Genre Fairy Tale. Page - 4

's head from its hard pillow of rock.

With swift nervous motions she unfastened his coat and bent her ear to his breast.

"'Tis only a faint, maybe shock. In all the world was only Margot, and Margot was lost. Ugh! the hail. See, it is still here--look! water, and--yes, the tea! It was for you---- Ah!"

Her words ended with a sigh of satisfaction as a slight motion stirred the features into which she peered so earnestly, and she raised her master's head a bit higher. Then his eyes slowly opened and the dazed look gradually gave place to a normal expression.

"Why, Margot! Angelique? What's happened?"

"Oh! Uncle Hugh! are you hurt? are you ill? I found you here behind the rocks and Angelique says--but I wasn't hurt at all. I wasn't out in any storm, didn't know there had been one, that is, worth minding, till I came home----"

"Like a ghost out of the lake. She was not even dead, not she. And she was singin' fit to burst her throat while you were--well, maybe, not dead, yo

ture excited more than half my admiration, and all my love.

Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray coming on in the embers, symptoms of death in the candle, a blotch of tallow on the Shakespeare, and the coat not half done. It must have been about then, I think, that the thin-edged sweetness of the Singing Mouse's voice pierced keenly through the air. I was right glad when the little creature came and sat on my knee, and in its affectionate way began to nibble at my finger-tips. It sat erect, its thin paws waving with a tiny, measured swing, and in its mystic voice, so infinitely small, so sweet and yet so majestically strong, began a song which no pen can transcribe. Knowing that the awakening must come, but unwilling to lose a moment of the dream, I, who with one finger could have crushed the little thing, sat prizing it more and more, as more and more its voice swept, and swelled, and rang; rang, till the fire burst high in noble pyramids of flame; rang, till the candle flashed in a thousand crystals; swell

of the recent laughter of his companions at his eagerness.

"Well, that's hard to say," replied his elder relative. "I'd like to start to-morrow morning. It all depends on the stage of the water. If a flood came down the Athabasca to-morrow you'd see pretty much every breed in that saloon over there stop drinking and hurry to the scows."

"What's that got to do with it?" asked John.

"Well, when the river goes up the scows can run the Grand Rapids, down below here, without unloading, or at least without unloading everything. If the river is low so that the rocks stand out, the men have to portage every pound of the brigade stuff. The Grand Rapids are bad, let me tell you that! It is only within the last fifty years that any one has ever tried to run them. I'll show you the man who first went through--an old man now over seventy; but he was a young chap when he first tried it. Well, he found that he could get through, so he tried it over again. He and others have been guiding on thos

st tone I sing to them; yet they are never quite satisfied with me, but beat their wings, and stretch out their heads, and cannot be happy until they hear their father.

"The squirrel, who lives in the hole where the two great branches part, hears what I say, and curls up his tail, while he turns his bright eyes towards the swinging nest which he can never reach."

The fanning wind wafts across the road the voice of the old horse- chestnut, who also has a word to say about the birds'-nests.

"When my blossoms were fresh, white pyramids, came a swift flutter of wings about them one day, and a dazzlingly beautiful little bird thrust his long, delicate bill among the flowers; and while he held himself there in the air without touching his tiny feet to twig or stem, but only by the swift fanning of long, green-tinted wings, I offered him my best flowers for his breakfast, and bowed my great leaves as a welcome to him. The dear little thing had been here before, while yet the sticky brown buds wh

ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abbe Rose, againmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs andwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. "Is notthat your brother?" asked the old priest.

Pierre had not stirred. "Yes, it is my brother Guillaume," he quietlyresponded. "I have found him again since I have been coming occasionallyto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been livingfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but Ihave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, wehave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds."

Abbe Rose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if tosay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant oflofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one whorebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abbe's,and when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his

out of their folded sweaters. Soon they were helping Moise with his cooking at the fire and enjoying as usual their evening conversation with that cheerful friend.

It did not take Moise, old-timer as he was, very long to get his bannocks and tea ready, and to fry the whitefish and grouse which the boys now brought to him.

Uncle Dick looked at his watch after a time. "Forty minutes," said he.

"For what?" demanded Jesse.

"Well, it took us forty minutes to get off the packs and hobble the horses and get supper ready. That's too long--we ought to have it all done and supper over in that time. We'll have to do better than this when we get fully on the trail."

"What's the use in being in such a hurry?" demanded John, who was watching the frying-pan very closely.

"It's always a good thing to get the camp work done quickly mornings and evenings," replied the leader of the party. "We've got a long trip ahead, and I'd like to average twenty-five miles a day for a while, if I co

hould so much like to put Chirp into Dicky's cage."

"I have been thinking of the very same thing," said Charles. "Let us run and ask mamma if we may do it."

Away they ran and asked.

"Why," said their mamma, "it certainly will have rather a strange appearance. The two birds do not seem suitable companions. It is an odd fancy, children; but you may do it if you like."

No sooner said than done. Off ran Fanny and Charles--took the little Foundling out of his old lantern--opened the door of Dicky's cage--and at once put him in, and fastened the door. In a moment, Dicky flew up to his top perch, and stood looking down very earnestly; and the little Foundling, though he could stump about on his lame toes, never moved, but sat looking up at Sir Dicky. The nestling looked like a poor little ragged lame beggar-boy whom a sprightly gentleman in a bright yellow coat had been so compassionate as to take into his house.

[Illustration]

Presently the Foundling went to the seed-box, a

hey will learn very fast.

Soon we shall see how well they can read.

This doll is not so good as the others.

She does not like to go to school very well.

She must sit by me and look at her book.

As soon as she can read well, she may go home and play.

She goes to school day after day, but she does not learn.

She can not write at all.

She can not tell her name.

---

WRITING LESSON.

This is my little doll.

Her name is Lucy.

Do you thik she is pretty?

s as dolls does goes is

---

tall Henry am table what

"How tall you are, Henry!"

"Yes, father, I shall soon be a man. I am as tall as the table, now."

"What can you see on the table?"

"I can see your big book, father."

"What do you see by the book?"

"Oh, I see some pictures. Two pictures are by the book, and two are not by the book."

"How many are two and two, Henry?"

"Two and two are four."

"You

Sir Alexander's record, you know--he made it from here in six days!"

"I don't remember that book very well," said Jesse; "I'll read it again some time."

"We'll all read it each day as we go on, and in that way understand it better when we get through," ventured John. "But listen; I thought I heard them in the bush."

It was as he had said. The swish of bushes parting and the occasional sound of a stumbling footfall on the trail now became plainer. They heard the voice of Moise break out into a little song as he saw the light of the fire flickering among the trees. He laughed gaily as he stepped into the ring of the cleared ground, let down one end of the canoe which he was carrying, and with a quick twist of his body set it down gently upon the leaves.

"You'll mak' good time, hein?" he asked of the boys, smiling and showing a double row of white teeth.

"What did I tell you, boys?" demanded Rob. "Here they are, and it isn't quite dark yet."

The next moment Ale

ou know. The man had a kind face and he handled Pine Tree very carefully. He sawed and smoothed Pine Tree many days, and as he worked he whistled and sang, for he was happy. Sometimes he would whistle some of the songs that Pine Tree had heard when he lived in the forest, and then sometimes those he had heard on the ocean, and again he would whistle the songs that Pine Tree had heard in the home of the children.

At last the man's work was finished. Pine Tree had been made into a wonderful musical instrument--a violin. The man took a bow and drew it across the strings, and as he did so he smiled and nodded his head, for the music was very sweet. The violin, which had once been Pine Tree, and then part of a ship, and the ridge-pole of the cottage and the barn, seemed to sing to the man the songs of the forest, the songs of the ocean, the songs of the home, and the songs of the lowly barn.

One day the man put the violin in a case and took it away on a long journey. When the case was opened, the vio