"They sat there talking for a little while; then the fairy bade Ralph good-by. 'But before you go, Ralph, just put my boat back in the water again, will you, please?'

"Ralph easily shoved the little boat into the stream, waving the fairy a fond good-by, and started for home, wondering what he would wish for first when he arrived. He went into the house with a joyful face.

"Mother, you won't have to work any more,' said Ralph, smiling. 'What do you want most, mother?'

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'Something to eat,' said the mother, with a sigh. Ralph at once wished for a well-laid table, shaking the pebbles in his pocket, and at once the table was full of goodies.

""Why, Ralph!' exclaimed his mother, 'how did you do it?'

"Then Ralph told her all about the fairy he had met in the wood and about the pebbles. So, from that time on, they never wanted for anything. Ralph supplied the house with everything and made their home comfortable."

By the time Nurse Gilbert had finished the fairy tale, Laura was ready to go home. Lawrence had not yet appeared; so they started to find him. As they walked along by the brook there was Master Lawrence coming toward them, crying.

"Why, Lawrence! What is the matter? Are you hurt?" exclaimed the nurse, thinking perhaps he had met with an accident.

"No, Nurse," said Lawrence, between the sobs, "I have had a very funny dream about bad boys."

"Well, Lawrence, you must tell us about it as we walk along toward home," said Nurse Gilbert; "and we must hurry, as it is getting late and Papa will soon be home from the city."

As Lawrence walked along he told them that by the time he had reached the brook he was tired, so he sat down under a tree to wait for them and fell asleep, and dreamed that the fairies came and put a whole lot of salt in the brook, and washed his face with it—and that was what made him cry. "But oh, Nurse!" exclaimed Lawrence, as he finished telling about his dream, "do fairies wash your face if you do not keep it clean?"

"Why, of course they do!" said Laura, suddenly; "and it is a wonder they did not tie you to a tree so as to hold you."

"Well," said Lawrence, "I am never going to have my face dirty any more."

By this time they had reached the house, and their father was coming up the walk. Both ran to meet him, each taking a hand. As they walked toward the house Lawrence said:

“Papa, I am never going to have a dirty face any more."

"I hope not, my son-but why?" said the father, looking down at the boy.

"Because, Papa, if I do the fairies will come and wash it for him," broke in Laura, laughing. "Look at it now!"

Away ran Lawrence to the nurse, remembering his face was still dirty, to have it washed. After that Lawrence was quite a good boy, and did not tease his sister's kittens, nor get his hands or face soiled. So the good fairies had one less face to wash. ARTHUR LESLIE SMITH.

LULLABY.

Sleep, my baby, sleep-
Mother watch will keep.

The sun has gone to rest,
The bird is in her nest.

The chicken seeks its mother's wing

She loves the little yellow thing.

The stars begin to shine

Sleep, my babe; 'tis time.

Thy heart is full of love;

Thou art gentle like the dove.

The Christ spirit's in my little one;
Sleep in peace-the day is done.

God ever watch will keep

Sleep, my baby, sleep.

Sleep, my baby, sleep—
God ever watch will keep.

MARY P. SPINNEY.

THE SUNSHINE GATHERERS.

My Dear Children:

Most of you know what is meant by gathering berries; and I believe many of you, who spend your vacations in the country, have already gathered blackberries or huckleberries in the fields or at the wayside during your daily rambles. But, let me ask, did you ever think of gathering sunshine?

"Gather sunshine! Why, how can we do that?" you exclaim. I will tell you a little incident that happened to me last summer, and, if it will make you as glad of heart as it did me at the time, you may be sure that you too have learned the lesson that I did from the little boy who showed me how to gather sunshine.

My garden lies directly opposite my house in a hollow across the road. I had just returned from there, had passed through the gate leading to my home, and, before closing the door behind me, glanced aimlessly down the street when my eyes fell on a little lad coming quickly toward me. He was between seven and eight years old, thin and slender for his age, wore a colored shirtwaist and knickerbockers, and was bare-legged. As he pattered quickly by in his bare feet I saw that he held a small bunch of yellow flowers tightly squeezed together in one hand; in the other he carried two blossoms of the same kind. He looked so bright and eager as he passed me that I could not help speaking to him.

"Nice flowers you've got there," I called to him over the fence. He looked up at me with a glad smile in his gray eyes. "Will you have one?" he asked, instantly, and held the hand nearest the gate over to me.

I was touched to the heart by his unselfishness and the manner in which he showed it.

"Come with me, laddie," I said, in answer to his offer; "I will add to your store instead."

I led him over into my old-fashioned garden, and his surprise was complete.

"Whew!" he cried, in amazement, "I never saw so many flow

ers. My ma and my grandma together ain't got so many. My, they're lovely!"

"Well, now, pick all you want,” I said.

His eyes glistened with pleasure as we two began to gather them: verbenas, larkspur, mignonette, lady-slippers, asters, some late roses, bleeding hearts, geraniums, marigolds, poppies, fuschias, a bit of lemon verbena here, a sprig of sweet herbs there, and, as his bouquet grew-for I put all I picked into his arms-we talked.

"Do you know the names of the flowers?" I inquired.

"Some I do, 'cause grandma raises some in her little garden, too."

"Where were you going with your flowers when I called you?" I asked further.

"To take them to Auntie. She's sick; and to the lady that lives with her. The small bunch was for her."

"Where does your grandma live?"

"Way at the end of the lane."

"And you?"

"In Lincoln street."

"What do you do with yourself all summer?-you know vacation is so long."

"I go to summer school. Whew!" he broke out, over and over again; "I never saw so many flowers, and so many different kinds! But say," he interrupted his own speech,—“I think you must be awful good."

"Good? Why?"

"To let me come in here to help myself like that. I don't think I can carry any more." His arms were so full that the flowers touched his nose and he could barely look over them at me. "It wasn't I that was good. It was you, my little lad, that was the good one, because out of your small stock of flowers you offered me some when I spoke to you. So, because you were so good I was good in turn to you." thoughtful for a few minutes.

"Is that the way?" he said at last.

He looked puzzled and

"Yes, that's the way; be kind and you'll be treated kindly. It's quite a lesson, isn't it?"

He smiled a shy "yes" back at me; then, the boy cropping out, he began to whistle to cover his shamefacedness. Boys don't like to be praised, or at least they do not like to show their feelings.

Trotting off down the street a few minutes later, he looked back with a smile at me, and called out:

"I've got so many I can hardly hold them all."

"Want a string?" I shouted back.

"No. I like to feel my hands so full of them."

Now, dear children, here is sunshine that two persons had gathered in a few minutes,-the little lad and I,-sunshine that lasted me for many, many days; sunshine gathered and hearts made truly glad by a small act of unselfishness!

See how much sunshine you can gather in your daily lives to make glad those about you. Will you try?

ELISE TRAUT.

A SURE CURE FOR SELFISHNESS.

Brush from thy neighbor's cheek the grieving tear;
Assuage his pain; make for him glad sunshine.
Into thine heart then springs a blithesome cheer;
Less gloom and sadness measure hours of thine.
FANNY L. FANCHER.

How is it possible that out of the frozen brown earth even the smallest blossoms should rise like a star, or bring up its little cup of perfume? How marvelous that the colorless and shapeless clods beneath our feet should be transformed into flowers by the magical touch of spring! No tale of enchantment was ever half so strange as that which we read in the unfolding leaves of every returning May. There is only one thing more marvelous than this new creation which we behold around us, and that is ourselves, who are so made that we can enter into it and enjoy it all.-Lucy Larcom.

WHERE there is the most of God there is the least of self.B. W.