Behind him could be seen a straggling line of sheep doing their best to keep up.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {THE RAM CHASES BOBBY.}]

Bobby won the race, however. His uncle came out in time to turn the flock into the barn. It was a long time before Bobby would venture near the ram again.

Bobby knows now that but for the efforts of that old ram in knocking him from his seat on that bitterly cold day he would have been among the angels in a very short time. The sleepy feeling which overcame him would have ended in death.

Bobby declares that the ram knew all the time what ailed him, and that he b.u.t.ted him from the rock on purpose. I cannot explain it, but do know that "G.o.d moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform."

MRS. F. GREENOUGH.

LILY'S GARDEN.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A VASE OF DANDELIONS.}]

There was only a little piece of garden belonging to Lily's home in the city. In the bright spring days she went out there, and watched to see if any flowers came up. She felt happy when she found the first blades of gra.s.s.

The poet sings that "his heart dances with the daffodils." Lily's heart danced, one morning, when she found a dandelion among the gra.s.ses in her yard,--a real yellow dandelion, with all its golden petals spread out.

Just then, one of her playmates looked over the fence, and put out her hand.

"Do give it to me," she said. "I sha'n't like you a bit, if you don't: I shall think you are just as stingy--"

"But it's all I have," said Lily; "I can't give it away. I can't. Wait till to-morrow, and there'll be some more out. They're growing.

There'll be some all round to-morrow or next week."

"To-morrow! I want it now, to-day," said her friend, "to-day's better than to-morrow."

Lily looked at the child and then at the dandelion. "I suppose it would be mean to keep it," she said, "but it is so lovely--_can't_ you wait?"

"Oh, well, keep it, you stingy girl!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: {THE LITTLE GIRL ASKS FOR THE DANDELION.}]

"Come and pick it yourself, then," said Lily, with tears in her eyes.

The next day, when Lily went into the yard, there were a dozen golden dandelions, like stars in the gra.s.s, and a little blue violet was blooming all alone by itself.

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A GIRL AND BOY WALK ALONG A ROAD.}]

WHERE?

Where is the honey-bee?

Where has the swallow flown?

Only the chickadee Chirrups his song alone.

Where is the bobolink, Bubbling with merriment?

What was the road, think, The gadding fire-fly went?

Whither flew the little wings Grown in green forest aisles?

Where are the pretty things That blossomed miles on miles?

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {THE GOAT ON THE RAILROAD TRACK.}]

A GOAT IN TROUBLE.

A few weeks ago, as I was crossing a railroad track just outside of the city, a little goat stepped before me. With a sad cry, she seemed to ask me to stop. I turned aside to pa.s.s on, but she kept brushing against me, until I finally decided to find out what she wanted.

The goat had wandered from her usual browsing place. In crossing the railroad track she had caught her chain on a rail, and could not get away. I stooped down and let her loose. Then she pressed against me as if to thank me, and bounded off quickly to her old pasture.

If we would always listen to the cries of animals in distress, we might do a great deal of good. Just after I had released the goat, a train of cars came rushing along, and she would certainly have been killed if I had not attended to her.

L. B. P.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {THE BIRD SINGING.}]

A NEGRO MELODIST.

It has often been remarked that in the bird world the rule is for the males to have the brilliant plumage, with all the beautiful colors and for the females to be the dowdy ones--a rule which would entail a revolution in fashions, startling and ludicrous, if it were to be introduced for variety among our own kind. Again, gaily-dressed birds have the least pleasing song--the screaming jay bearing an unfavorable comparison with the thrush--and the modestly-attired nightingale having furnished, in all ages, a brilliant example of virtue unadorned. The nightingale, however, leaving before the climate has become objectionable, we must praise its musical accomplishments rather as being those of a distinguished guest, or foreign _prima donna_, than of an indigenous artist. But we have another bird who _is_ always here, facing winter's blasts in addition to summer's bloom, who in voice stands unrivaled; no compet.i.tor approaching any where near him for fluency, richness, and liquid melody of song--to wit, the blackbird.

This negro melodist seldom spares his lungs at all until winter is far advanced into its New Year months; and even amid the bitter mornings of January, his rich, unfaltering notes can sometimes be heard. His coat is a glossy black, always cleanly brushed, and in the case of one family, sometimes called the "Red-wing," with a gorgeous scarlet lapel on either side.

TIME ENOUGH.

Two little rabbits out in the sun; One gathered food, the other had none.