in Eynsford, it was
discovered that the planting of commemorative trees was by no means a
new thing in the place. Sixty years before that day, in 1837, a
cottager, named Howard, had planted an apple-tree in honour of the
Queen's accession. In 1897, this tree yielded thirteen bushels of
apples. The old man, upon being presented with a testimonial, made a
little speech. 'If I hadn't planted that there tree,' he said, 'I should
not have had all this here fruit.'

The story recalls another. A Scotch farmer's son amused himself one year
during the summer vacation by sitting on a gate and blowing thistledown
about. The natural consequence was a fine crop of thistles. When, the
following summer, Master Thomas came home for the holidays, his father
took him to the field. 'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my
lad,' said the farmer. 'Just pull up all these thistles for me.'

As Thomas bent over his wearisome and prickly task, he said ruefully to
himself, 'If I had not scattered that thistledown, I should not have had
to do this!'

We are always sowing and planting something in our lives. What shall it
be? Apples, or thistles?'

E. DYKE.

AN INTRUDER.

The Leslies had taken a house on Dartmoor for the summer holidays, and
when they arrived and found it was a small farm their delight knew no
bounds.

Cook was very glad that they would be able to have plenty of milk,
cream, and butter, eggs and poultry, for there were no shops in that
desolate region, and she could not provide breakfasts and dinners out of
nothing.

Janet, the eldest girl, clapped her hands when she saw the chickens
running about the field in front of the house, the sheep and cows a
little farther off, and beyond, on the moors, the dearest little black
ponies, with shaggy coats and long manes and tails. From the window she
saw a girl crossing the field towards a gate where two big lambs were
bleating their loudest and trying to wriggle through the bars. She
rushed downstairs and across the field and found that Kate, the farmer's
daughter, was carrying the tame lambs their supper.

'Why do you feed them and not the others?' Janet asked?

'The other lambs have their own mothers to feed them,' Kate told her;
'but these two are orphans, so we have to bring them up by hand.'

'Oh, what dears they are!' Janet cried, as they began to jump and
frolic about her and about Kate, in eager expectation of their supper.

Then Kate filled a bottle w