"But where will my throne be?" she asked.

"It shall be on the middle step of the stile by the corn-field."

So when the moon rose I went out to see.

He wore a red jacket and his cap with the feather in it. Round her head there was a wreath of b.u.t.tercups; it was not much like a crown. On one side of the wreath there were some daisies, and on the other was a little bunch of blackberry-blossom.

"Come and dance in the moonlight," he said; so she climbed up and over the stile, and stood in the corn-field holding out her two hands to him. He took them in his, and then they danced round and round all down the pathway, while the wheat nodded wisely on either side, and the poppies awoke and wondered. On they went, on and on through the corn-field towards the broad green meadows stretching far into the distance. On and on, he shouting for joy, and she laughing out so merrily that the sound travelled to the edge of the wood, and the thrushes heard, and dreamed of Spring. On they went, on and on, and round and round, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping one by one from her wreath. On and on in the moonlight, on and on till they had danced all down the corn-field, till they had crossed the green meadows, till they were hidden in the mist beyond.

That is all I know; but I think that in the far far off somewhere, where the moon is shining, he and she still dance along a corn-field, he in his red jacket, and she with the wild flowers dropping from her hair.

THE POOR LITTLE DOLL.

It was a plain little doll that had been bought for sixpence at a stall in the market-place. It had scanty hair and a weak composition face, a calico body and foolish feet that always turned inwards instead of outwards, and from which the sawdust now and then oozed. Yet in its gla.s.s eyes there was an expression of amus.e.m.e.nt; they seemed to be looking not at you but through you, and the pursed-up red lips were always smiling at what the gla.s.s eyes saw.

"Well, you _are_ a doll," the boy said, looking up from his French exercise. "And what are you staring at me for--is there anything behind?" he asked, looking over his shoulder. The doll made no answer.

"And whatever are you smiling for?" he asked; "I believe you are always smiling. I believe you'd go on if I didn't do my exercise till next year, or if the cat died, or the monument tumbled down." But still the doll smiled in silence, and the boy went on with his exercise.

Presently he looked up again and yawned. "I think I'll go for a stroll," he said, and put his book by. "I know what I'll do," he said, suddenly; "I'll take that doll and hang it up to the apple tree to scare away the sparrows." And calling out, "Sis, I have taken your doll; I'm going to make a scarecrow of it," he went off to the garden.

His sister rushed after him, crying out, "Oh, my poor doll! oh, my dear little doll! What are you doing to it, you naughty boy?"

"It's so ugly," he said.

"No, it is not ugly," she cried.

"And it's so stupid,--it never does anything but smile,--it can't even grow,--it never gets any bigger."

"Poor darling doll," Sis said, as she got it once more safely into her arms, "of course you can't grow, but it is not your fault, they did not make any tucks in you to let out."

"And it's so unfeeling. It went smiling away like anything when I could not do my French."

"It has no heart. Of course it can't feel."

"Why hasn't it got a heart?"

"Because it isn't alive. You ought to be sorry for it, and very, very kind to it, poor thing."

"Well, what is it always smiling for?"

"Because it is so good," answered Sis, bursting into tears. "It is never bad-tempered; it never complains, and it never did anything unkind," and, kissing it tenderly, "you are always good and sweet," she said, "and always look smiling, though you must be very unhappy at not being alive."

THE VIOLETS.

The sun came out and shone down on the leafless trees that cast hardly any shadows on the pathway through the woods.

"Surely the Spring is coming," the birds said; "it must be time to wake the flowers."

The thrush, and the lark, and the linnet sang sweetly. A robin flew up from the snow, and perched upon a branch; a little ragged boy at the end of the wood stopped and listened.

"Surely the Spring is coming," he too said; "and mother will get well."

The flowers that all through the Winter had been sleeping in the ground heard the birds, but they were drowsy, and longed to sleep on. At last the snowdrops came up and looked shiveringly about; and a primrose leaf peeped through the ground, and died of cold. Then some violets opened their blue eyes, and, hidden beneath the tangle of the wood, listened to the twittering of the birds. The little ragged boy came by; he saw the tender flowers, and, stooping down, gathered them one by one, and put them into a wicker basket that hung upon his arm.

"Dear flowers," he said, with a sigh, as if loth to pick them, "you will buy poor mother some breakfast," and, tying them up into little bunches, he carried them to the town. All the morning he stood by the road-side, offering his flowers to the pa.s.sers-by, but no one took any notice of him; and his face grew sad and troubled. "Poor mother!" he said, longingly; and the flowers heard him, and sighed.

"Those violets are very sweet," a lady said as she pa.s.sed; the boy ran after her.

"Only a penny," he said, "just one penny, for mother is at home." Then the lady bought them, and carried them to the beautiful house in which she lived, and gave them some water, touching them so softly that the poor violets forgot to long for the woods, and looked gratefully up into her face.

"Mother," said the boy, "see, I have brought some bread for your breakfast. The violets sent it to you," and he put the little loaf down before her.

The birds knew nothing of all this, and went on singing till the ground was covered with flowers, till the leaves had hidden the brown branches of the trees, and the pathway through the woods was all shade, save for the sunshine that flecked it with light.

THE FIDDLER.

The fiddler played upon his fiddle All through that leafy June, He always played hey-diddle-diddle, And played it out of tune.

And down the hill the children came, And down the valley too: I never heard the fiddler's name, So cannot tell it you.

Hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee.

On--on they came, and when they heard That tune so swift and sweet, They did not say a single word, But shuffled with their feet.

Then round they went, and round and round, All to that cracked old fiddle, And still was heard the magic sound, Hey-diddle-diddle-diddle, Hey-diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle-dee.

THE BROKEN HORSE.

They were all very sad, and the girl in the pink frock was crying bitterly, for they had been to the woods, and on the way home the wooden horse had fallen over on one side and broken off his head.

"Don't cry so, pray don't cry so," the little one said, as she knelt down in front of her sister, and tried to kiss her.

"And oh, sister," said the brother, "it would have been far worse if he had lost his tail too. Besides, perhaps he does not mind much; it is not as if he were alive."