ll had forgotten for him to prepare--
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

[Illustration: {A woman and two children with a calf}]

MY PICTURE.

I have a little picture;
Perchance you have one too.
Mine is not set in frame of gold;
'Tis first a bit of blue,
And then a background of dark hills--
A river just below,
Along whose broad, green meadow banks
The wreathing elm trees grow.

Upon an overhanging ridge
A little farm-house stands,
Whose owner, like the man of old,
Has builded "on the sands;"
And yet, defying storms and wind,
It stands there all alone,
And brightens up the landscape
With a beauty of its own.

Fairy-like my picture changes
As the seasons come and go.
Now it glows 'neath summer's kisses;
Now it sleeps 'mid winter's snow.
I can see the breath of spring-time
In the river's deeper blue,
And autumn seems to crown it
With her very brightest hue.

Ah. I'd not exchange my picture
For the choicest gem of art;
Yet I must not claim it wholly;
It is only mine in part;
For 'tis one of nature's sketches--
A waif from that Great Hand
Which hath filled our earth with models
Of the beautiful and grand.

WHY?

Why are the blossoms
Such different hues?
And the waves of the sea
Such a number of blues?
So many soft greens
Flit over the trees?
And little gray shadows
Fly out on the breeze?

Why are the insects
So wondrously fair;
Illumining grasses
And painting the air?
You dear little shells,
O, why do you shine?
And feathery sea-weed
Grow fragile and fine?

Why are the meadows
Such gardens of grace,
With infinite beauty
In definite space?
Each separate grass
A world of delight?
O, food for the cattle,
Why are you so bright?

Why are our faces
Such lovable things,
With lips made for kisses,
And laughter that sings?
With eyes full of love,
That sparkle and gleam,
Through beautiful colors,
That change like a dream?

Think for a moment--
Lo