"and you ought to have seen what a muddle I did make of it."

"And he makes the rocks, and the trees, and the mountains—yes, worlds too—with the same hands that make these darling little flowers! I like your flower lesson, mamma."

"I will tell you a story about some one who found in a flower a more precious lesson even than you have.

"In the time of the first Napoleon, a Frenchman, whose name was Charny, was thrown into prison for some offence against the government, and kept in a gloomy cell for years. Books and writing material of all kinds were denied him — everything which might help to pass away the long, gloomy days and months and years. And the poor man had no comfort in his own thoughts, for he had no belief in the great loving Father who watches over his children through all sorrow, nor of the Saviour who has promised to brighten our darkest hours with his blessed presence. He wrote on the wall of his cell,' All things come by chance.' There was to him no pitying eye to see his loneliness, no kind hand to guide his way.

"He was allowed to walk in a little stone-paved yard outside his cell, and one day he saw a little green shoot peeping up between the stones. It grew and put forth leaves, and the poor prisoner watched it as one only could who had nothing else of interest in his weary life. Soon it became a thrifty plant, and was the delight of his life. He saw tiny little flower-buds at length forming, and watched hour by hour as the first bit of colour appeared. And when the flowers opened bright and beautiful, he felt as if nothing else could be half so lovely,and nothing so sweetastheirperfume.

"He loved his flower almost as if it had been a child, showering tender pet names and endearing speeches upon it. He guarded it with the most anxious care,

making a frame-work around it, so that the wind might not deal too roughly with it, and one day, during a heavy storm, he crouched over it all the time to protect it from the pelting hail-stones.

"You may imagine that Charny had time for a great deal of thinking. When the pure face of the flower seemed to look up into his eyes as he bent over it, he could not believe it came by chance. It is not at all likely he had a magnifying-glass to examine it with; but as its' beauty and sweetness grew upon him, how could he help wondering whose hand was skilful enough to form such a thing? And into his poor, darkened heart there struggled the conviction that the hand must be divine —moved by divine love. And soon came the hope and then the faith to believe that that hand had placed the lovely flower within the prison-walls to be the poor prisoner's teacher and comforter.

"While it was still in its fairest bloom, he one day noticed that it seemed to droop. Charny hung over it in the deepest concern, perceiving that the stones between which it grew were pressing the life out of its delicate roots.

"He begged permission to move the stones, but it was cruelly refused, and he was obliged to make up his mind that his treasure must die.

"There was among the prisoners an Italian. This man had a daughter who visited him, and who was much touched by Charny's love for his plant. She managed to get sight of the Empress Josephine, to whom she told the story. Josephine was much interested, and gained permission for Charny to remove the stones. Then the flower revived, and bloomed as brightly as ever.

"As I have told you how the pretty thing became the means of bringing the prisoner to the light and liberty which

ALL the flowers are still fast asleep. The buds on the trees and bushes have their winter coats on yet; some of them have even their little fur tippets. The mountains are covered with snow, and early in the morning little frost - stars sparkle on the dry blades of grass. But in the garden the snowdrop is already peeping out of the brown earth. It stretches up its green leaves, and between them is the dear little flower. The snowdrop is the early riser among the flowers, the very first one that shows its tiny face above the snow. It tells us that spring is coming, and looks so neat and pretty in its green frock and snow-white overakirt — just like a little maid on a holiday.

But how does the snowdrop contrive to be the early riser 1 I will let you into the secret, for I know that you would like to be an early riser too.

In the autumn, when all the flowers went to bed, snowdrop put everything in order for the morning. The white bulb deep under the ground is her little bedroom. The fine, soft coverings of the bulb are her bedclothes, and in them she sleeps snugly. Here is her little room; snowdrop has laid everything in order that she wants to put on when she gets up early in the spring. There the stem has already commenced to

grow. The two green leaves lie cozily in a white case of silken, soft skin. On the end of the short stem is the little flower with its three white outer leaves and three yellow-green inner leaves, and its six golden stamens. All is enveloped in the fine case as in a cloak. The parts of the flower are still very small, particularly the stem, but they are all ready, waiting for spring. In spring they will only need to stretch themselves to shoot up, to unfold themselves, and the flower will be perfect.

In the summer-time snowdrop even prepared her breakfast. In the thick skin of the bulb she gathered all kinds of food to feed the stem, leaves, and flowers in the early spring-time.

During the long winter little snowdrop sleeps as soundly as her companions. But when the snow begins to thaw she wakes up, finds everything in order for early rising, eats a little breakfast quickly, and then comes out of the earth bright and fresh, long before the other flowers have opened their eyes.

From this you may learn, little one, that whoever will be an early riser must lay everything in order the night before, so as to find all ready early in the morning. Then you will be the first downstairs, unless you go to sleep again after you have been called.

DEAR little children, reading
The Scripture's sacred page,
Think, once the blessed Jesus
Was just a child, your age;
And in the home with Mary,
His mother sweet and fair,
He did her bidding gladly,
And lightened all her care.

I'm svri he never loitered,

But at her softest word
He heeded, and he hastened—

No errand was deferred.
And in the little household

The sunbeams used to shine So merrily and blithely

Around the Child divine.

I fear you sometimes trouble

Your patient mother's heart, Forgetful that in home-life

The children's happy part
Is but like little soldiers

Their duty quick to do.
To mind commands when given,

What easy work for you!

Within St. Luke's evangel

This gleams, a precious gem, That Christ when with his parents

Was " subject unto them." Consider, little children;

Be like him day by day, So gentle, meek, and loving,

And ready to obey.

ONE day, early in November, after all the flowers bad left their summer homes, and the earth was carpeted with fallen leaves, a brave yellow dandelion thrust her bright head out into the world and looked curiously around.

A power greater than her own will had seen fit to send this little dandelion, late and alone, into a quiet country door-yard, out of which the flowers had long since fled to their winter quarters, and where, apparently, there was nothing in the least interesting or amusing at that late season of the year. It did seem a little hard and unpleasant at first that all the brightness and gaiety in the world should have been left out of her life; that she should be forced to blossom beneath an autumn sky, without ever feeling the thrill and glow of the glad spring-time, or knowing what it was to brighten and expand under the smile of the warm summer sun. So she shed a few tears, which she really could not help; for, you see, she was very young, and like all young things she wanted to have a good time. But, after all, she was sensible and stouthearted; and as crying about her life could not possibly change it, and only made her feel very chilly and disagreeable, she decided to dry her eyes and look her troubles straight in the face, which is always a wise thing to do, since we never can master an enemy if we refuse to look at him. So this brave little dandelion shook out her pretty yellow gown, and spread forth her green leaves, and did her best to look cheerful and happy, though the clouds swept overhead and the earth looked brown and dreary. "Of course," she said to herself, "it is not entirely pleasant to be a little late, lonely dandelion; but, after all, things

might be worse than they are. I must have been put here for some good reason, and I will just try my best to find out what it is."

This was a good resolution, but she did not always find it easy to keep it. She really could not see that she was doing any particular good by blossoming in November instead of in June; and sometimes, when she thought of the joy and gladness that she was missing out of her life, of all the glory and beauty that she seemed to have escaped by so slender a chance, she felt quite cast down, and said to herself that it did not make any difference what became of her. Especially did she feel her loneliness when night came down over the earth; for then the air was cold and penetrating, and she would wrap herself in her little green mantle and creep shivering to bed, only to dream of warm summer nights where the air was full of music, and where troops of gaily-dressed flowers danced together in the soft, shadowy moonlight. Then in the morning she had to try harder than ever to look only on the bright side— and there always is a bright side.

One day she observed quite an unusual stir and commotion among the colony of robins which stayed late in the cherry-tree and the hedgerows. Much interested, she watched them flying busily in and out, chirping and chattering in a most excited manner.

"What can they be about?" she said to herself.

"Please, Mr. Robin," she said timidly at last, addressing a fat old fellow who was hopping leisurely past her in search of his dinner, " will you tell me what is the reason that you are all so excited this morning 1"