"Come on, then!" said the black one, for, like the little boys in London streets, he was rather fond of a quarrel.

Whereupon the white butterfly lost his temper entirely, and flew at the stranger, hitting him on the head: then he went back and perched on the shell, expecting the other to go away. But the black butterfly did not intend to do that, and when his head had left off aching he rushed at the white one and struck him back; and then they both rose up into the air and fought till their pretty wings were all torn and disfigured. The little horns, or antennæ, that grew out of their foreheads, were broken off, and the soft down (which, by the way, is really made up of hundreds of tiny feathers, like a bird's) was all rubbed off their wings. Suddenly a loud shout made them stop fighting, and looking down they saw a party of huntsmen galloping fast across the field. They were very soon out of sight, and then the two butterflies flew down to look after the shell. There it lay, crushed to atoms; for the hoof of one of the horses had trodden upon it as it passed, and its pretty pink inside was all broken and stained with mud.

"Well," said the black butterfly at last, "we have been two stupids! We have been fighting all this while simply for nothing; because you could not have made any use of the shell if you had kept it, it being too heavy to carry away, and I have gained nothing by interfering. If I had let you alone you would have found that out by yourself."

“Ah, yes, dearest," the lady softly answered. "Sad for little children, who think so much of their birthdays. Poor little Lucy! I am sorry for her."

"Mother," sighed Nancie, "I wish I had some money in my box! I would buy Lucy a cradle for her Mary Agnes Maria, her youngest doll."

"Never mind, Nancie ; I think we can make Lucy enjoy her birthday though your money-box is empty. You and I will make a nice cake, and some pasties, and then you shall go and invite Lucy to tea."

Nancie clapped her hands for glee, and skipped about the kitchen like a frisky kitten, for nothing was so delightful, in her estimation, as acting as assistantcook to her mother. So they made some pasties and a plum-cake, and put them into the oven, and when Nancie was quite sure they were baking properly, she went to Lucy's home, and invited her little friend to tea, and added, "Mother says, you must please come as

soon as you can, so that we can have a long play in the orchard together."

Lucy was very delighted at the thought et this unexpected pleasure, and so was her mother, too, who was full of regret that she could not afford to buy a gift for her little daughter, for she was not well off at all.

Lucy brushed her Sunday frock, and her mother tacked a clean white frill round the neck, and she plaited her flaxen hair into a pig-tail, and when she was dressed Nancie quite admired her, she was so neat and prim.

Just before tea-time Nancie's mother came into the garden and beckoned her. Nancie ran to her side, and Lucy waited down against the parsley-bed.

"Nancie, I am not going to put Lucy's cake on the tea-table, but I shall give it to her to take home with her. I thought I would tell you, dear, so that you should not feel disappointed."

"It is just what I should like to be done, Mother," Nancie said brightly.

"Now," said her mother, "run to fetch your little guest then, for tea is ready."

Nancie and Lucy were as happy as happy could be, and they smiled and chuckled together at the tea-table, and ate bread-and-jam, and biscuits, and puffs with first-rate appetites, for they knew Nancie's kind mother had prepared this birthday treat for them to enjoy to the full. But while they were merry they did not forget to behave

A DORMOUSE.

HE dear little dormice
Never feel the cold ice,
But when winter is done
They come out in the sun.

I wish I were a mouse
In a cozy warm house,
Nestled in close and snug,
Wrapped safe up in a rug.

But perhaps it is good
To work hard for my food,
And to rise in the cold
Self-denying and bold;

Praising God for my bed—
And that He who has fed,
Clothed and kept me so long,
Is "my strength and my song."
So I will not complain,
Though I do feel a pain,
When the frost is so keen,
And no sunshine is seen.

For he who has sent it

Knows so well what is fit
To make me strong and wise,
And more meet for the skies:

Where the Easterly blast
Shall for ever be past,
And I shine in His sight
Who Himself is the Light.

R.

When Lucy went home with her cake she said, "I didn't think I was going to have such a splendid birthday! Look, mother, what a present Nancie gave me ! I love Nancie, and I hope when she has a birthday it will be a happier one even than mine." EMILY JANE MOORE.

children opened their eyes wide with surprise to see their father take such a daring flight, and five little sister daisies were staring straight up at him, with their golden eyes.

"How happy he must be!" sighed one. "He is not always obliged to stay in one spot. I wish I had wings and could fly. I know where I'd go."

"Where?" asked another curiously. "Didn't you hear what that gentleman said this morning as he passed us?" 'No; what was it?"

"He told that lady who was with him that we simple little daisies in the lane were far prettier than all his costly flowers. Now, if I could only get into that garden I should be happy."

"Why, Pinkey, you wouldn't like to leave home, would you ?

"I shouldn't mind if I got somebody to admire me."

"Would you rather be admired than loved, sister?"

Just then the lark flew down again, and interrupted their conversation. Noticing one of his little neighbours looked rather sad, he inquired what was the matter. The daisy confided her grievance to him, finishing up with, "Ah, if I could only get there, my children should live a far happier life than their poor mother ever did. It is more for their sakes than my own that I desire to go. How every one would admire them!"

"Is that all?" he exclaimed. "I can soon help you, then. Only promise me one of your seeds when you die." "Oh, yes; as many as you like!" replied the daisy.

So when the little blossom faded away, the good-natured lark carefully gathered one, and flew away with it to the wishedfor spot. He dropped it just in the

middle of the smoothly-mown lawn, where it nestled down among the velvety grass.

When spring came it began to swell and shoot. Little white thread-like roots stretched themselves out into the ground, tiny green leaves unfolded themselves to the air, and by-and-by three wee buds appeared. Soon the green covering began to break, pink-tipped petals peeped out, and there were glimpses of a golden heart to be seen.

"Ah!" said the lark as he flew by, "if their mother had only lived to see this day!"

Just then the owner of the garden came up. The lark stayed to listen to his words of admiration. The gentleman stopped as he caught sight of the daisy, and, then turned and hurried indoors.

"He is going to fetch his friends to admire them," thought the lark.

But he reappeared alone, carrying a curious kind of stick in his hand. At the end were three long, sharp teeth.

"What can that be for?" thought the wondering bird.

He was not kept long in doubt. Going straight up to the daisy the gentleman struck one of the sharp teeth into the pretty plant, and dragged it up with an expression of disgust.

"These sort of things are pretty enough in their proper place," he muttered; "but on a lawn it is quite another matter."

As he spoke he threw the offending little blossom upon the ground, where it lay withering in the sun.

"Alas!" cried the lark, as he flew away with a chirp of pain, "I wouldn't change places with anybody after this. My wings may ache with my long flights; but I am, at least, happy and beloved in my home, though it is a humble one."

ALICE M. STEVENS.

DISOBEDIENCE, OR

THE BULL AND THE CHILDREN.

BY MRS. BATTERSBY.

ANDY and Jean Malcolm lived in a small cottage in Scotland with their mother, who was a widow. She was a hardworking woman, gentle and kind, who did her best to keep her children clean and neat and to send them regularly every day to the village school, while she remained at home rearing her fowls, spinning and knitting, and trying to make "both ends meet," and have a few shillings over to pay her rent.

Sandy and Jean were, in general, good children, but I am afraid they were a little spoiled by the fond mother, who after her good husband's sudden death had only her bairns left to care for, and found it hard to punish them, even when they deserved it, and in consequence they were, at times, too fond of having their own way.

One fine half-holiday they coaxed their mother to let them take their dinners with them to a glen about a mile from home, where they could spend the afternoon in plucking blackberries. She filled her basket with bannocks and a bottle of milk, and with a kiss to each of her darlings dismissed them with the injunction, “Don't on any account climb over the laird's palings, or get into his park."

Off set the children, with light hearts and a heavy basket. On coming to the glen they found a nice dry spot where they could hide their food, and then they

began their blackberry hunt, wandering here and there in search of the ripest and finest fruit, till at last they found themselves close to a paling which divided a narrow road from the laird's fields. The two children peeped through the railing and suddenly Sandy exclaimed, "Oh, look there, Jeanie, did you ever see such berries?" and he pointed to a bramble hedge, quite close to them, which was indeed covered with splendid fruit. Like Eve in the Garden of Eden, the children first looked and then longed for the forbidden fruit, and finally Sandy, trying to satisfy his conscience with "You know we did not make any promise, and we can pick the berries and be back in no time," climbed the palings, closely followed by Jean; both children knew they were doing wrong, but they took their own way, and began pulling the fruit as fast as possible. But what was their terror when, with a loud bellow, a bull sprang from the ditch close by, where he had been feeding, and rushed towards them.

With a scream of terror, Sandy dragged Jeanie after him behind a small tree, seizing a branch to try to defend her and himself.

Providentially a sudden sound attracted the attention of the fierce creature; a neighbouring piper returning from a village wedding, and passing along the road, on turning a corner saw the extreme danger of the children and began to play on his bagpipes. He was quite safe, for though his brilliant scarlet and white tartan was enough to have attracted the animal, a stout iron paling was between him and it, and he continued to play calling to the children to "fly for their lives," as the angry animal came bellowing towards him. Fly they did in such hot haste that in climbing over the palings to