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ONE lovely summer's day the sky was blue and the sunbeams bright; the birds were singing gayly and the bees humming loudly; the butterflies were visiting the flowers, and the flowers were saying how glad they were to see them, and everything was just as it should be on a lovely summer's day, when suddenly the breeze, which had been whispering soft and low at early morn, grew angry,no one ever knew why, - and, swelling into a boisterous wind, hurried the birds back to their nests, drove the frightened insects into places of shelter, puffed rudely in the faces of the lilies until they hung their sweet heads and were ready to cry, and then flew up, up, up to the sky, where it met some dark clouds, which it sent skurrying across the sun, and at last down came a heavy shower.

Well, when the breeze first changed its low murmur to a growl, the insects who were in the flowergarden fled to the grape-arbor and sheltered themselves beneath the spreading branches and broad leaves of the friendly grape-vines.

Here, for a moment or two, they all remained motionless and quiet-with the exception of a tiny Midge that could n't have kept still to have saved its life, and who whirled, and whirled, and whirled about in the air; and then an old Wasp, who had alighted on a dead, dry branch, began sawing off some of the fibers of the wood with her sharp teeth. The Midge stopped whirling.

"Why do you eat wood, Wasp?" she asked. "I'm not eating it," answered the Wasp, who, however, by this time was certainly chewing it.

"What are you doing, then, if I may be so bold?" said the curious Midget.

"Making paper,” was the reply.

"I don't know when I have enjoyed myself as much as I have this last half-hour," he went on. "It has done my heart good to watch such cheerful in

"Making paper?" repeated the Midge. "How dustry. Not a moment has been lost since we were strange!

"Not at all," said the Wasp. "Our family were the first paper-makers in the world."

"What for?" said the Midge.

"We build our nests of it," answered the Wasp. "Oh! you build your nests of it? Dear, dear, is n't that queer?" and the Midge began to whirl around again.

Just then a large and handsome Bee, tired of being idle so long, spread its wings and hovered over some scarlet honeysuckles that had climbed up among the grape-vines.

"What are you going to do, Bee?" asked the Midge, pausing once more in her airy dance. Gather honey," replied the Bee.

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driven in here by the wind and rain. Idlers would have slept or gossiped till the storm had passed, but we, my friends, it appears, improve each cloudy as well as each shiny hour. The Wasp prepared for the building of the nest from which the dear young Wasplings are to take their first peep at life. Bee gathered honey, and now only waits the sunshine to carry it to the hive. The tiny Midge scarce paused in the practicing of her steps, and when she did pause, it was to seek for useful knowledge. Now, all this is very, very pleasant, to be sure, and with what satisfaction we can all fly to the flower-garden again when the shower is over. Ah! there is a sunbeam. Let us go, happy in the thought that we have not wasted one precious minute while obliged to tarry here."

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"We,'" repeated the Honey-Bee, with a scornful hum.

"Who is he?" whispered the Wasp.

"He never did an hour's work in his life," said the Bee, indignantly. "He has always been taken care of by the other bees. He's eaten our honey and never helped us make it. He was driven from our house this very morning because we found it impossible to stand him any longer."

"But who is he?" again asked the Wasp. "The biggest drone in the hive," answered the Bee, as she flew away.

FROM ZÜRICH TOWN.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

IN the dark, dull day, through Zürich Town
Glided the train from the station out,
The while from the window, up and down,
An eager traveler peered about.
Red-tiled roofs with their gables quaint,
Misty mountains, all dim and gray,
Glimpse of the lake's rare color faint,
Came and went as we steamed away.
Under the eaves at a casement queer,
Swung like a door, was a pleasant sight,
For a little Swiss maid, fair and dear,
Was scrubbing the small panes smooth and bright.
And with what purpose and cheer scrubbed she,
Turning the window this way and that,
Pushing it backward and forward, to see,

As perched on the low, broad sill she sat.

Little she knew, as, with such a will,
Toiling she put forth her cheerful might,
How a stranger admired her homely skill,
And her pretty self, as she passed from sight.
Now, when I remember quaint Zürich town,
There comes, like a picture before my eyes,
With her yellow hair and her homespun gown,
That little maid and her labor wise.

And, somehow, I think she will keep as clear
The window whence her soul must see
Life's various weather for many a year,
And watch with patience what there may be.
And if only the glass of the mind is clear,
She will see it is Light that casts the shade,
And pain less bitter, and joy more keen
By her cheerful spirit be surely made.

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