Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

HAREBY WOOD.

CHAMBERS'S LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

Second Series

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MIDSUMMER AT HAY-LODGE

BY

RUTH BUCK [LAMB]

WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS

LONDON AND EDINBURGH

1870.

Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER

I.—THE INVITATION ACCEPTED, AND "THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE"

II.—A WET DAY, AND "WHAT THE RAINDROPS DID"

III.—HAREBY WOOD, AND "THE STORY OF GRAY DICK"

IV.—THE LAST LOAD OF HAY, AND "THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING"

V.—BERNARD'S FAULT, AND "THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW"

VI.—UNCLE PAUL'S BIRTHDAY; "MAGGIE'S DAISIES, OR THE VALUE OF A GIFT;"
AND "LITTLE FLORELLA, OR THE WISHING-TEMPLE"

CONCLUSION.—BERNARD'S RETURN TO SCHOOL

MIDSUMMER AT HAY-LODGE.

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CHAPTER I.

THE INVITATION ACCEPTED, AND
"THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE."

"THE postman will not be here yet, Marian, so you and Kate had better come to breakfast," said Mrs. Ingram, addressing her two children, who stood at the window, watching eagerly for the arrival of the red-coated messenger, in the hope that he would bring a letter from "Brother Bernard." And Mrs. Ingram herself looked scarcely less anxious, for Bernard was the "only son of his mother, and she was a widow."

The boy had been six months absent at school, and midsummer was just at hand. As it was his first half-year from home, no wonder Marian and Kate, his two sisters—to say nothing of mamma—were counting the very hours which must pass before Bernard could arrive.

Just after Mrs. Ingram had summoned the girls to the breakfast-table, the postman's knock was heard in the street. Marian ran into the hall, to be ready to take the letter out of the box without a moment's delay, and soon returned, exclaiming: "Two letters, mamma, and one is from Bernard!"

Who doubts which was first opened and read by the loving mother!

Her voice trembled, and her eyes were dimmed for a moment with glad tears, as she told Marian and Kate that Bernard would come to-morrow.

Little Kate clapped her hands, and fairly danced round the room in her glee. Ah! She guessed that in some snug corner of Bernard's trunk, there would be a whole pile of small treasures hoarded up, bit by bit, for the little sister at home.

Bernard was turned thirteen years old, and boys of his age can, if they choose, fashion a great many pretty toys to please a little girl of six, yet without spending much of their pocket-money either. And Bernard always did like, and had contrived new pleasures for Kate, oftener than she could tell. But the child did not reckon on her brother's coming home just for the sake of what he might bring; and, to do the little maiden justice, Bernard's gifts were valued far more "because" they were his, than for their own worth or beauty.

Kate was just a little spoiled. She was a very lovely child, with dark eyes, and clusters of soft brown curls. And visitors too often spoke of her beauty, and mamma was apt to give her rather more than her due share of love, because of the child's likeness to the dear husband and father, who died soon after the youngest darling was born.

Marian was not beautiful; but she had a good honest face, and was obedient to her mother, and very loving to little Kate and her brother Bernard. It was Marian who called her mother's attention to the second letter, on which Mrs. Ingram did not at first bestow a glance, so much was she occupied with the one from her son.

This second letter was an odd-looking affair, as Marian remarked to her mother. It was not enclosed in an envelope, but folded in the old-fashioned style, and it had a seal nearly as large as a half-crown, which Kate admired greatly, and declared she should beg of mamma, if it could only be preserved unbroken.

Marian was very much puzzled to guess where the queer letter came from, and began to wish that her mother would not spend quite so long a time upon Bernard's. But Mrs. Ingram was not at a loss; for as soon as she examined the handwriting, she exclaimed: "Why, it is from Uncle Paul!"

The children had often heard their mother speak of her uncle, Paul Parker, who was a young man when she was a little girl; but they had never seen him, and they were very curious to know what he had written about. So, after the seal had been carefully cut round, and handed whole to Kate, Mrs. Ingram read the letter, first to herself, and afterwards aloud to the children.

And this was what the letter contained:

"HAY-LODGE, June 17.

   "MY DEAR NIECE—After long years of wandering in many lands, I have at length begun to find out that I am not so young as I was, and that at sixty-five I am not so strong as I used to be ten years ago. I have therefore resolved to stay at home for the future, or, at any rate, not to travel far.

   "I daresay you often wonder whether Uncle Paul—who used sometimes to pet, but more generally to tease you, when you were a little girl—has quite forgotten you. He writes now to tell you that he has not, and that he should be glad to see you and your dear children under the roof which he has purchased as a shelter for his gray hairs.

   "Uncle Paul feels himself a very old man now, dear niece, and is quite weary of wandering to and fro on the earth. But, though he is likewise a childless man, he is anxious to hear the sound of young voices in his home, and perhaps to preach a little—as old men will sometimes do—to the owners of those voices. So, if you would like to spend midsummer with one who always loved you, and if you think your youngsters will have patience to listen sometimes to an old man, come as soon, and stay as long as you can, with—

"Your affectionate uncle,

"PAUL PARKER.

   "P.S.—Tell the young folks that we shall have haymaking directly, and that I have quite a little farm. Bernard must bring his fishing-rod and tackle; and if the girls love flowers, I can suit them finely, for I have both a garden and a green-house."

Marian and Kate were loud in their expressions of delight when the queer-looking letter was read, as what city-born children would not? And they said to each other: "Oh! Won't this be a pleasant surprise for Bernard, if dear Ma will only consent to let us all go?"

Marian was rather doubtful as to mamma's power to promise; for she was older, and knew more of money-matters than her little sister did. She knew that their widowed mother's income had to be managed with great care and economy, and that the cost of Bernard's education was a serious matter, which obliged Mrs. Ingram to deny herself many little comforts for her son's sake.

But Marian had not seen a piece of paper enclosed in the queer letter, and with Paul Parker's name in good bold handwriting at the corner; and so she did "not" know that Uncle Paul had not only given the invitation, but also sent money to pay their expenses to Hay-Lodge; for he was aware that his widowed niece's income was not large enough to meet the cost, so he kindly provided the means himself. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to Marina, when her mother replied:

"Yes, my dears, all being well, we shall go to Uncle Paul's in three or four days after Bernard comes home."

On the following afternoon, Mrs. Ingram and her daughters joyously welcomed Bernard home. Nor was little Kate disappointed when his trunk came to be opened; and mamma and Marian, too, found that, amid all the varied occupations of school, and though surrounded by new companions, the boy had not forgotten them. Then Uncle Paul's letter was read again, and Bernard asked innumerable questions about this, as yet, unknown relative. But mamma herself could tell very little, for many years had passed since she last saw her uncle.

"Only," said she, "I remember he was very full of fun, and used to tell tales to me when I was a child and sat on his knee to listen."

"Then he is sure to know plenty of stories now," said Bernard, "for he has travelled for years in different countries."

"I shall ask him to tell 'me' some nice stories," said Kate.

"Take care," replied her mother with a smile, "that Uncle Paul does not make a story about 'you,' Kate."

But as the little lassie did not know Uncle Paul quite so well as her mother did, she shook her head, as much as to say that he would be puzzled to do that.

What a bustle there was, to be sure, for the next three days! The girls and Mrs. Ingram required but a very short time for preparation; but Bernard had grown out of his clothes, and there was quite hard work for mamma and Marian in making him ready by the appointed day. However, at last they were all comfortably seated in the railway-carriage, and on the way to Hay-Lodge, very much delighted at the prospect of spending midsummer amongst country scenes and sounds, but just a little afraid of this unknown uncle whom they were going to visit.

"That must be Uncle Paul!" said Mrs. Ingram, as the train stopped at the pretty country station, and she caught sight of an elderly gentleman upon the platform.

He had heard the exclamation, and at once stepped forward, saying: "Yes, I am Uncle Paul; and here, I suppose, are Bernard, Marian, and Kate, who, with their mother, I am glad to welcome to Hay-Lodge."

Then followed a great deal of hand-shaking; and Kate, rather doubtful of the propriety of the thing, was kissed by her stranger uncle, whose face she scanned very curiously indeed.

It was a pleasant face, though it had been browned by the sun in a warmer country than England, and it looked rather odd, in consequence of being surrounded with white hair and whiskers, while the eyebrows were still black, and the eyes very dark and keen.

Perhaps Uncle Paul guessed that all the youngsters were trying to read his character in his face, and were taking a good survey of him for the purpose. At any rate, though he glanced kindly at them now and then and held little Kate's hand in his, he talked only to Mrs. Ingram during the drive to Hay-Lodge.

The children were nearly wild with delight at the sight of Uncle Paul's pretty house and grounds; and while their mother rested, they, unwearied with the journey, rambled through the large garden, looked at the poultry, and admired the flowers in the green-house and conservatory. Moreover, the children had quite decided among themselves that this new-found uncle was a person to be loved and trusted.

When they were at length satisfied to rest quietly in the house for the remainder of the evening, Kate required no invitation from Uncle Paul, but climbed upon his knee, and even pulled his white whiskers, to bring his ear closer to her own rosy lips. Kate had a great deal to tell him—about Bernard's presents, their city-home, and of an intended new dress for her doll. Uncle Paul listened with profound attention. He might have been a doll's nurse all his life, to hear how he discussed with Kate whether flaxen hair or black was the prettiest; and how he finally decided in favour of dark curls, because the little girl's own were brown. Kate became more and more confidential, and told Uncle Paul that she loved him very much indeed, and that she intended to ask him to tell her a story the next day.

"What!" said he. "Has your mother been telling you about the stories I used to invent to please her when she was a little girl? A nice task I shall have to satisfy you all!" And he pretended to frown at mamma for betraying him; but somehow the frown turned into a laugh, and spread from face to face, until they all laughed together. And Kate, who appeared determined to expose her mother's conduct further, informed Uncle Paul that she had been warned to take care lest he should make a story about her own self.

"I will tell you a fable this very minute, Kate," said he; "so listen, and when it is finished, you must be off to bed, or you will be sleepy in the morning, when I want you to go and see the mowers in the hayfield."

And without further preface, Uncle Paul began the story about—

"THE PARROT AND THE MAGPIE."

"A magpie one day saw a parrot in a gilded cage, and, being struck with the wonderful beauty of the foreign bird's plumage, determined to make its acquaintance. The parrot—a newcomer to the house—was not particularly pleased at seeing the magpie approach, for Mag was dressed in a sober suit of half-mourning—black and white—you know; and this dress looked draggled, and a good deal the worse for wear; while the parrot's feathers were of all the colours of the rainbow, and glistened beautifully in the sun.

"But Poll was at a loss for society, and so she thought to herself: 'I will put up with this shabby-looking person's intrusion for the present. He appears to be at home here, and can probably tell me a good deal about the neighbourhood. It is lucky that I have no acquaintances at hand, for I should be dreadfully annoyed if any of my well-dressed friends saw me talking with him. However, I can get as much information as I want, and then have nothing more to say to him.' The parrot, you see, had just knowledge enough to be very selfish, but was not so wise as to understand that we should judge people by their good qualities, and not by the colour of their coats.

"When the magpie came up, and bowed politely, the parrot was extremely gracious, made remarks on the weather, and complained of the coldness of the climate, in comparison with that of her own native land. 'Indeed,' said she, 'I should not have left my own country, but for the urgent solicitations of a gentleman, who declared that he could not bear to come home without me.'

"Polly did not think it necessary to mention that the reason the gentleman would not come home without her, was because he had bought and paid for her. It is sometimes unpleasant to own that we have been compelled to undertake a sea-voyage whether we would or not.

"The magpie had a pretty good guess how matters stood; but he was too civil to hint at such a thing. He therefore owned his ignorance of foreign lands, and said he had never travelled far from his native place. Like the parrot, he did not tell the reason he had travelled so little; but the truth was, his wings were clipped, and he could no more take a long journey than she could help doing it. The parrot laughed rather contemptuously, and hinted that it was hardly likely her new acquaintance would be pressed to leave his native place, as his external appearance was not very attractive.

"'Do not judge me by my looks,' said the magpie; 'I am not valued for them, or, I am aware, I could claim no merit.'

"'I thought people were estimated on account of their looks,' replied she, conceitedly surveying her fine feathers, 'or "I" should not be here.'

"'They are partly. I was handsome myself once, though perhaps you would scarcely think it, to see me now.'

"The parrot could not conceal her amusement at the very idea of this ragged stranger's notions of beauty. But when she had recovered her gravity, she asked whether the magpie's company was still valued on the score of good-looks.

"'By no means,' he replied.

"'What, then, may I ask?' said the parrot.

"'I can converse with men in their own language,' answered the magpie. 'I was very carefully instructed by my present master while I was young, and as I did my best to profit by his lessons, I soon acquired this power; and I can assure you it is no mean accomplishment for a bird.'

"'It is one "I" shall never take the trouble to acquire,' returned the parrot. 'I have some notion that the individual at whose house I am staying would like me to do so, but he will never be gratified, though I "could" speak if I chose.'

"'I am sure I should advise it,' replied the magpie, who was far wiser than this vain travelled stranger, and knew that mere good-looks soon lose their charm.

"The parrot quite despised his advice, and was almost offended at the magpie's presumption in offering it unasked. When the master of the house approached shortly afterwards, and began to talk to the foreign bird, she answered him only with a discordant scream, and obstinately refused to profit by his lessons; nay, more, she was ungrateful enough to peck at and bite his finger, and declare in her own tongue that she would not be teased by him. In this conduct she persisted for a long time; but she still retained her place in the gilded cage, and boasted to the magpie that no person could be persuaded to part with so lovely a creature as herself, let her mental qualities be what they might.

"The magpie shook his head, tried to reason with the foolish and ungrateful beauty, and was laughed at for his pains.

"But the time came when the parrot regretted that she had disdained his advice. Disease attacked her; she lost her fine feathers; and like a person dressed in tawdry and shabby finery, she looked all the worse amidst the remains of her once gay coat. Her master, finding she had lost the only attraction she ever possessed, and weary of her harsh voice and ill-temper, turned her out of the fine gilded cage, which was bestowed on a more amiable individual of her species. So the parrot, exposed to the severity of the climate, and unused to seek her own livelihood, perished miserably of cold and hunger, while the magpie's homely coat was never noticed because of his talents and obliging disposition."

Little Kate clapped her hands and laughed when Uncle Paul finished his story; then turning to her mamma with a triumphant look, she said: "This tale is not about me, however, for I am neither a magpie nor a parrot. Am I, Uncle Paul?"

Her uncle stroked back her soft curls, and said: "Certainly not."

But there was a merry expression on his face, and Mrs. Ingram asked: "Are you quite sure, Kate, that there are 'no' little girls who are like the parrot in thinking they need only to be pretty to be beloved, and that it is of no use trying to be good and wise?"

Kate had not thought of that, and her face became grave at the idea her mother's words suggested. Poor little lassie! "She" did not guess what a good use Uncle Paul made of those keen dark eyes of his, or how much he had already noticed the characters of his young relatives.

But bedtime had come, and active as the children were, they began to yield to the feelings of weariness which stole over them, so they were not sorry to say good-night to Uncle Paul, after exacting a promise that they should be called early, to go to the hayfield.

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CHAPTER II.

A WET DAY, AND "WHAT THE RAINDROPS DID."

THE morning brought disappointment with it: it rained, so there was no chance of going into the fields for that day at least. The children stood at the window watching the falling drops, and regretting the change in the weather.

At last Bernard said: "It is of no use watching, Marian, for even if the rain were to cease, the ground would be too wet for walking; so I shall read."

Assisted by his uncle, Bernard hunted out a large book on botany, of which the boy was very fond, and went off with it into the green-house; then Uncle Paul undertook to provide Kate with amusement, and the two were soon deep in pictures of gay-coloured birds and insects.

Uncle Paul asked Marian if she would like a book also, but she said: "No, thank you, uncle;" and continued to watch, in an Idle listless way, the falling raindrops, and to listen to their pattering upon the leaves and windowpanes.

Marian was one of those people who, if disappointed in a little matter, take a long time to forget it and make up their minds to do some thing else. The very fact of not being able to obtain her wish, made her only wish the more.

Uncle Paul did not interfere with his elder niece, but amused himself with Kate and her picture-books, to the intense delight of the child, who was in perfect raptures at the tales he told her about real birds and beasts which he had seen in far-away lands. He glanced now and then at Marian, and after a while closed the book, saying:

"Now, Kate, you shall have another story about—"

"WHAT THE RAINDROPS DID."

"Very early one morning, all the raindrops in a big cloud held a consultation to consider what answer should be returned to a petition they had just received. This petition was from the flowers, who begged that the raindrops would favour them with their company as soon as possible, for if they delayed visiting them much longer, they—the petitioners—would soon disappear from the face of the garden altogether.

"One of the raindrops was for refusing the invitation. 'No doubt,' it said, 'the flowers will be much the better for our visit, but "we" shall not; beside, the sun will have to fetch us back again by degrees, and we trouble him so often. I should prefer remaining where I am.'

"'But the flowers will die!' said a considerate little raindrop, just ready to flutter off by itself on an errand of mercy.

"'That would not affect us!' said the first speaker, who thought only of its own convenience, and did not care a straw for the flowers.

"'But think again, how grateful the flowers are! They distil their sweetest scents as a token of welcome, and put on their gayest dresses in our honour. Beside, think that it will do them good, and it is always a true pleasure to confer a benefit on grateful people.'

"Here a third raindrop began to speak. '"I" am doubtful whether, after all, we shall not do more harm than good. There is the hay, which does not want us, to say nothing of the haymakers and the children who are longing to be in the fields. If we once start, we cannot stop ourselves, but must fall on more than the flowers, or I should be quite willing to visit "them."'

"'Oh, the sun will put the hay to rights again!' said the cheerful little raindrop. And away it went, and dropped plump on the very nose of a poor widow woman, who was just off to the hayfield, instead of falling, as it intended to do, on the rose-bush under the cottage window.

"'O dear, dear, what a pity!' said the poor woman. 'I do believe it is going to rain. If it should begin, what will the children do? We have bread for the week—thanks to him who does not forget the fatherless and the widow; but I thought to get clothes with my earnings, for without new ones, the poor things will soon be naked. Oh, if the rain had but come two or three days later, I should have earned the stuff to make these clothes of! Then a wet day would not have troubled me, for I could have sewed at home, instead of losing my time, as I shall to-day.'

"'I wish I had not come,' thought the raindrop; 'for here, instead of doing good, I am likely to do harm. However, I did it for the best, and perhaps none of my companions will follow me.'

"They did though, patter, patter, one after another, as hard as they could pelt; and after giving the poor widow woman a hint that they wished to visit the plants, and not herself, she was fain to go back into her cottage and shut the door. No chance for haymakers that day.

"It is all very well to watch the raindrops when people might do something else, if they liked; but it is not quite so pleasant when they are wishing to work, but cannot, for want of materials. However, the poor widow was one who tried to make the best of things, and she considered that there would be plenty of work after the rain was over, for everybody would be anxious about the hay. And even while she sat mending her children's poor bits of ragged clothing as well as she could, she was unselfish enough to think of those other children who would be disappointed of their ramble amongst the new-mown hay, though, to be sure, it had inconvenienced her far more than it had them.

"The raindrop that had first objected to coming down to the ground held out as long as it could; but as the others rushed that way, it was borne onwards with them, and fell just under a window, where a young girl was standing, regretting that she was kept a prisoner by the rain. She was not quite like the poor widow; for instead of making the best of things, and employing herself in some pleasant occupation, she continued to yearn after what was out of her reach. The raindrop noticed this, and said: 'You see I was right after all; we should have stayed where we were, and then the children might have had a merry day in the hayfield.'"

When Uncle Paul had reached this part of his story, he looked at Marian, and observed that she was no longer watching the raindrops, but listening to his words. He made a slight pause, and the young girl, with a blushing face, left her place by the window, saying: "Uncle Paul, you are telling that story about me!"

"That you are!" cried Kate. "'I' knew that ever so long since."

"Why, I never mentioned a single name," said Uncle Paul, pretending to look indignant, and, completely failing in the attempt. "I have no doubt there are plenty of little girls watching the rain beside Marian. Come, let me finish my story."

"May I finish it for you, uncle?" said Marian smiling.

"To think of that, now!" replied he. "Do you hear this chit, mamma? Actually going to take my business out of my hands the very day after her arrival at Hay-Lodge!"

"Dear uncle," said Marian, "I beg your pardon; I did not mean to take the words out of your mouth: only I thought—"

But Uncle Paul laughed; and she saw he was not really offended, though he did pull her ear, and declare that he would not finish the story on any account, and therefore she must.

"Well," said Marian, "I should tell that by the time the unwilling raindrop had expressed his regret for having come down at all, the girl had found out that it was selfish in her to think only of her own pleasure and convenience; and she made up her mind that, instead of wasting the rest of her morning in useless longings after what she could not obtain, she would spend it in a more profitable manner."

Marian paused, and Kate said: "Was that anything like the ending you would have made, Uncle Paul?"

"Do you suppose I shall tell how I should have concluded the tale, pussy? But after all," he added, with an approving glance at Marian, "I like the way your sister has finished it, and hope the 'girl' will adhere to her resolution, for Time, my little woman, is a talent too precious to be wasted on useless repinings and vain regrets."

"I should be glad if you will answer me a question, uncle," said Marian. "Is the poor widow a real person?"

"I never said my story was true, my dear," replied her uncle; "but I certainly 'do' know a poor widow who has two very ragged children; and I fancy if we had gone into my hayfield to-day, we should have seen the whole family there."

After this, the young girl held a whispered conversation with her mother, and later in the day, she might have been seen stitching very rapidly at a small garment, which, from the homely materials of which it was composed, could scarcely be intended for dainty little Kate.

Uncle Paul asked no questions, though his niece continued her work until bedtime, and would not be persuaded to take a run round the garden after the rain was over. The next morning, Marian's busy needle went as rapidly as before, and she could hardly be induced to take time for her meals. Even the hayfield seemed to have almost lost its attraction for that day, though, when the children came back after a visit to it, Marian resumed her work, and Uncle Paul was taken into her confidence, and told what it was for.

The little garment at which the girl was sewing was destined for one of the widow's children; and Marian declared she should not rest until she had made, with her own hands, a complete suit of under-clothing for each of them. Uncle Paul thought this was a very good idea; but both he and Mrs. Ingram advised Marian to be moderate even in her work, yet careful to finish what she had begun.

Marian looked quite confident in her own powers, and soon had the pleasure of taking two little articles of clothing to the poor widow, and of receiving her grateful thanks, which the young girl found quite as delightful as the perfume that the flowers gave in gratitude for the visit of the raindrops.

In the first flush of her pleasure, she told the widow what more she intended to do, and of the pile of small garments which lay ready cut out at home. The widow's eyes filled with tears of gratitude; again and again she thanked Marian; and the girl returned to Hay-Lodge, very happy in the thought that she had made another so by means of a little industry and self-denial.

But there are a great many stitches in two complete suits of under-clothing, even though the garments be of small size, and more than a "little" self-denial would be requisite in order to finish them. In the first warmth of a good resolution, Marian worked very hard indeed—almost too hard, thought both her mother and Uncle Paul, though neither of them interfered with her movements. So when Marian had presented the two first finished articles to Widow Jones, she decided on taking a rest before she commenced any more; and it happened that she spent an hour or two amongst the plants with Bernard, and a similar time with Kate and the chickens. Then Uncle Paul took Mrs. Ingram and the children to see a lovely little waterfall in the neighbourhood; so that, what with one thing and another, the whole day slipped away without a single stitch being taken by Marian.

The following morning was as fine as possible, and Marian said: "I don't think I shall sew to-day, mamma, for all the birds and flowers are inviting me out of doors. And how deliciously the hay smells! The scent comes in at the window like a nosegay."

"Your uncle has arranged for a picnic to Hareby Wood to-morrow, Marian," replied Mrs. Ingram, "and the day is therefore already condemned. Would it not be better for you to work for an hour or two this morning? Remember you have promised, of your own accord, to help in clothing those fatherless children."

"And surely, mother, you do not think I shall break my promise?" said Marian, looking rather hurt at the idea.

"I am sure you do not intend to break it, Marian."

"And you will see it fulfilled, mother, if I live; but you know we all came to Hay-Lode for a holiday, and I cannot always be at work."

"Well, my dear, you shall do as you please. You undertook this labour of your own or I should not have advised you to promise so much, because I well knew how many things would combine to tempt you to lay it aside."

Marian turned away, feeling scarcely satisfied with herself; and thinking that perhaps it would be better to devote an hour or two to work, in fulfilment of her promise. But Kate came at the moment to coax Marian into the fields; and Marian persuaded herself that it would be unkind to refuse her little sister.

To be sure, if she could have read her own thoughts clearly, she would have found, as Uncle Paul would say, that they were "speaking one word for Kate, and two for herself." No wonder that, with such a pleader as Inclination to second her words, Kate trudged off triumphantly, with Marian by her side, to join Bernard and Uncle Paul in a fishing-excursion.

No wonder, either, that it was late in the evening when they returned, for, unknown to the children, that provident uncle had contrived that they should find an ample lunch in the basket which he carried. And, lo! at tea-time, they arrived at a pretty cottage on the bank, and found there not only a very superior meal, but mamma herself, ready to make tea for them. So they were quite tired when they reached Hay-Lodge, and went off to bed to get a long sleep before to-morrow's picnic.

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CHAPTER III.

HAREBY WOOD, AND "THE STORY OF GRAY DICK."

THE picnic was to be different from most such parties, for Uncle Paul was to furnish "all" the dainties, and the young guests to bring only themselves. Mamma was to be the one grown-up lady present, and that on condition that she would not be above riding in a great wagon with the children and provisions, and would sit upon a hamper, with some hay on the top, by way of a cushion. To these conditions mamma good-humouredly consented, and took her place on the large hamper, with a little one for a footstool, lest her toes should suffer amongst so many restless feet, which kept beating-time to the music of their owners' glad hearts.

It was the most delightful mode of conveyance—rather slow, for there was a heavy load; but the wagon was on springs, and the distance only three miles. Mamma said it carried "her" a long way back, even over five-and-twenty years, and made her once more a child amongst children.

As to Uncle Paul, he joked and rattled on so as to put everybody in the best possible humour during the journey to Hareby Wood. Then mamma was first handed down from "the four-wheeled carriage," as the youngsters called it, and afterwards the little folks, the wagon being drawn up under a great tree, and the horses taken out.

Uncle Paul's loving temper proved infectious, and a spirit of kindliness, not always to be found amongst children out for a holiday, reigned amongst his guests. There were no little toddlers left behind to cry after those who were fleeter of foot, no disputes about the place in which they should dine; and when Mrs. Ingram and Uncle Paul were led to the chosen spot, they each and all declared it was charmingly suited for the purpose.

It was a circular hollow, in a beautiful part of the wood. Its sides were fringed with trees high enough to shelter them from the heat, but not to shut out the sun's bright rays. At the bottom was a little rise, which might have been made for a fairy-table, it answered so capitally for that piece of furniture.

Then, before dinner, away went the children to seek for flowers and gather wild-strawberries, which seemed ever so much sweeter than those brought from home, because gathered at some cost of time and trouble.

Often the children startled the hares, which bounded off at their approach, fleet as the wind; or squirrels, which darted up the trunk of a tree, and leaped from bough to bough, almost as fast as a bird flies. The air, too, teemed with music, and not the least pleasant part in dear Uncle Paul's ears was the sound of the children's merry voices ringing through the wood. And, to be sure, at dinner-time the good things "did" disappear fast from that grassy table!

After dinner, while the children rested, it was unanimously voted that Uncle Paul should tell a tale, and, a donkey happening at that moment to bray, Uncle Paul said: "That reminds me that I have a story to tell you about a donkey," and thus began—

"THE STORY OF GRAY DICK."

"Everybody said that Gray Dick was by far the handsomest donkey at Beacham. Instead of being of a dingy, grizzled brown colour, as most of the other donkeys were, Dick was a beautiful light-gray, and his coat was smooth, and almost silky looking. To tell the truth about it, 'his' sides had not been battered by attendant-boys as theirs had; neither had he, as yet, been nearly run off his legs by carrying people on his back from 'early morn to dewy eve' like the others, at the rate of sixpence an hour, which the master got, while the poor donkeys had not so much as an extra thistle all the summer through.

"But Gray Dick was a newcomer 'just out,' and quite a youngster. It was his very first season by the sea-side, and he was rather proud of his new brown Holland housings, bound with brightest scarlet; of bearing the very best of Beacham saddles; and of being placed in the most conspicuous position on 'the stand,' as the very prince of Beacham donkeys. Such a position was a temptation, and calculated to turn the head of any young donkey.

"Dick was proud of his sleek skin and new clothing, and gave himself many needless airs in consequence. He even taunted some of his elder and less attractive companions because they obtained so little notice in comparison with himself. However, he soon began to find out why his neighbour, 'Brown Jerry,' shook his long ears in that sagacious way without a word of reply to his sneers; and what 'Old Grizzle,' at his right hand, meant when she advised him to wait a little while before he began to bray over other people, as though he were the only handsome donkey in existence.

"Gray Dick found out that there were penalties which donkeys must pay for the privilege of occupying a distinguished position, as 'all' persons of rank do discover, sooner or later. He never had a minute's rest. From daylight to dark, he was always at work, in consequence of his being young, strong, and handsome. All the boys and girls, when they came to the stand to choose a donkey for an hour's ride, wanted Gray Dick; so the poor fellow was nearly worked to death, because people liked him the best.

"Sometimes, he resolved he would not bear it any longer, and he threw himself down, and rolled on the sands, heels uppermost. Then he found that the attendant-boy paid no respect to his handsome coat, but just hit him as hard and with as thick a stick as if he were the oldest and ugliest donkey at Beacham. So poor Dick was fain to get up and trudge on again, though his legs were fit to break with weariness. After all, it is of no use fighting against necessity. If we have duties to do which are hard and disagreeable, it is always the best way to work as steadily, and do as much and as well as we can, instead of struggling against what we cannot help; because, you know, then we have a quiet conscience.

"Before Dick was quite exhausted, the weather began to grow cold, and the company gradually left the sea-side; but, to the very last, he had cause rather to regret his good-looks; for so long as any person was left to take an hour's ride, Dick was the donkey called for to carry him or her, as the case might be.

"The longest day must have an end, and so must the longest summer. Dick had just begun to rejoice that his troubles were over for the present, and that he should have a long rest, when another cause of uneasiness came into his mind: how was he to be fed during the winter? He overheard his master say, that he did not know how to keep all those donkeys, now they were earning nothing.

"If Dick dared to have spoken his thoughts in donkey-language, he would have said:

"Master, be pleased to remember how hard I worked during the summer. Then, I and my companions earned enough to support you and all your family, and I know you have some money put by in the old square tea-caddy for a rainy-day.'

"But Dick dared not speak, and his master was unfortunately one of those persons who are apt to forget past benefits if the least thing goes contrary to their present wishes.

"Luckily for Dick, but unfortunately for his master, one of the man's children fell sick. The doctor was called in, and happened to hear the father grumbling because his donkeys cost so much and earned so little during the winter. Now, the doctor had a field with nothing in it, so he said:

"'If you like to send one of your asses to me, I will keep him during the winter; only my little boys will want a ride sometimes.'

"'Come and choose which you will have,' said the man, quite delighted at the doctor's proposal.

"Who doubts that Gray Dick was the donkey selected, the very instant he came in sight? That same evening, he was sent to his new quarters, with his master's compliments, and the young gentlemen need not be afraid to ride the gray ass, as he was strong, and very well-behaved in general. It was a good change for Dick, who was put into a large field, and a horse sent to bear him company.

"At first, he was quite delighted with the improvement in his prospects, but, after a time, he began to grumble because the horse was put into a stable at night, and he was only allowed to shelter himself in an enclosure without a roof. This was a far more comfortable place than his late companions of the stand were in. They were turned out on a bare common near the sea-shore, and, let the weather be what it might, had no shelter at all. Dick ought to have considered how much worse off others were than himself; instead of that, he only thought of those who were still better off, and envied them their good-fortune.

"Dick, in prosperity, was by no means humble; he complained bitterly to his neighbour, the horse, of the manner in which he was treated, instead of being grateful for his position and comforts. The horse was a good-natured creature, and, when he had heard his companion's doleful tale, he very politely said: 'Do step into my stable; there is room for us both.'

"In walked Dick; but when the groom came to give the horse his supper, he turned him out again without the least ceremony, to the intense mortification of the donkey.

"Dick sulked the next day, and made up his mind not to let the doctor's little son have a ride on his back; but when he found that if he persisted in such conduct, he would be exchanged for another donkey, and sent to take his chance with his brethren on Beacham Common, he wisely gave in. Still, it was only out of consideration for himself that he yielded, which was not a very good motive, for we ought to have a kindly feeling for the convenience of others also.

"Soon after, Dick's companion, the horse, was taken away from the field, and he felt very lonely indeed. The horse had been very kind to him, and, like all well-bred persons, never boasted of his superior position in society, or looked down upon Dick, in order to make him feel his inferiority. This ought to have been a lesson to his little gray friend; but it was not, for, some weeks afterwards, when a cow was put into the field, Dick affected to consider her beneath him. When, at length, his longing for society in a manner forced him to make friends with the cow, he was always boasting of the company he had kept, as though his having been 'with the horse' had raised him above the generality of donkeys. The cow—good, homely body!—listened quite admiringly to Dick's tales, not only about his late companion's regard for him, but also respecting the manner in which he was sought after at Beacham, while he occupied the first place on the stand there during the past summer.

"When Dick had an opportunity of giving his opinion of the cow to any passing acquaintance that chanced to walk close beside the palings, he always lamented that he was doomed to have such a companion; 'for,' as he remarked, 'how can a dull creature like Brindle enter into my feelings, or form an idea of fashionable life? If she could but spend a season at the sea-side, it would be an excellent thing for her, and would improve her manners and intellect.'

"So the foolish donkey went on, pretending to despise the cow, while in his own secret heart, he was very glad indeed to have her company, but far too proud to own that honest Brindle 'could' be of consequence to a person of such importance as he fancied himself to be.

"One day, Gray Dick heard the click of the gate, and, on looking round, saw a man with a blue linen coat on. He imagined the stranger was come to call upon him; but no—Brindle was wanted, not Dick, though he tried to push himself before the cow, and attract the visitor's notice. If he had known all, he would not have been so anxious to make this man's acquaintance.

"At first, Brindle appeared inclined to get out of the way, but the blue-coated man held a piece of cake, and she was induced to follow him quietly. When Dick saw she was nearing the gate, he determined to go too, for he remembered his lonely days, and dreaded being left by himself again. This was not allowed. A smart blow over poor Brindle's flank made her spring forward, and a stroke from a stick drove Dick back. The gate swung to, and the donkey was sole tenant of the field once more. He was not ashamed to shew his feelings then. He battered the gate with his hoofs, poked his head over the palings, and never heeded when their sharp points hurt him; but it was of no use. He could not open the gates or bring back poor patient Brindle, who received more than one blow because she kept turning to look at Gray Dick, and to low a farewell in answer to his impatient bray, that begged her to return as soon as possible.

"That very evening, as Dick was looking over the palings, hoping to see his companion on her way back, he caught sight of the blue-coated man wheeling a barrow. On this lay something that made Dick's blood run cold; it was either poor Brindle's skin, or that of a cow very like her. Taking all things into consideration, there could be very little doubt of Brindle's fate. And at that very moment Dick was making good resolutions. The absence of his humble-minded friend had rendered him sensible of her merits. All her patience, gentleness, and goodwill had struck him as things most desirable in a companion. He felt sorry that he had often been contemptuous, conceited, and short-tempered, and was determining on a different course of conduct, when he found out that, so far as she was concerned, the opportunity was gone for ever."

Uncle Paul looked round at his little hearers, and added: "Gray Dick was a good deal like many people, both young and old—they do not value the kindness, love, and patience of those who are their everyday companions until they are deprived of them; and often, when it is too late, they begin to make good resolutions. Still, if they 'have' done wrong in one instance, they may be careful not to commit the same fault in another."

"But what became of Gray Dick?" asked quite a chorus of young voices, whose owners wanted something like a positive ending to Uncle Paul's story of the donkey.

"Why, after spending some weeks without so much as a sheep to bear him company, he was sent back to Beacham, to the fashionable society about which he used to talk in boastful language. Being still strong and good-looking, he retains the favour of the public, but would most gladly exchange it for the quiet pasture, and the society of such another friend as poor Brindle. Dick is not so proud as he used to be, though, and has even owned to Brown Jerry and Grizzle—this is of course in confidence—that he was a very foolish fellow in his young days, and did not know when he was really well-off."

"And now, then, away with you for another scamper through the wood, children!" said Uncle Paul. "Yet do not forget the moral of Gray Dick's story:

   "'Be thankful for all the blessings you possess, but do not boast of them; and use them well, for fear they should be taken from you, if you neglect so doing.'"

The youngsters thanked kind Uncle Paul; and then away they went in various directions to seek flowers, and make the wood ring again with their laughter.

When the children all returned to the place which had served as a dining-room, they were enchanted to find that tea was to be prepared also out of doors, and that a kettle was to be slung and water boiled in true gipsy fashion. It was new work for them to gather sticks to keep up the fire, and to assist in getting tea ready. It seemed quite a pity when it was all over, and the dew upon the grass gave warning that they must return home. Then mamma was mounted upon the hay-cushioned hamper, now lightened of its contents; and in good-humour, but very tired, they rode back to Hay-Lodge in the great wagon.

Uncle Paul would not tell any stories on the way home, for, he said, if he were to begin, they would all go to sleep, and then it would be a tale wasted. The children promised to keep awake, and laughed and coaxed, but it was to no purpose; and when they reached Hay-Lodge, it was found that more than one little sleeper had to be roused. As to Kate Ingram, she was fast asleep on Uncle Paul's knee, with her arms round his neck, and her curly head resting on his shoulder. But everybody, old and young, declared that no day had ever been spent more pleasantly than that at Hareby Wood; and no carriage was ever better fitted for conveying people to a picnic than Uncle Paul's great wagon.

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CHAPTER IV.

THE LAST LOAD OF HAY, AND "THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."

WHILE these pleasant rambles and excursions were going on, of course there was no time for sewing. Marian's working-materials were all put out of sight, and so were those little garments which she intended to make for the poor widow's children. For two or three days after the visit to Hareby Wood, there were no long rambles, and the young people amused themselves at home; so that had Marian been inclined to bestow even a portion of her leisure upon the work she undertook—voluntarily, in the first instance—she might have made great progress.

It is the fault of many children that when they commence a thing, they work very hard indeed for a short time, and then, for want of a little perseverance, it is left unfinished. This habit of beginning many things and completing none, was a great failing of Marian's. When they were at home, Mrs. Ingram took pains to correct this bad habit in her daughter; and though she kindly allowed her ample time and opportunity to consider whether she should really like to undertake any fresh piece of work, yet, when once begun, she did not allow her to throw it aside until it was finished. And Marian had been daily expecting a reminder from her mother respecting those little garments, which pressed with a very heavy weight, considering how small they were, upon the girl's mind. But not a word was said, either by her or Uncle Paul, although Marian had found out that he was very keen-sighted with regard to the faults of children, though so gentle in his rebukes, and anxious to make the young happy.

Now, Marian felt that she was doing wrong in neglecting to complete her undertaking; she knew that she was allowing a bad habit to gain more ground upon her, yet size lacked resolution to conquer the disinclination to resume her labours. Often when she went into the fields, she quite dreaded a meeting with the poor woman or her children, lest their looks should appear to ask why she was so tardy in fulfilling her promise. But nothing of the kind happened. Mamma and Uncle Paul never uttered a word on the subject; and Marian, while wishing that she had never talked about what she meant to do, began to think at last that her pledge to the poor widow was forgotten by everybody. She missed the pile of little garments, too, from the top of the work-basket, but she did not ask for them "then."

She thought to herself: "The first rainy-day that comes, I will begin to sew again, and it will be time enough to inquire when I want them. If I say anything now, perhaps I shall have to stay in-doors, and this is such a lovely afternoon, I 'must' enjoy it. Beside, it is good for my health to be out in this fresh pure country air."

Whenever people "want" very much to follow Inclination instead of Duty, they generally find out some way of shewing that it will benefit them either in mind or body, and poor Marian was no exception from this rule. Thus the time wore on very pleasantly in a general sense, but still Marian could not help a feeling of self-reproach that came in the quiet hours, and reminded her of her unfulfilled promise to the poor widow, and of her unfinished work.

One lovely afternoon, just after dinner, Uncle Paul said; "Children, the last loads of hay will be brought home to-night, and there will be a little rejoicing amongst the work-people. Nothing like a harvest-home, you know; but still it is the fashion, in this part of the country, to deck the last wagon with green-boughs, and then the youngsters ride into the steelyard amongst them, and shout and hurrah. Now, as I have you young visitors, I should like you to go into the field, and when the last load is safely in the stack-yard, I daresay you will have no objection to distribute a few hot buns and some milk to the haymakers' children. They will come in their holiday-frocks and pinafores to-day."

Kate and Bernard vowed they should like much to attend to the wants of Uncle Paul's poorer guests, and thanked him for giving them the opportunity; but Marian's face was red and hot, and she remained silent.

She was thinking: "Ah, if I had only given a little time, and deprived myself of an hour or two's amusement each day, the poor widow's children might have had neat new clothes! As it is, they are all unmade, and for the present useless."

Most likely Uncle Paul noticed the expression of his niece's face, but he made no remark about it. He only added: "Make haste, then; get on your bonnets, and we will go to the field directly that we may have one more rest under the sweet-scented haycocks, before the last is put upon the wagon, and brought home into the stack-yard."

Marian was very silent on the way to the field, but all the rest were as full of spirits as possible. They chose a pleasant spot to sit in; and the hay was piled so nicely in the form of seats that mamma declared it made the most delightful of cushions. Bernard and Kate then ran off towards the work-people, but Marian sat still with her mother and Uncle Paul, though she was longing to take a fork and help like them to gather up the hay that remained.

An hour afterwards, Bernard came bounding towards them. "You have lost your chance of any more haymaking for this year, Marian," he said; "the wagon is just off with this load, and the remainder, which will not fill it again, will be the last. I suppose you will come, by and by, to help to stick the green-boughs on the children's bonnets and hats, for they all intend to be decorated, I can tell you."

"Bring Kate here, then," replied Uncle Paul; and while the wagon is away, "I will tell you just a short story."

The announcement of a tale from Uncle Paul was always sufficient to bring Kate to his side as soon as she could get there. She needed no second summons to take her place on the scented heap of hay, and then Uncle Paul told them all about—

"THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."

"'I think I shall live to see another day's sunshine!' said a large blue convolvulus, as she watched the sun sinking in the west. 'It cannot be true that a flower so beautiful and perfect as I am, can be intended to last only a single day! To be sure, all the other flowers, my companions that are still open, tell me that they have lived no longer than myself. That is likely enough, though; and as we all opened together this morning, most probably we shall close at the same time, to re-open when the sun comes round again to the place in which I first saw him. If I thought I were going to fade and die, I would say a few warning words to these young buds that I see around me. But it cannot be. I shall have an opportunity of talking with them to-morrow: another day's experience will give more weight to my warnings.'

"Just then the evening breeze blew rather chilly across the flower, and she felt herself beginning to shrink inwards with an involuntary motion. The movement was a warning, to tell her that life was nearly ended for her.

"'I am going to sleep!' said she. She did not believe it could be Death so close at hand, and she so young and beautiful. Alas that it should be so! The young and the beautiful die as well as the old and withered. The convolvulus saw all around her the shrivelled forms of numbers of other kindred flowers, and yet she thought within herself that death would not touch 'her.' The sun was all the while sinking slowly, and the breeze blew colder and colder round the frail flower, making the corolla shrink again.

"'Ah!' said she. 'This going to sleep is not a pleasant sensation. Perhaps I feel it the more, because it is my first time of closing up. I shall be stronger and better able to bear it to-morrow.'

"She talked of to-morrow, though she felt that the light of day was going away from her, and that she was beginning to look like those other withered-up forms around her, which were a few hours before as beautiful as herself. So that it was only at the last moment of her life that she began to imagine it possible that death, and not sleep, had seized upon her fair form, and faded her lovely hues.

"Then in a voice like a faint sigh—which the wind was obliging enough to carry to the two buds respecting which she was solicitous—she said: 'When the sun shines upon you next, you will know what life is. You will enter into its full enjoyment, but your existence depends upon his presence. When he disappears, you will die as I am dying now, and your beauty will be gone, never to return. I ought to have known what to expect, from what has happened to others of my race, but I have lived my short life as if it were never to end. If the time were to come again, I would—'

"Here the good-natured zephyr, which had hovered round the dying flower in order to fulfil her last wishes, and deliver the message with which she charged him, began to sigh and moan as he wandered in and out of the leaves. The convolvulus was dead! Faithful to his trust, the wind told the buds all that their departed relative had said. It was quite dark while they listened to his sad story; and after they had thanked him, they asked him to describe the appearance of this life-giving sun, whose presence would bring the power to see him to themselves.

"'What is the sun like?' asked one of the buds.

"The wind thought it was a queer question, for as the bud had never yet been opened, it could not know what anything was like.

"'He is like nothing else,' replied the wind softly. 'You will see him shine out bright and glorious, high up in the sky. His rays will warm you; and you will gradually increase in strength and beauty, so long as he shines upon you. Yet do not forget that your existence depends upon his presence, and that when you lose sight of him, you will die.'

"'What a sad fate!' said both the little buds together. 'Oh, if we might live a little longer than one short day!'

"The night-dew which lay upon their leaves dissolved into round drops, and fell as if the plant were in tears at the prospect of death; and the little buds murmured again, as they swayed themselves to and fro, to think that they were not longer lived.

"'Take comfort,' said the zephyr kindly; 'you are more fortunate than you think; you know exactly how long you have to live, and can prepare accordingly. I can assure you that few are so favoured, though all know they must die some time.'

"'What! Will all the roses, lilies, pansies, and other flowers whose scent you have brought us, die too?' asked the buds.

"'Every one!' replied the zephyr. 'Moreover, they are very liable to die violent deaths. Only this very day, I saw numbers of them severed from their parent-stems by the gardener's hand, and I know they must die the sooner for it. He passed all the flowers of your kind without taking one, because, he said, they would close so soon, it was not worth while to take them. Thus, you see, the very thing you regret has its advantages. Every station has some peculiar to itself, if we only take pains to find them.'

"'But this death must be so terrible!'

"'Not always,' replied the zephyr. 'I have passed in at windows into the habitations of men, and though I must confess that I have seen many who were afraid to meet it, I have known others who rejoiced at its approach. Take comfort, little flowers! In 'your' short life, you may gladden some eye and heart by your beauty; and if you are the means of doing that, or of leading any to think of the Great Hand that made you, you will not have lived in vain. At the worst, remember you share the common lot. The beasts and birds, worms and insects, 'all die.' The stately oak may live a thousand years, but must yield at last; and there are even some amongst the children of men who die as young as the frailest flower of the field.'

"The little buds were greatly cheered and comforted by the words of the zephyr, and they thanked him very heartily.

"'I am glad if I have been of service,' the zephyr replied; 'and now I must away.'

"The buds begged him to stay longer, at least till they could shew their gratitude by opening their azure cups for him to drink the morning dew from them. It could not be. The zephyr was obliged to go.

"'I am a great traveller, and roam the earth over,' answered he. 'It is not often that I stay anywhere so long as I have done with you; but I am in a soft mood to-night. I must be many a mile away before morning.'

"He sighed as he left them; but duty called, and, whatever his inclinations might be, he would not allow them to interfere with what was right. He bade the little buds 'good-night,' said that a brother of his from the East was about to pay them a visit, but he hoped they would not see much of him, as he was scarcely to be deemed a desirable acquaintance.

"Their gentle friend had scarcely made his exit, when the two little buds became sensible of the arrival of another member of the same family—a boisterous individual, who saluted them so rudely that he knocked them one against the other without the least ceremony. They very heartily wished him a thousand miles away; and no wonder, considering their peculiar circumstances. The rain began to fall next in very large drops, which half-drowned the poor little buds, and were nearly knocking them off their stems. How anxiously they looked for the appearance of the bright sun! For they began to fear that, if they were long exposed to such rough usage, they should not survive to see the light of day. All at once, a brilliant light shone out upon the poor trembling buds.

"'This is surely the sun!' cried they, for the light was so bright and dazzling that it darted down the centre of their corollas. Before the exclamation had all escaped them, they were again left in total darkness; but a hollow rumbling sound, which shook the very earth in which they stood, next alarmed them more than the glare had done. Then one little bud began to doubt whether that could have been the sun.

"'There was light enough, to be sure,' it said, 'but warmth there was none. It dazzled for a moment, and then disappeared so very suddenly that I only felt the darkness the more.'

"'Beside,' replied the other, 'when the sun comes, it will remain as long as our life lasts, and we have not yet grown into perfect life.'

"At this moment, both the buds were startled by another bright flash, and then another. The pouring rain fell heavily on their tender forms, and the rumbling noise increased in loudness. The buds shook and trembled with terror. They knew not what to think, for they had not been forewarned, and they could not help imagining that if the sun's presence were to be ushered in thus awfully, they should dread instead of hoping for his coming.

"A rose that was near at hand, and had overheard the conversation, now bowed her queenly head—for she pitied the frail buds—to explain matters to them.

"'These flashes of light,' she said, 'are not caused by the sun's rays. His presence brings warmth and comfort; but Lightning, as these flashes are called, often brings destruction. I have seen it dart through a great tree, and cleave it quite in two, leaving the halves black, scorched, and withered. But do not be frightened. I cannot say that I ever knew it attack such humble individuals as yourselves: that great tree is in far more danger,' and she bent towards an oak in the neighbourhood.

"The little buds thanked her humbly for the information, and began to feel the truth of what the zephyr had previously told them—namely, that every station has its advantages as well as trials. They heard the rumble of the thunder, and saw the lightning without fear, and, after a time, both ceased entirely. The boisterous wind took its departure, and was, followed by a gentler brother from the South, whose company was a very pleasant change for them.

"By and by, a soft but continuous light reached them, and they felt constrained to open their corollas to greet it. Then they saw the sun, and felt its warm-rays shining upon them. The south wind waved them lightly to and fro, and thus shook off the heavy drops which still clung to them; and as the sun rose higher, he dried up the rest with his kindly beams. The buds were now fully expanded into flowers, as perfect as those which had decked the plant the day before. The rain had done them no harm, but rather good, and they turned themselves towards the source of light, conscious of what they owed to him, and resolved to rejoice in the good they possessed 'while it was theirs,' yet prepare themselves to resign life without a murmur when called upon. The flowers were in the full pride of their beauty still, though it was far past noon, and the sun was beginning to decline, when two young girls entered the garden, and advanced towards them.

"'See,' said one of the girls, 'what a lovely colour! This blue is like a reflection from the sky.' As she spoke, she bent over the twin-flowers in turn, and seemed to be drinking in joy at the sight of their beauty.

"'They are lovely,' replied her companion; 'and, as you say, they are as a reflection from the sky, for the same God that made them, spread that glorious firmament over our heads.'

"'How perfect they are!' said the first speaker, still stooping over the blossoms. 'Is it not wonderful that these flowers, which are but to last a single day, and then to die, are endowed with such marvellous beauty?'

"'It is indeed,' was the answer. 'And surely He who made them had a purpose in thus forming them. Surely, "we" may learn a lesson from them also.'

"'What! To admire the wisdom of their Creator and ours?'

"'Everything we see teaches that. But does it not seem, sister, that these flowers especially remind us that, even as our Creator has finished with equal pains the stately oak, and the blossom which lives and dies within a day, so should we perform those duties which are comparatively trifling in our eyes with as much zeal as we give to the greater ones.'