ping his face into the bucket of the well and then rolling on the grass - ask him if there were ever such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the cups of flowers and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds to go out of business and make honey no

more.

The lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one desk, and that the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and toiled at his crooked copy, while the master walked about. The room was more quiet now; for the master would come and look over the writer's shoulder, and tell him kindly to observe how such a letter was turned in such a copy on the wall, and bid him take it for his model. Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to be among them once again; and so gentle was the schoolmaster's manner that the boys seemed quite sorry that they had worried him so much, and ate no more apples, cut no more names, inflicted no more pinches for full two minutes afterward.

II.

"I think, boys," said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck twelve, "that I shall give an extra half holiday this afternoon."

The boys, led on and headed by a tall boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that they should be silent, they were good enough to leave off, as soon as the longestwinded among them were quite out of breath.

"You must promise me first," said the schoolmaster,

"that you'll not be noisy, or, at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so-away out of the village, I

There was a general murmur in the negative.

"Then, pray, don't forget, there's my dear scholars," said the schoolmaster, "what I have asked you, and do it as a favor to me. Be as happy as you can, and likewise be mindful that you are blessed with health. Good-by, all!"

“Thank you, sir," and "good-by, sir," were said a great many times, and the boys, much to their own astonishment and that of the master, went out very slowly and softly.

But there was the sun shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half holidays; there were the trees waving to all free boys to climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay tempting them to come and scatter it in the pure air; the green corn gently beckoning toward wood and stream; the smooth ground, seeming smoother still in the blending lights and shadows, and inviting to runs and leaps and long walks, no one knows whither. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole company took to their heels and sped away, shouting and laughing as they went.

""Tis natural, thank Heaven!" said the poor schoolmaster, looking after them; "I am very glad they didn't mind me.'

Toward night, the schoolmaster walked over to the cottage where his little friend lay sick. Knocking gently at the cottage door, it was opened without loss of time. entered a room where a group of women were gathered

He

66

about one who was wringing her hands and crying bitterly. Oh, dame!" said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, "is it so bad as this?" Without replying, she pointed to another room, which the schoolmaster immediately entered; and there lay his little friend, half dressed, stretched upon a bed.

He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not of earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung

up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying that he was his dear, kind friend. "I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor schoolmaster. "You remember my garden, Henry?" whispered the old man, anxious to rouse him, for a dullness seemed gathering upon the child, "and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, very soon now, won't you? The boy smiled faintly-so very, very faintly - and put his hand upon his friend's gray head. lips too, but no voice came from them no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window. "What's that?" said the sick child, opening his eyes. "The boys at play, upon the green." He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. "Shall I do it?" said the schoolmaster. "Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. "Tie it to

He moved his

the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way.'

He raised his head and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate, and book, and other boyish property, upon the table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more, and again clasped his little arms around the old man's neck. The two old friends and companions - for such they were, though they were man and child — held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.

- From "The Old Curiosity Shop."

intent to injure. Tö'ken, sign, indication. Beck'on ing, calling.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

BY LUCY LARCOM.

Poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes:
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree:

Spring and winter,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor,

Passing, nod or answer will refuse

To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"

NEW MCGUF. FIFTH-7 97

Măl'içe,

Oh, her heart's adrift, with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple boughs a pigeon cooes; Hannah shudders,

For the mild southwester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped: Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November:

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews;
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.