id="pgepubid00006">“I want her to awaken from a nap and find the kittens swinging in the basket.”

And that is the way Lucile saw them. If they ever had looked sweet to Edith's eyes, they looked a thousand times more so to Lucile's poor, tired ones.

“Oh-h-h!” she exclaimed, with a long-drawn, happy sigh. “You darling darlings! Have you come to stay, or are you only visitors?”

The basket with its dainty load hung from a picture-hook near by, and the new-comers looked quite contented to stay. They jumped into the bed and did all they knew to cure the little girl. And they really helped.—Written for Dew Drops by Elizabeth Roberts Burton.

When Lapland Babies Go to Church.

When Sunday morning comes, the Lapland father harnesses his reindeer to the sleigh. Father and mother wrap themselves in fur coats and put a fur coat on the baby, and away they go over the snow to church, it may be ten or even fifteen miles, for the reindeer can go a good deal faster than a horse.

But the old Lapland custom of caring for the babies while the grown people are in church, you never would guess. For as soon as the reindeer is made secure, the father Lapp shovels out a snug little bed in the snow, and when it is ready the mother Lapp wraps the baby snug and warm in skins and lays it down there. Then the father Lapp piles the snow around and over the baby, when they go into the church and leave the baby in the snow. So common is this that sometimes there are twenty or thirty babies, down to the little wee-est ones, buried in snow around the church.

You might think the babies would suffocate, but they do not, nor do they freeze. In fact, the snow does not make them cold. For when it covers anyone all over, if they have clothes enough on, so the snow will not melt and wet them, it will keep them warm. And as the little Lapland babies are not strong enough to knock the snow away and let in the cold, they just lie there safe and warm and go to sleep.

When church is out the father Lapp goes to the spot where his baby is, puts his hands down into the snow, pulls the baby our and shakes the snow off it; then the reindeer is unfastened, father and mother tuck themselves and the baby in the sleigh, and over the snow away they trot home again.—Written for Dew Drops by Adele E. Thompson.

MOTHER HULDA'S FEATHER BED.

How many children know what the boys and girls of far-off Norway sometimes think when they see the dainty, feathery snowflakes flying softly and silently through the air? I don't think there are many of you who do know, so I will tell you the story.

If we were there when they have the first snowstorm of the season we could hear them shouting gleefully to each other: “See! oh, see! Mother Hulda is shaking her feather bed.”

There is a story about this Mother Hulda and her feather bed that is told to the little ones there. She lives, it is said, far, far above this busy world, with the clouds for her home, the sun for a lamp and fire.

She is always very busy, and especially so at the beginning of the winter, for then she has to unpack her great feather bed, and after that is done she spends all of her time shaking it. Indeed she shakes it so much that she wears many holes in it, through which the feathers fly in all directions. The wind catches them up and carries them gently to the earth, where they cover the bare limbs of the trees, making them beautiful, and where they spread lightly on the ground and protect the roots of the flowers from the cold winter winds.

Mother Hulda does not tire of shaking her bed until the warmer spring winds begin to blow; then she packs it away until she sees Jack Frost traveling again over the world below, and finds traces of the mischievous fellow even in her