to give the starving soldiers, and for
her babies, beside what she sold. And despite all this, she earned
enough so that when the war was over she built a big steam factory for
her bread. By this time everybody in the city knew her. The children all
over the city loved her; the business men were proud of her; the poor
people all came to her for advice. She used to sit at the open door of
her office, in a calico gown and a little shawl, and give a good word to
everybody, rich or poor.

Then, by and by, one day, Margaret died. And when it was time to read
her will, the people found that, with all her giving, she had still
saved a great deal of money, and that she had left every penny of it to
the different orphan asylums of the city,--each one of them was given
something. Whether they were for white children or black, for Jews,
Catholics, or Protestants, made no difference; for Margaret always said,
"They are all orphans alike." And just think, dears, that splendid,
wise will was signed with a cross instead of a name, for Margaret had
never learned to read or write!

When the people of New Orleans knew that Margaret was dead, they said,
"She was a mother to the motherless; she was a friend to those who had
no friends; she had wisdom greater than schools can teach; we will not
let her memory go from us." So they made a statue of her, just as she
used to look, sitting in her own office door, or driving in her own
little cart. And there it stands to-day, in memory of the great love and
the great power of plain Margaret Haughery, of New Orleans.

THE DAGDA'S HARP

You know, dears, in the old countries there are many fine stories about
things which happened so very long ago that nobody knows exactly how
much of them is true. Ireland is like that. It is so old that even as
long ago as four thousand years it had people who dug in the mines, and
knew how to weave cloth and to make beautiful ornaments out of gold, and
who could fight and make laws; but we do not know just where they came
from, nor exactly how they lived. These people left us some splendid
stories about their kings, their fights, and their beautiful women; but
it all happened such a long time ago that the stories are mixtures of
things that really happened and what people said about them, and we
don't know just which is which. The stories are called _legends_. One of
the prettiest legends is the story I am going to tell you about the
Dagda's harp.