turtle-doves went forth on their long journey. The young musician and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer.

THE DYING CHILD

other, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.

Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.

Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!

Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!

Do not sigh thus—it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired—my weary eyes are closing—
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

FRIGHTENED BY A COW.

I.



ne morning Miss Lucy,
As oft-times before,
Went out in the fields
With maid Ellenore:

II.

The sun shone so bright,
And the air was so still;
Not a breath could be raised
To turn the old mill.

III.

They walked through the fields
All sprinkled with dew,
Where the bright yellow flowers
Gave a charm to the view;

IV.

The birds sang so gayly
To bless the bright day,
And sweetly the baby
Talked and laughed by the way.

V.

Now Lucy knew well
There was naught to alarm—
Old Brindle was gentle,
And would do her no harm.

VI.

But the cow raised her head
And looked round so bold,
That she started and shrieked,
And made Ellenore scold.

VII.

Then the man at the mill
Rushed out in a fright,
And seeing Miss Lucy
All trembling and white,

FRIGHTENED BY A COW.

VIII.

Said, "Have courage, young lady!
Pray cease your alarm;
Cows never will hurt you,
If you do them no harm."

IX.

Now the baby he prattled,
And begged for a ride;
He clapped his hands loudly,
And "Come, Mooly!" he cried;

X.

"Let me ride on your back
O'er the green fields so bright,
Where the busy bees hum—
Dear Mooly, you might.

XI.

"We'll ride o'er the hills
Where the lofty pines grow,
And through the green lanes
Of hawthorn we'll go;

XII.

"We'll ride through the groves
Where the happy birds play,
And sing a glad song
Of praise by the way."

THE RED SHOES.

CHAPTER FIRST.

HOW LITTLE KAREN WAS ADOPTED BY A LADY, AND HOW SHE CAME BY HER RED SHOES.

here was once a little girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in the summer she was obliged to run about with bare feet, she was so poor, and in the winter to wear large wooden shoes, which made her little instep quite red, and that looked so dangerous!

In the middle of the village lived old mother Shoemaker, and she sat and sewed together, as well as she could, a little pair of shoes out of red cloth; they were very clumsy, but it was a kind thought,—they were meant for the little girl.

The little girl was called Karen. On the very day her mother was buried Karen received the red shoes, and wore them for the first time. They were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and with stockingless feet she followed the poor straw coffin in them to the grave.

Suddenly an old carriage drove up, and a large old lady sat in it; she looked at the little girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to the clergyman—

"Here, give me that little girl, I will adopt her!"

Karen believed all this happened on account of her red shoes, but the old lady thought they were