From behind, a friend his hand arrested.
'Are you mad? Behold!

To confirm your picture's worth attested,
Here be bags of gold

'Which the king bas sent as payment proffered,
Should you choose it so-

More than double what Don Luis offered,
Just three days ago.

'Shadow? Why, I shrivel 'neath your torrid
Blaze of tropic light,

As unwittingly I shield my forehead
Lest it daze my sight.

'Get you forth 'mid Andalusian meadows;
For I hold it plain

Nature's turning on you-casting shadows
Over eye and brain.

'Give her respite, or may come disaster
Which you dare not brave;

For she will not, though she owns you master,
Stoop to be your slave.

'Genius goads the flesh, and, like the prophet,
Urges left and right,

Past the hindering shadow. Do not scoff it,
Lest the angel smite.'

-Margaret J. Preston, in Independent.

MAY BELL.

BY MARY ABBEY.

WHEN the early spring sunshine crept into the east window of the children's room, it found one pair of wide-open eyes to welcome its coming. Little May Bell woke in the grey of the morning-the first in the house. She did not get up, for it was a rule that the children in the east room, the youngest of the family, must not rise before the 'king of day.'

She had watched and waited a very long time, it seemed to her, her child-eyes fixed in wonder and admiration on the beautiful frostwork on the window, and fancying she could see all sorts of pretty things-hills, valleys, trees, and flowers, of wondrous beauty.

When, at last, the sun came peeping in, sparkling and bright, she bounded out of bed and sprang through the open door into her

mother's room; and, standing on tip-toe, with one dimpled hand on her head, exclaimed

'See what a big girl I am now, ma! I am four years old to-day!'

Very old she felt, and very helpful, and very good! She could 'help ma now ;' ma would not say any more, when she wanted to do impossible things, wait till you are older;' and she was 'going to be pa and ma's good girl always, and f'rever.'

After breakfast, as she stood on one side of her father and little Bennie on the other, and read, in her turn, a verse in the Bible, it was plain to be seen she was doing her best. As her father closed the book she whispered

'I missed only three words, for I am four years old to-day.'

It was a household custom to set apart the children's birth-days as holidays, each, in their turn, receiving unusual favours and attentions. And this was May's birth-day. She could not remember any other. It was to be a day of events, a high day indeed. Many new and pleasant things were to happen, all planned the day before; but to crown the whole, she had been invited to spend the afternoon and take tea-all alone, by herself-at Aunt Lottie's-not her 'truly aunt,' as she would say, but called so by all children. And she had 'cepted the invitation,' and was 'going a-visiting, the first time in all my life!'

Sunshine and laughter were no strangers in that happy home, and this day the house seemed full of it. What a merry time they had! How May did fly about! And her funny speeches and comical ways were very amusing, often raising shouts of laughter among the children.

Full of eager delight with the thoughts of her visit, May ate very little dinner; and when told it was time to get ready to go, to the surprise of all, her courage failed, and she declared she did not want to go;' she would 'stay at home.' But when she saw the fine new sled brought to the door, and her brothers came in to tell her she was to ride over on the crust, for well they knew to ride on the crust was May's delight, clapping her hands, she exclaimed

'I b'lieve I will change my mind; I will go.'

And now behold our little woman, riding in state, with the 'squire' and ' deacon,' as her big brothers were nicknamed, for escort!

They had not far to go-only across the field, and all who were at home stood watching the little bunchy figure, nodding its blue

silk hood, with its cherry-coloured bows, until it vanished inside the door.

I shall not describe the visit, nor tell how much was done for her entertainment—what a number of curious and pretty things were spead out before her. But with it all she was shy and uncomfortable, if not unhappy, and wished many times she could go home. And no wonder; for there were none but grown-up people in the house, and she missed the children; and though she often had been there, for a little while, she had never come alone till now. How long the time seemed! and in such contrast with the joyful morning!

It was a relief to May when tea-time came, for quite a treat had been prepared in honour of the day-even a birth-day cake, a frosted plum cake, had been made for their favourite little guest! When she saw the nice food coming to the table she brightened, as little children are apt to do, and began to look at the pictures in a book.

Now, May's father asked a blessing at the table, and, if absent from home, her mother, or elder brother; and very properly she thought it was everywhere the same. So, when seated at the table, she waited, as usual, but to her dismay they began at once to wait upon her, and to urge her to eat, which she could not or would not do. 'Then you

'Are you sick?' they asked. don't like your supper

?'

May shook her head.

'Yes; but I don't feel hungry,' she replied. This was true, for indeed she felt too full to eat.

Vainly they coaxed her to eat; she would not touch even a slice of the nice cake; and at last the kind family, puzzled and grieved, gave up in despair.

When her brothers came for her, Aunt Lottie said, 'Tell your mother, boys, this child must be sick, for she hasn't spoken half-adozen words, nor ate a mouthful of supper.'

·

May sick? homesick, I say, said the 'squire' to the ' deacon,' with a wise nod, as they trotted homeward, span-like, at ' double-quick.' When May was safe at home, throned in her mother's lap, the centre of the smiling group around the cheerful open fire-place, she began to feel more like herself again. The children, very fond of their little sister, and eager to hear what she would say, began to question her, to find out what was the trouble. She could not tell,

her answer was the same:

What the Mole said.

'I couln't help it; I was so dis'pointed.'

163

It seemed very droll, but how could they laugh when the sober little face told so plainly the story of its first disappointment.

When they found it was in vain to try to bring back the smiles, they all sang for May, at her mother's request, 'Home, Sweet Home.'

When bed-time came the loving, watchful mother of a large family was not too tired' to carry to bed her wiser, if sadder, 'big girl' of the morning. What passed between mother and child in the few precious minutes their heads lay together on the same pillow, we cannot tell; but when, soon after, the sister who slept with May came to bed, she was still awake; and, nestling close to her, whispered confidingly, ‘Ma has 'splained it all to me; I was a silly girl, but not naughty at all, nor unkind. I am so glad! But I b'lieve I don't like to go abroad. Then I can't eat 'out a blessing, can you?'

6

'We all like 'home, sweet home,' the best, little sis,' was the kind reply.

WHAT THE MOLE SAID.

BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.

ONE day last summer, while Eddie and Bessie were visiting their aunty in the country, they were running about a field near the house, picking wild-flowers and playing hide-and-go-seek' among the bushes, suddenly Bessie exclaimed, 'Oh, Eddie, come and see this funny, soft, little brown thing, that just came out of that hole in the ground. I wonder what it is ? '

That!' answered Eddie, drawing his small figure up to its full height, and viewing the object in a very scientific manner, that is a Mole. It digs a hole and lives in it; is n't it funny?

'What do you mean, child, by calling my subterranean palace a hole?' said a very soft, smothered voice from the tiny mound.

Bessie opened her blue eyes wide, and looked at Eddie. 'Oh! Eddie,' she whispered, 'it's talking to us.'

6

The little boy looked carefully around a moment, then his face lit up, and taking hold of Bessie's hand he whispered, Maybe it'll speak again; I'll ask it.' 'Mr. Mole,' he said, looking intently at the creature, and shading his eyes from the afternoon sunlight with his brown chubby hand,' will you please tell us how you make your palace; I thought it was only a hole.'

'Certainly,' said the mole,' with the greatest pleasure, but I must retire into the entrance of my home, lest some wicked person should seize me and carry me away from my wife and children.' So saying, he slid away into the hillock, but still continued talking.

'My palace is a very elaborate dwelling-place; it extends far below the ground, and is divided into a vast number of rooms and winding passages, all of which I have made myself. First on entering I go through a long avenue, its sides worn smooth and hard by the constant pressure of my fur as I go in and out. Away down, far beneath the ground is my parlour, a circular room with a lofty roof, where I gather my family together, to discuss with them the news of the day, and the signs of the times. Around this parlour are two galleries, one level with the ceiling, and the other at some height above; the upper one much smaller than the lower. These are connected with my parlour by numerous passages, all of which are smooth and polished. So you see, my home is not a hole, and if you could look into the nursery where my children frolic, you would find how well I have planned it all. I carry into this chamber fine, dried grass for their bed, and my wife is a very faithful mother. The only trouble which I ever have is some very disagreeable neighbours. Mr. Black and his family. They are always looking out for the best worms, and sometimes invite themselves here to dinner. The children are always quarrelling with my little dears, and the only one who is at at all nice is Mrs. Black, a very beautiful creature, and pleasant companion. Her husband is such a flirt that I really feel sorry for her. You ought to see two moles fight: I assure you we never have any halfway work. Indeed, whatever we undertake we do with our might.

'Perhaps you have wondered what makes our fur always look so clean; one reason is the strong muscle beneath the skin. When we are busy at work in the earth, making new entrances to our palaces and building new apartments, now and then we give our coat a good hard shake and all the dirt falls off. Another reason is the way the fur grows. If you could look at it through a microscope, you would be astonished. Close to the skin the hair is very fine, then it grows thicker, gradually getting thin again toward the end, until it is very, very fine. This is what makes it seem so velvety. There is hardly any shade in the finest part of the hair, and that is why the colour is so changeable; sometimes a blackish brown, and again a ruddy