The rest upon an upper floor;- Thus humble let me live and die, Of simple tastes and mind content! PRINCESS DRINA Once upon a time-as all really good stories should begin-—a little Princess was born into this world. As this is a "really-true" story, I cannot say that she slept on rose-leaves and was fed with honey-dew. She lived verv much like other little girls who have hard lessons to learn, and who must not play all the time. She was not always good, either. At least, I know that she became very tired of her music practice one day, and decided to stop it. Do you know any little girls who would like to do the very same thing? There is no royal road to learning music. If you do not practice you will never be mistress of the piano." "What would you think of me," said the little lady, "if I became mistress of it in the next minute ?" That would be impossible,” replied her teacher. "I will show you that I am mistress now of my own piano," cried the Princess, and she shut and locked the instrument, putting the key into her pocket. "There!" she said, "there is a royal road to learning music. It is never to take a lesson till you feel like it." The naughty spell could not have lasted long, for the Princess learned to be really mistress of her piano, and that can come, as you know, only by a great deal of practice. She had playthings, as you have, and among them was a long board with places into which the feet of her dolls fitted. As she had one hundred and thirty-two dolls, you can imagine what delightful Court receptions and other scenes she could arrange. Some of the dolls she dressed like kings and queens, and other famous people whom she had met. There was a doll's house, and one of her presents on her eighth birthday was a tiny, melon-shaped, silver teapot with a short spout, marked "May 24, 1827." The handle was in the form of a butterfly poised upon a rose. Alas, the poor butterfly's wings have been broken off, but the little teapot is still in existence, and the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren of Princess Drina have been allowed, as a special treat, to pour tea from it. There came a day when "Uncle William,"-as the Princess called the king whom she knew the best-was dead. In the gray of the early morning her mother wakened the Princess. There was very important news to be told, but the wise mother knew it was not from her lips that her fair daughter should hear it. She bade her throw a wrapper hastily on and go into the next room to meet high officers of the nation. And what do you think those grave and dignified nobles did? They knelt before Princess Drina and told her she was Queen. You have read in your histories the story of the reign begun by the fair girl-Queen, Alexandrina Victoria. But while we rejoice in the wise and great things done by the good Queen, I am glad that we know some things about her sweet child life as Princess Drina.-A. M. G. MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD One cannot turn a minute, But mischief-there, you're in it,- No matter how unstable, And turning up your quaint eye, And half-shut teeth with, "Mayn't I?" Just as you'd be all day, John, And there you dance, and clap hands, As if you had an eye out, It bubbles into laughter. Ah, rogue!-and do you know, John, Do what you like, and pet ye, Still more, John, than you tease 'em. -Leigh Hunt. THE ORDER OF THE GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED Ours, as much as any man's, may be the most inconceivable of all blessings, "the peace of God which passeth understanding," and hereafter a blessedness which "eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive." Be we high or low, rich or poor, clever or stupid, for which God cares nothing, it is equally possible for the humblest of us all to do our duty A cup of cold water? Well, will the world ever forget the cup of cold water which Sir Philip Sidney, athirst and dying, gave to the worse-wounded soldier, who eyed it eagerly, on the field of Zutphen? A grain of mustard seed? Well, when Count Zingendorf was a boy at school he founded among his companions a little guild, of which the badge was a gold ring, and he called it "The Order of the Grain of Mustard Seed." And thereafter the seedling grew into the great tree of the Moravian brotherhood, whose boughs were a blessing to the world. The widow's mite? Well, when they laughed at St. Theresa because she wanted to build a great orphanage and had only three ducats to begin with, she answered, "With three ducats Theresa can do nothing, but with God and her three ducats there is nothing which Theresa cannot do." If you bring no gift, how can God use it? The lad must bring his barley loaves before the five thousand can be fed. Have you ever attempted to do as he did? Have you ever, even in the smallest measure or with the least desire, tried to follow John Wesley's golden advice?— Do all the good you can, At all the times you can, Take but one instance--kind words. A kind word of praise, of sympathy, of encouragement. It would not cost you much, yet how often does pride, or envy, or indifference, prevent you from speaking it? The cup of cold water, the barley loaves, the two farthings, how often are we too mean and too selfabsorbed to give even these? And are we not to give them because we cannot endow hospitals, or build cathedrals, or write epics? Ah! If we be in the least sincere, in the least earnest, let us be encouraged. The little gifts of our poverty, the small services of our insignificance, the barley loaves of the Galilean boy on the desert plain, the one talent of poor, dull persons like ourselves, are despised by the world, but they are dear to, but they are accepted of, but they will be infinitely rewarded by Him who, though the conies are a feeble folk, gives them their homes in the rocks; without whom no sparrow falls; who numbers the very hairs of our heads; who builds the vast continents by the toil of the coral insect, and by His grains of sand stays the raging of the sea.-F. W. Farrer. AFTER THE SHOWER It has just been raining. Nature is fresh and radiant; the earth seems to taste with rapture the water which brings it life. One would say that the throats of the birds had also been refreshed by the rain; their song pure, more vivacious, more brilliant, vibrates wonderfully in the air, which has become more sonorous and resounding. The nightingales, the bullfinches, the blackbirds, the thrushes, the golden orioles, the finches, the wrens,-all these sing and rejoice. The motionless trees seem to listen to all these sounds. Innumerable appletrees in full bloom look like balls of snow in the distance; the cherry trees, all white as well, rise like pyramids or spread out like fans of flowers. The birds. seem at times to aim at those orchestral effects when all the instruments are blended in a mass of harmony. Would that we could identify ourselves with spring! that we could go so far as to believe that in ourselves breathe all the life and all the love that ferment in nature; that we could feel ourselves to be at the same time verdure, bird-song, freshness, elasticity, rapture, serenity!Maurice de Guerin. ALL THINGS NEW Old sorrows that sit at the heart's sealed gate, While out in the night-damp weary and late Is waiting to make us glad. Old fears that hang like a changing cloud, Old burdens that keep the spirit bowed, In the world without and the world within, The touch of sorrow, the stain of sin, Shall flee from the gate when the King comes in, Anew in the heavens the sweet stars shine, The old life lost in the life divine, Is the song which the glad hearts sing. -Mary Lowe Dickinson. |