thinks so wonderful?
See how quietly my hand rests on this table. Why
should it move any more than the table on which
it rests? Is not Carlyle right when he calls every
movement of my hand a wonder? You never
thought of it before? That is as Carlyle says:
"We do not look around a little and see what is
passing under our very eyes."

It was this great old man whose hand brushed
the clinging mud from a crust of bread, and placed
it on the curbstone, for some dog or pigeon, saying,
"My mother taught me never to waste anything."

Here is a word for those who are always planning
what great things they will do--who think so much
_about_ doing that no time is left _for_ the doing:

"The end of man is an action, and not a
thought, though it were the noblest."

Now, for our final crumb, comes a well-clothed
thought that I like better than quarreling Indians
or familiar wonders. It is the reason why selfish
people are never really happy. Carlyle thinks they
have only themselves to blame, for he says:

"Always there is a black spot in our sunshine;
it is even, as I said, _the shadow of ourselves_."

[Illustration: "JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT."]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Hurrah for June!--bright, rosy June! "Joy
rises in me like a summer's morn!" as one of
those pleasant people, the poets, has said.

Let everybody be glad! But most of all, you,
my youngsters! The month properly belongs to
you. Don't I know? Wasn't it set apart by
Romulus, ages and ages ago, especially for the
young people, or "Juniores," as they then were
called? And hasn't their name stuck to it ever
since? Yes, indeed! So, be as merry as you can,
my chicks; but, with all your fun and frolic, be
thankful, and make June weather all about you.
June time--any time--is full of joy when hearts,
brimming over with thankfulness, carry cheer to
other hearts, making

"A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune,"--

like the little stream that bubbles by the foot of our meadow.

Now to business. First comes a letter about

A ROPE OF EGGS.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I know about a rope of eggs, and I
will tell you. It is in Japan. The eggs are plaited and twisted
into ropes made from straw, and so it is safe and easy to handle
them. Just think how queer it would seem to buy eggs by the yard!

AMY M.

CONV