s mamma had arranged
for a little party in honor of the event. Of course Elsie's mamma was
perfectly willing she should go to the party, for the Blossoms were very
nice people, and Mrs. Dean was always glad for an occasion of enjoyment
for her little daughter. But alas, on the day before the party was to
occur, Elsie went to a picnic, and was so unfortunate as to tear her
dress--the only one she had which her mamma thought was suitable for her
to wear to the party. "I am afraid you cannot go to the party, my dear,
for now you have nothing fit to wear," said Mrs. Dean to Elsie. The
little girl's eyes filled with tears, and her Grandmamma seemed to feel
almost as bad about it as Elsie. But she did not wish to make the little
girl feel any worse over her disappointment, so she made light of it and
told her that there would probably be another birthday party soon, and
by that time she would surely have a suitable dress to wear. Elsie was
finally comforted, and went to bed in good spirits after kissing mamma
and grandmamma good night.

What was Elsie's surprise next morning, to find that her picnic dress
had been mended "good as new." She did not need to ask who did it, for
she felt certain that it was grandmamma's work, and so it proved.
Grandmamma remembered that she herself was a little girl once, and that
blessed memory brought her into close sympathy with the grief and joy of
her little granddaughter. And so Elsie, thanks to her grandmamma's tact
and tenderness, went to Dolly Blossom's birthday party.

[Illustration: GRANDMAMMA WONDERS IF SHE CAN'T MEND IT.]

GOING TO BED.

The evening is coming,
The Sun sinks to rest;
The rooks are all flying
Straight home to their nest.
"Caw!" says the rook, as he flies overhead:
It's time little people were going to bed!

The flowers are closing,
The daisy's asleep;
The primrose is buried
In slumber so deep.
Shut up for the night is the pimpernel red:
It's time little people were going to bed!

The butterfly, drowsy,
Has folded its wing;
The bees are returning,
No more the birds sing.
Their labor is over, their nestlings are fed:
It's time little people were going to bed!

Here comes the pony,
His work is all done;
Down through the meadow
He takes a good run;
Up goes his heels, and down goe