ing about raspberries,' answered the man, still enjoying his
joke, and taking small heed of the lad's evident terror; 'I must bring
you before my Colonel,' and he dragged the terrified boy along the track
till he reached the spot where the two officers and some of the soldiers
were standing.

'Well, Schmidt; first capture!' said the Colonel, in a pleased tone, for
he had not expected him to find any one in so short a time.

'Yes, your honour,' said Schmidt, now releasing the boy, who, placing
his hands behind him, now addressed the Colonel in as firm a voice as he
could muster.

'Please, Colonel,' he said, 'do not shoot me! I am not a spy--indeed I
am not! My name is Fritz Nestor, and I live with my mother in
Schustadt.'

The men standing round could not resist smiling at this odd speech, for
they knew nothing of Schmidt's 'joke,' and the Colonel, bending down so
as to be more of a level with the little fellow, said in a half-puzzled
tone:

'You surely cannot think we should shoot you! We are not in an enemy's
country, and if we were we do not shoot children. What could have put
such a ridiculous idea into your head?'

'He said so,' said the boy, pointing to the corporal, whose very pigtail
quivered with fear at being thus brought to his Colonel's notice.

The Colonel straightened himself and looked full at the corporal, who
was standing stiffly at his right hand. 'Next time you wish to play a
practical joke, corporal,' he said sternly, 'let it be with a man, and
not a child! Now, my little fellow,' he said, turning to the boy, 'you
may take my word for it that no one will hurt you. Can you show us the
right way to Schustadt? I suppose you know it?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' said the boy brightly. 'It is barely a mile away.'

'That is good hearing,' said the Colonel, and the men were quickly
recalled, and the march began once more, the boy stepping out bravely in
front of the column, much preferring the part of guide to that of a spy.

THE PROMISE OF THE STORM.

I do not mind the hurricane,
And biting winter rain;
I love to watch them sweep across
The woodland and the plain;
For as they roar the trees among,
I fancy I can hear
A whisper like a fairy's song:
'The spring is drawing near.'

I do not mind the gloomy days,
When clouds are dark and low,
And rough winds from the meadows tear
Their tattered sheets of snow;
For through those ragge