eliest dream!"

Little Tukey did not at all know what he had dreamed, but the loving
God knew it.

------------

THE NAUGHTY BOY.

A long time ago there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet.
As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose
without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat
warm and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and
the roasting apple hissed.

"Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the
skin," said the good old poet.

"Oh let me in! let me in! I am cold, and I'm so wet!" exclaimed
suddenly a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for
admittance, while the rain poured down, and the wind made all the
windows rattle.

"Poor thing!" said the old poet, as he went to open the door. There
stood a little boy, quite naked, and the water ran down from his long
golden hair; he trembled with cold, and had he not come into a warm
room he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest.

"Poor child!" said the old poet, as he took the boy by the hand. "Come
in, come in, and I will soon restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and
roasted apples, for thou art verily a charming child!" And the boy was
so really. His eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water
trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful curls. He looked exactly
like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole body trembled
with cold. He had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite
spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one
into the other.

The old poet seated himself beside his hearth, and took the little
fellow on his lap; he squeezed the water out of his dripping hair,
warmed his hands between his own, and boiled for him some sweet wine.
Then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew rosy, he jumped down
from the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the kind old poet.

"You are a merry fellow," said the old man; "what's your name?"

"My name is Cupid," answered the boy. "Don't you know me? There lies
my bow; it shoots well, I can assure you! Look, the weather is now
clearing up, and the moon is shining clear again through the window."

"Why, your bow is quite spoiled," said the old poet.

"That were sad indeed," said the boy, and he took the bow in his hand
and examined it on every side. "Oh, it is dry again, and is not hurt
at all; the string is quite tight. I wi