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King's ambassador, who rode by her side; "if that thou wouldst take me into the presence of thy lord, the King of the Franks, let me descend from this carriage, mount me on horseback, and let us speed hence as fast as we may, for never in this carriage shall I reach the presence of my lord, the King." And none too soon was her advice acted upon; for the counselors of King Gundebald, noticing Clotilda's anxiety to

If Clotilda become powerful, be sure she will avenge the wrong thou hast wrought her."

And forthwith the King sent off an armed band, with orders to bring back both the Princess and the treasure he had sent with her as her marriage portion. But already the Princess and her escort were safely across the Seine, where, in the Campania, or plain-country,- later known as the Province of Champagne,- she met the King of the Franks.

I am sorry to be obliged to confess that the first recorded desire of this beautiful, brave, and de-vout young maiden, when she found herself safely among the fierce followers of King Clovis, was a request for vengeance. But we must remember, girls and boys, that this is a story of half-savage days when, as I have already said, the desire

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PRINCESS CLOTILDA'S JOURNEY TO THE FRONTIER OF BURGUNDY.

be gone, concluded that, after all, they had made for revenge on one's enemies was common to a mistake in betrothing her to King Clovis.

"Thou shouldst have remembered, my lord," they said, "that thou didst slay Clotilda's father, her mother, and the young Princes, her brothers.

all.

From the midst of his skin-clad and green-robed guards and nobles, young Clovis - in a dress of "crimson and gold, and milk-white silk," and with

his yellow hair coiled in a great top-knot on his uncovered head — advanced to meet his bride.

"My lord King," said Clotilda, "the bands of the King of Burgundy follow hard upon us to bear me off. Command, I pray thee, that these, my escort, scatter themselves right and left for two-score miles, and plunder and burn the lands of the King of Burgundy."

Probably in no other way could this wise young girl of seventeen have so thoroughly pleased the fierce and warlike young king. He gladly ordered her wishes to be carried out, and the plunderers forthwith departed to carry out the royal command. So her troubles were ended, and this Prince and Princess, Hlodo-wig, or Clovis (meaning the "warrior youth"), and Hlodo-hilde, or Clotilda (meaning the "brilliant and noble maid"),—in spite of the wicked uncle Gundebald, were married at Soissons, in the year 493, and, as the fairy stories say, "lived happily together ever after."

The record of their later years has no place in this sketch of the girlhood of Clotilda; but it is one of the most interesting and dramatic of the oldtime historic stories. The dream of that sad little princess in the old convent at Geneva, "to make her boy-hero a Christian, and to be revenged on the murderer of her parents," was in time fulfilled. For on Christmas Day, in the year 493, the young King and three thousand of his followers were baptized amid gorgeous ceremonial in the great church of St. Martin at Rheims.

The story of the young Queen's revenge is not to be told in these pages. But, though terrible, it is

only one among the many tales of vengeance that show us what fierce and cruel folk our ancestors were, in the days when passion instead of love ruled the hearts of men and women, and of boys and girls as well; and how favored are we of this nineteenth century, in all the peace and prosperity and home happiness that surround us.

But from this conversion, as also from this revenge, came the great power of Clovis and Clotilda; for, ere his death, in the year 511, he brought all the land under his sway from the Rhine to the Rhone, the ocean and the Pyrenees; he was hailed by his people with the old Roman titles of Consul and Augustus, and reigned victorious as the first King of France. Clotilda, after years of wise counsel and charitable works, upon which her determination for revenge seems to be the only stain, died long after her husband, in the year 545, and to-day, in the city of Paris, which was even then the capital of new France, the church of St. Clotilda stands as her memorial, while her marble statue may be seen by the traveler in the great palace of the Luxembourg.

A typical girl of those harsh old days of long ago,-loving and generous toward her friends, unforgiving and revengeful to her enemies,— reared in the midst of cruelty and of charity, she did her duty according to the light given her, made France a Christian nation, and so helped on the progress of civilization. Certainly a place among the world's Historic Girls may rightly be accorded to this fairhaired young Princess of the summer-land of France, the beautiful Clotilda of Burgundy.

JOHNNY "INTERVIEWS" AN ANEMONE.

BY ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.

"OH, dear!" sighed Johnny, as he threw himself down on the ground one Saturday morning, all out of breath after his long run to the woods, where he had gone to get rid of the very sight and sound of teachers and books. "How I wish I could camp out here for the summer, like that anemone over there; that is, as long as there is any blue sky." "Is the sky blue?" asked a little voice near him, very plaintively.

It was the Anemone.

"Why, don't you see how blue it is?" answered Johnny.

"How can I see, when I have n't any eyes?"

"That's so you have n't any eyes; I never thought of that. Still, it seems to me you have rather a nice thing of it out here, anyhow; plenty of cool air and shade, with just enough sunshine." "Yes," said the the little flower, wistfully; "it's very nice, all except the bears."

"Bears!" exclaimed Johnny. "Why, you're not afraid of a bear, are you? Bears don't care anything about anemones; no bear would run after you!"

"No; he would n't run after me, but he might run over me, you see; and that 's why I'm afraid of them."

“But there are n't any bears here,” said Johnny. "How do you know that?" asked the Anemone. "Why, I've read about bears in books, and my teachers have told me something about them, too. There are grizzly bears out in the Rocky mountains, and polar bears up in the Arctic regions; but there are n't any bears at all in these woods."

"Dear me !" said the Anemone. "How splendid it must be to be able to know things! If you only knew what a load you have taken off my mind! So your teacher told you that; do you suppose I could hire a teacher to come out here and teach me?"

"I don't know," answered Johnny, doubtfully. "I guess not; teachers have to be paid, you know, and you don't earn any money, I suppose?"

"No," said the little flower, ruefully. "I can't earn money; can you?"

"Yes, indeed! perfect heaps of it, shoveling snow and weeding the garden, and such things. But then I don't have to pay the teacher with that; Papa pays the teacher. I spend my money for candy and things. When I'm a man, I expect to earn money enough to have everything I want." "Dear me! what would I not give for such a chance as yours," said the Anemone. "I should like so much to learn things; you don't happen to know any teacher who would come and teach me for nothing, do you?”

"No," said Johnny, decidedly, “I don't. But I'll tell you what I could do: I could bring some of the boys out here to tell you things." "And do they know a great deal?" "Well, we don't know as much as the teachers, of course; but we know more," Johnny hesitated a moment, trying to put the matter as delicately as possible,-"we know more than some people."

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"And do you learn something every day? "Yes," said Johnny, after a moment's reflection; we learn something every day.” "Then by and by you 'll know a lot?" "Yes, indeed," asserted Johnny, more confidently this time. "When I'm a man, I shall probably know all there is to be known."

"Dear me! What a chance! But when will you bring the boys?"

"Next Saturday, perhaps."

"Next Saturday!" exclaimed the little flower in dismay. "Why I sha'n't be alive next Saturday! I only live twenty-four hours, you know. How many hours do you live?"

“Hours!" exclaimed Johnny. "Why, I hope to live seventy-five years, and may be I shall live longer than that."

"Seventy-five years to live to learn things in! - and a teacher too! Oh, what a chance!"

"Well, it's evident you ought to begin your education at once," said Johnny, with decision. "As you have n't much time to spare, don't you think,' again Johnny hesitated a moment; then he asked, a little doubtfully:

"Would you mind being picked?"

"Would I mind being picked!" shrieked the Anemone. "How would you like to have your head snapped off?”

"Not very well; but you seemed so anxious to learn

"That's very true," said the Anemone thoughtfully. "It's worth a good deal of a sacrifice. It was such a relief to know about the bears! and I suppose, if you could n't learn things any other way, you would be willing to have a leg or an arm cut off, would n't you?"

"Well," said Johnny, evading the question, "I was just thinking that if you did n't mind being picked, I could take you home to Mother; and just by hearing her talk, you would learn heaps of things."

"Mother?" asked the Anemone, lifting her little face eagerly. "What is a mother?"

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Johnny.

"Not

to know what a mother is! I'm sure I don't know how to tell you about her; you have to have a mother to know what she is. She's a dreadful thing not to have. I suppose you're like Topsy, and just 'growed'?"

"Is Topsy your sister?

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No, indeed; Topsy is a story," explained Johnny.

"But how do you know stories?"
"Why, I read them," said Johnny.

"And do your teachers teach you to read?" “Yes,” said Johnny, reluctantly, conscious that he was confessing a great deal of indebtedness to the very teachers and books he had "just hated" so, that very morning.

"I think you may pick me," said the little Anemone softly. "It may hurt me some, but I would rather know something before I die. Please pick me right away, and take me home to your mother!"

"I'll tell you what I could do," suggested Johnny. "I could take you up, roots and all, without picking you off the stem, and carry you home in my basket. And if any one can make you live a little longer than twenty-four hours, Mother can." "O, you dear, lovely boy!" said the grateful little Anemone, as Johnny lifted it carefully into his basket, roots and all. "Now you can talk to me all the way, and tell me things; for, as you say, I have n't any time to spare."

"Well," said Johnny as he trudged along, "I'm sure I did n't think I should ever be a

teacher. Do you know, "-he paused again, in his endeavor to speak very politely,- "do you know anything?"

"Not much," said the little flower humbly. "I only know what you 've told me this morning." "Well, that 's something to begin with," said Johnny, encouragingly. "I don't always know what my teacher has told me in the morning. Dear me! that reminds me; he did tell me this morning that if I were going to the woods to-day, he wished I would bring him an anemone for his collection. Now, if you like, you can be pressed and put into a book, and have your name written under you, and be shown to lots and lots of chil

dren; and then, don't you see, you 'll be a teacher, too; and, between you and me, it's a great deal better fun to teach than to learn!"

"I like

"Is it?" said the Anemone, eagerly. learning so much, that it does n't seem as if I could like teaching any better. But I think I shall let you press me and put me in the book!"

And when Johnny brought his teacher the Anemone, and told him about it, the teachersmiled, and wrote on the black-board as the day's motto for all the children to learn by heart: "Remember, nothing is so insignificant but it may teach something, and no one so wise but he may learn something!

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CHAPTER XXII.

HIS ONE FAULT.

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

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To be summoned before the court to answer the charge of soundly beating a boy caught pillaging his vines, was something he had generally thought he could stand, if the boy could. But breaking skulls, in punishment for the offense of stealing a few grapes, was quite another thing. And he was not certain that this boy had touched a cluster.

“Who are ye? Why don't ye speak?” he said, trying to get the boy into a sitting posture. "None of your make-believe with me!"

But the boy would not sit; and it was soon too painfully apparent that there was no "make believe" in the business. Something warm and wet dropped from the still face upon his hand; and he was filled with consternation.

He lifted the limp and nerveless body, and was not relieved when he found what a mere lad he had set upon with his cruel bludgeon. If he had knocked down a man, like himself, it would n't have seemed quite so bad.

It was a sorry job for Eli, who foresaw that it might cost him much money and more trouble. But he was not so brutal a person as many believed. He had not intended to hurt the boy so badly, and he now carefully lifted the unconscious Christopher and carried him to the house.

Mrs. Eli Badger was washing the supper dishes at the kitchen sink, and Miss Lydia Badger (aged seventeen) was wiping them, by the light of a kerosene lamp, when the door was burst open, and in came the husband and father bearing his burden! The shock of the spectacle, as the lamplight shone on Kit's insensible form, cost the family a plate, which escaped from Miss Lydia's hand and fell clattering to the floor. Mrs. Badger dropped her dish-rag and ejaculated :

"The land! What's the matter?" "I've hit a boy I caught hookin' grapes," said Eli. "I'm 'fraid he 's hurt. Make room on the lounge there!"

"Merthy thak'th! Who ith it?" said Lydia a plump young lady with very light banged hair, a fair, full face, and a lisp.

"Don't

"I have n't the least idee," said Eli. stan' starin', but bring your camfire-bottle, quick!" This last remark was addressed to Mrs. Badger, as any one acquainted with the family might have known by the tone of voice. Eli had a mild way of speaking to his daughter, and a harsh way of addressing his wife, which revealed much concerning his domestic relations.

"Do you know him? I thought prob'bly you might."

This was uttered in the gentle voice, and Lydia answered accordingly:

"No, I don't believe I ever thaw him before. What made you thtrike him tho hard, Pa? He'th too nithe looking a boy to be thtealing grapeth!"

She was tenderly wiping the stains from Kit's face, when a faint voice, half-muffled by the wet napkin she was using, startled them, almost as if the dead had spoken.

"I was n't stealing grapes!"

It was the voice of Kit, reviving without the aid of the "camfire-bottle," which the frightened Mrs. Badger was just then hurriedly bringing. The wet napkin had quickened his breath and brought him out of his swoon.

Thereupon Eli forgot his terrors, and remembered his wrath.

"Wa'n't stealin' grapes!" he repeated, as soon as he saw by Kit's opening eyes that the worst danger was over. "What was ye at my

trellises fur?"

Kit sat up with some difficulty, and lifted his hand with a vague and unhappy notion that the head on his shoulders belonged to somebody else, and that it was sadly in need of repairs. He dropped his arm quickly, however, with a twinge in the part that had come in contact with the Badger cudgel, and sat staring in a feeble and sickly way at Eli, on one stout knee before him, at Miss Badger with her sympathetic face and flaxen hair, and lastly at Mrs. Badger, thrusting an impertinent bottle at his nose.

Then he made a faint effort to explain.

"I was coming to find you,- if this is Mr. Badger," said Kit, judging by the square build of the man that it was indeed he. "Please don't!"

This querulous appeal was addressed to the holder of the bottle, as the powerful odor of the camphor gave his nostrils a most unpleasant surprise.

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