sat there peeping through a hole in the hedge at some lovely beds of hyacinths and tulips, radiant in the sunshine, a queer-looking little old gentleman, with no hat on, but having a wonderful quant.i.ty of brown hair, came scolding down the garden path, followed by a man carrying a camp-chair. The old gentleman as he talked grew more and more excited, and at last, to Cissy's great astonishment, grasped the abundant brown locks, lifted them completely off his head, waved them in the air an instant, and then gravely replaced them. As he came near, the child could hear what he was saying: "I sent word from Europe when this place was bought that if there were no water-cress stream upon it, one was to be made at once. That's a year ago."

"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, humbly, "but I did my best, sir. It isn't my fault, sir. Sometimes you can't _make_ water-cresses grow, all you can do, sir."

"And what's to be done with the puddle--for it's nothing but a puddle, though a big one--that you've disfigured my grounds with?" asked the old gentleman.

"Miss Grace says it will be a capital place for raising water-lilies, sir," said the man.

"Oh, indeed! Very fine. But I can't eat water-lilies. There's no pepper about them, and it's the pepper I want."

"Perhaps I can find some cresses for sale somewhere near, sir. Shall I go and look, sir?"

"No," snarled the master. "By the time you came back with them, if you got them, ten chances to one I shouldn't want them. When I want things, I want them at once. Yes, I'd give five dollars for some fresh water-cresses this very minute;" and he again seized his wig and flourished it in the air.

With trembling fingers Cissy opened the gate, and walked in. The servant-man placed the camp-chair on the ground. The old gentleman sat down in it, first hanging his hair on the back, leaving his head as smooth and shining as an ivory ball, looked at the intruder with keen black eyes, and asked, sharply, "Well, what do _you_ want?"

"To give you these water-cresses," she said, with a smile, holding up her ap.r.o.n. "They were gathered only a short time ago, and my ap.r.o.n's quite clean, sir."

"Bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, "what a wonderful coincidence!

and"--taking a bunch and beginning to eat them--"what fine water-cresses! And I suppose you expect that five dollars, for of course you heard what I said."

"No, sir," said Cissy, shyly, "I never thought of the money. I know you only said that as people often say things. I'm glad to give them to you, sir, because you wanted them so much."

The old gentleman burst into a loud laugh, put on his wig, and asked her name. And then by degrees he got the whole story from her--the death of the father, the accident that lamed the mother, the gift of the cresses from Frank Hillborn, and the five miles yet to go in search of work.

"And what was your mother's name before she was married?" was his last question.

"Prudence Kelly, sir."

"Prudence Kelly! I knew it!" he shouted, springing from his chair. And then, in a still louder voice, he called, "Grace! Grace!" and a pretty young lady came running toward him. "I've found your old nurse, my dear, your faithful old nurse that we have lost sight of for years. This is her daughter. And she is in want. Take the carriage and go to her at once. What a blessing that I got up in a scolding humor this morning, and wanted water-cresses! Go with Grace, Cecilia my child, and when you get home, give this five-dollar bill to your friend Frank, and tell him it isn't the first time a little act of kindness has brought luck."

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24, April 13.]

THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.

BY EDWARD CARY.

CHAPTER IX.

Very soon after General Washington was elected President a war broke out between France and England. It was natural that people in this country should wish to help the French, who had helped us. But General Washington saw that if we once got in the way of taking a part in wars between other countries, where our own rights were not in danger, we should always be at war. He saw, too, that we were a small nation then, compared to the nations of Europe, and that we might easily lose the freedom we had fought so long for. He dreaded to put our freedom in danger unless compelled to. So he issued an order to the people, as he had a right to do, not to take part with one nation or the other, but to mind their own business.

This was wise, because the British government was only too ready to pick a quarrel with us. General Washington also went further. He made a treaty of peace and commerce with Great Britain, which kept war from our sh.o.r.es for twenty years, and gave the country a chance to grow. The people did not like this treaty much. There was a great deal of ill-feeling toward Great Britain, growing out of the long fight we had had with her. But General Washington, who was ready to fight for real rights, felt that it was wrong to get into a quarrel from mere angry feeling. He was very anxious to keep the two countries at peace until their people could get calm, and go to trading with each other, and learn to live together in friendship. Surely this was both sensible and good. It was fortunate for the country that a man was at the head of its government wise enough to see what was right, and firm enough to do it.

Just at the time Washington was elected President, the French people rose against their government, which had many faults, and drove away many of their rulers, and cut off their King's head. Among the leaders was Lafayette, who, however, was no party to the cruelties which were practiced. The other kings of Europe undertook to restore the King of France to power, and in the war which followed Lafayette was taken prisoner and closely confined. His wife wrote to Washington, asking him to try and get Lafayette released. Washington gladly did all that he could, but it was of no use. However, he sent money to Madame Lafayette, for her property had been taken away, and he brought over to this country one of Lafayette's sons, and took him into his family, and cared for him as if he were his own. The boy was named after Washington, and always remembered the President's kindness with thankfulness.

When the first term of four years for which Washington was elected came to an end, he was chosen again, without a single vote against him, though he was very anxious to go back to private life.

Finally, at the end of his second term, when he had been eight years President, he refused to serve any longer. Just as he had written a farewell address to his soldiers, after being eight years in command, he now wrote a farewell address to the American people. I hope all my young readers will read it as soon as they are old enough to understand it. It is written in a quaint and somewhat stiff style, for Washington always found it easier to act than to talk or write; but it is full of wisdom.

Even now, eighty-four years after it was written, there is much in it which we ought to remember and try to carry out.

It was the spring of 1797 when Washington gave up the President's office, and returned to Mount Vernon. He had visited his beloved home frequently during his Presidency, and had kept a very careful watch over it in his absence. Again he took up with great delight the old round of peaceful duties. Every day he was up before the sun. Every day he was in the saddle, riding over his large farms, watching his laborers and his crops, planning changes and directing work. In the evening he saw much company--many, indeed, who had little claim on him, who came from idle curiosity, and wearied him with their presence. But he was always courteous. He enjoyed the society of his family and friends very keenly.

He had no children of his own, but he had reared first the children, and afterward two of the grandchildren, of his wife in his home. He took great pleasure with them, and was as merry as he was loving. He hoped to live the remainder of his days in quiet in this circle.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

LITTLE FATIMA.