"It tossed and murmured in its sleep; at last it woke, too soon, for the cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. When it found the door barred, it was very sad. Then it grew rebellious and hurled itself against the door, trying to escape, but the barrier only seemed more unyielding. So, making the best of things, the river began to sing about the dream.

"From its prison house, it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds, the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange singing harps of the marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. A good fairy happened to be passing and she stopped to hear the song. She became so interested that she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. The river laughed and ran out, still singing and carrying the door along. It never stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far out to sea.

"Oh, Barbara!" he cried passionately, "last night I dreamed that you could walk and I could see!"

"So we can, Daddy," said Barbara 'very gently. “Our souls are neither blind nor lame. Here I am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so we belong together." "And past the sunset, past the sunset," repeated the old man dreamily, "soul and body shall be as one. We must wait, for life is made up of waiting - and make what songs we can.' "I think, Father, that a "Some of them are,

song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?" but more are not. Some are music and some are words, and some like prayers are feeling. The real song is in the thrush's heart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughs of Spring. When you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rush out, laughing, then you make a song." "But is there always joy?"

"Yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. We must find it, for only in that way it grows."

-MYRTLE REED.

OUR LIVES ARE SONGS

"Our lives are songs

God writes the words;

And we set them to music at leisure.

And the song is sad or the song

is glad

As we choose to fashion the

measure.

We must write the song

Whatever the words,

Whatever its rhyme or meter;

And if it is sad, we must make it glad

And if sweet, we must make it sweeter."

SKY-BORN MUSIC

Let me go wher'ere I will

I hear a sky born music still,

It sounds from all things old,

It sounds from all things young,

From all that's fair, from all that's foul,

Peals out a cheerful song.

It is not only in the rose,

It is not only in the bird,

Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway something sings.

"Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cups of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway, something sings.

IF I WERE A VOICE

If I were a voice, a persuasive voice,

That could travel the wide world through,
I would fly on the beams of the morning light,
And speak to men with a gentle might,

And tell them to be true.

I'd fly, I'd fly o'er land and sea,

Wherever a human heart might be,

Telling a tale, or singing a song,

In praise of the right, in blame of the wrong.

If I were a voice, a consoling voice,

I'd fly on the wings of air;

The homes of sorrow and guilt I'd seek,
And calm and truthful words I'd speak,

To save them from despair.

EMERSON.

I'd fly, I'd fly o'er the crowded town,
And drop like the happy sunlight down
Into the hearts of suffering men,
And teach them to rejoice again.

If I were a voice, a pervading voice,

I'd seek the kings of earth

I'd find them alone on their beds at night,

And whisper words that should guide them right ·
Lessons of priceless worth.

I'd fly more swift than the swiftest bird,

And tell them things they never heard
Truths which the ages for aye, repeat,
Unknown to the statesmen at their feet.
If I were a voice, an immortal voice,
I'd speak in the people's ear;
And whenever they shouted "Liberty!"
Without deserving to be free,

I'd make their error clear.

I'd fly, I'd fly on the wings of day,
Rebuking wrong on my world-wide way,
And making all the earth rejoice, -

If I were a voice, an immortal voice.

I would not enter on my list of friends,

Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,

Yet wanting sensibility, the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.

COWFER.

HOW FORKED LIGHTNING BECAME CHIEF-I

HENRY WOOD FUGATE

1. When the old chief of the Moe'ca sin tribe of Indians died, he left no heir.

"We must now choose a new chief," said the men of the tribe in council.

"Give us an old man!" said Bald Eagle, who long had wished to be chief.

2. "Give us a young man!" said Red Fox, who had dreamed every night since the old chief died that he had been made leader of the tribe.

“The old man has wisdom with him!" said Bald Eagle; "the young man has to learn it.”

3. "Old age forgets wisdom. Old age hesitates!" said Red Fox, quoting sayings of his tribe. "Youth hopes all things. Youth fears naught. The greatest wisdom is with the bravest."

"Then the greatest wisdom is with Bald Eagle!" said the old man.

"Not greater than with Red Fox!" said the young man. "Who ever saw Bald Eagle cower in battle?" asked the old

man.

"Who ever saw the look of fear on the face of Red Fox?" asked the young man.

4. "Bald Eagle has sixty scalps hanging in his wigwam!" said the old man.