wers,
and his soul was warmed with a warmth he had never felt before, and his
tears fell upon his manuscript.

When the world heard the song which the composer had made of the
swallows and the roses, it did homage to his genius. Such sentiment,
such delicacy, such simplicity, such melody, such heart, such
soul,--ah, there was no word of rapturous praise too good for the
composer now: fame, the sweetest and most enduring kind of fame, had
come to him.

And the swallows and the roses had done it all. Their subtle
influences had filled the composer's soul with a great inspiration,--by
means like this God loves to speak to the human heart.

"We told you so," whispered the roses when they came again in the
spring. "We told you that if you sang of us the world would love your
song."

Then the swallows, flying back from the south, twittered: "We told you
so; sing the songs the heart loves, and you shall live forever."

"Ah, dear ones," said the composer, softly; "you spoke the truth. He
who seeks a fame that is immortal has only to reach and abide in the
human heart."

The lesson he learned of the swallows and the roses he never forgot.
It was the inspiration and motive of a long and beautiful life. He
left for others that which some called a loftier ambition. He was
content to sit among the flowers and hear the twitter of birds and make
songs that found an echo in all breasts. Ah, there was such a
beautiful simplicity,--such a sweet wisdom in his life! And where'er
the swallows flew, and where'er the roses bloomed, he was famed and
revered and beloved, and his songs were sung.

Then his hair grew white at last, and his eyes were dim and his steps
were slow. A mortal illness came upon him, and he knew that death was
nigh.

"The winter has been long," said he, wearily. "Open the window and
raise me up that I may see the garden, for it must be that spring is
come."

It was indeed spring, but the roses had not yet bloomed. The swallows
were chattering in their nests under the eaves or flitting in the mild,
warm sky.

"Hear them," he said faintly. "How sweetly they sing. But alas! where
are the roses?"

Where are the roses? Heaped over thee, dear singing heart; blooming on
thy quiet grave in the Fatherland, and clustered and entwined all in
and about thy memory, which with thy songs shall go down from heart to
heart to immortality.

MISTRESS MERCILESS

This is to tell of our little Mistress