THE BUNCH OF VIOLETS "It is pleasant sitting out here, mamma, with birds singing and flowers. smelling so sweetly all around us. And see, I have gathered quite a large bunch of violets for you. I wonder, now, if you wouldn't tell me something about them, for I begin to think everything has its story, if we only knew it." "One of the stories that I know about these sweet little flowers, my daughter, is as simple and true as themselves. It is that of Jean Bertram, a young American farmer, who had always been content to follow the plough, without taking any notice of the beautiful country around him. One day, however, he happened to pick up a little bunch of violets. Their odor pleased him so much that he began to look closer, to admire, and then to compare them with the other flowers which he passed. He at last took so much interest in the difference of plants, that he borrowed a few books on the subject, learned Latin to study them better, and, finally, gave up ploughing, and became a very celebrated botanist, all, as he afterwards said, from the looking at that one little root of violets. It pays to take pleasure in the lowly things God scatters along our pathway." "I knew the violet must have some pretty story. It is an humble flower but a favorite with everybody." "It always has been; the Greeks dedicated it to their goddess Athena, and, as usual, invented a pretty fable about the origin of this modest flower. The Romans also loved it, and placed a wreath of violets on their dead." 66 66 Romans were very fond of wreaths of flowers." 'Yes; one pretty custom was, that when a baby was born, a wreath of the wild olive was hung over the cradle; but over a little girl's they twined wool, to show that when she grew up she must be a good housewife. When she became a young girl, she might wear a myrtle-wreath on grand occasions, which after her marriage she would exchange for a garland of the bright red poppies, to show how bright and happy her days had become. "Speaking of their beauty, we must not forget what useful things flowers and plants are. I don't know, I'm sure, how the world would get on without them. Their real use often begins when they are withered and faded, and when they have done pleasing the eye. Many people use for medicine the roots and leaves they gather in the fields, ground into powder or soaked into tea. And clever chemists get excellent medicines and beautiful colors and scents from these little buds. The contents of Frank's paint-box, for instance, owe half their brightness to the field flowers. His new stockings, of which he seems so proud, owe their color to the indigo plant. And as to you, Maggie, almost all you have on, was once part of the little blue flax, or linum. Even the threads which hold your clothes together are only the twisted fibers of the same little plant. Indeed, I could number so many things that we owe to the field plants, that you would be tired of listening. "I have often watched the habits of flowers, and marveled at the differences between them. Almost all go to sleep, more or less. Some shut their leaves up at night, and open them in the daylight. This morning, when I looked out, there seemed to be not one daisy in the fields, but by breakfast-time thousands of their little pink faces were turned up, staring, open-eyed, at the sun. They always look up early, as day's eyes ought to do." "Oh. then, that's why the bed of tulips all look dead at night, and yet seem brighter than ever next morning. They've only been to sleep, after all.” "That's it; and they are in such a hurry sometimes, that even flies or bees who may be getting their supper inside them are shut up and kept prisoners till morning. Some flowers seem so fast asleep that they hang their heads and nod them about as though they might be dreaming, though a few sleep at day and only wake up at night, like the sweet evening primrose. The common yellow dandelion shuts up if it is too warm, and its friend the buttercup drops its face. if it rains, for fear of the water settling in its cup and spoiling it; while the little scarlet pimpernel (which you will find about our fields in any quantity) is called the shepherd's weather-clock, because it always foretells if rain or a change for wet weather is near. I have often tried it, and never known it to fail to be right. It is always open enough in bright, clear weather, but covers its rosy face when it sees the clouds coming."-C. L. Matteaux. THE OPEN ROAD Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long, brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune; Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing; Done with in-door complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms; Strong and content, I travel the open road.-Walt Whitman. HAPPINESS Christians might avoid much trouble and inconvenience if they would only believe what they profess, that God is able to make them happy without anything else. They imagine that if such a dear friend were to die, or such and such blessings were to be removed, they would be miserable; whereas God can make them a thousand times happier without them. To mention my own case, God has been depriving me of one blessing after another, but as every one was removed, he has come in and filled up its place; and now, when I am a cripple, and not able to move, I am happier than I ever was in my life before, or ever expected to be; and if I had believed this twenty years ago, I might have been spared much anxiety.-Payson. Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he that runs it well runs twice his race.-Cowley. FUN E'EN IN MELANCHOLY When I go musing all alone, Void of sorrow, void of fear, All my joys, to this, are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. —Milton MY HUNT AFTER THE BABY I had been to the corn-lot in the hope of finding a few roasting ears for supper; but there were none ripe enough, so I walked slowly back to the house with my hands under my apron to save them from sunburn; and the moment I stepped into the sitting-room I saw the baby was missing. The baby was one that had been left with us-sister Bell and me—while the dear mamma went to see dear papa, sick in a far-away hospital. It was a plump, peachy little thing, nearly a year old, named Maude, familiarly called Madge, and more familiarly Midget. She was full of mischief as she could hold, crept all about the house, throwing things out of doors or into the fire, as came handiest, thrust her hands behind her and screeched like a hyena if any one approached to interfere with her operations, and slept about fifteen minutes twice a day. This time I had left her asleep. She must have been asleep, for she didn't wink; and when the little deceiver was hoaxing me she always winked desperately. I laid her on a rug in a cool corner, and leaving the door open, walked down to the corn-field and back again in about seven minutes, as nearly as I could judge. The baby was missing! There was the print of her little moist head on the pillow, there were the little blue hints of shoes, just as she had kicked them off in her play. Hurriedly I went through room after room, searching and calling. Not a glimpse of the little white frock, not a lisp from the prattling tongue. Rushing to the head of the stairs, “O Bell!" I shouted, "have you seen baby?" "No, I haven't. Why?" I knew by the way Bell spoke that she was not half awake, but her coolness annoyed me. "Well, she's lost; I went to the lot after roasting-ears, and when-" A fretful exclamation from Bell interrupted me. "O dear me! Have you looked in the parlor? I've not a doubt but she's there, poking over my photograph-album. Do look, please, sis.” Terror overmastered my desire to fling back a snappish answer to this aggravating remark. Down stairs again, I threw open the parlor door, which, |