Which is the wind that brings the

rain?

The East wind, Arty, and farmers know

That cows come shivering up the lane,

When the East begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the flowers?

The West wind, Bessy, and soft and low

The birdies sing in the summer

hours,

When the West begins to blow.

-E. C. STEDMAN.

The train stopped at Hillsdale to let off a poor, thin, pale little boy.

Everything looked strange to poor little Tim. His home was in a little room of a house in a great, hot, dusty city.

Some kind people had sent the little boy to Hillsdale to stay two weeks.

Tim had never seen a hill.

He had never been in the country.

He had never seen woods nor fields.

When he stepped off the train he first saw a

fat old horse tied to a fence near by.

A kind looking man untied the horse and told Tim to get into the buggy.

That was the first of Tim's fun. Every one was kind to Tim and made the little boy very happy.

The cows, horses, sheep and pigs were all great fun for Tim.

He learned to drive and ride the horses and to milk the cows.

The little boy who went back to the city did not look much like the poor sick boy who first came to Hillsdale.

The last words he heard as the train started were: "Good-by, my little man. Come back

to see us next year."

SUPPOSE.

How dreary would the meadows be
In the pleasant summer light,
Suppose there was n't a bird to sing,
And suppose the grass was white.

And dreary would the garden be
With all its flowery trees,
Suppose there were no butterflies,
And suppose there were no bees.

And what would all the beauty be,
And what the song that cheers,
Suppose we hadn't any eyes,
And suppose we hadn't ears?

green,

For though the grass were gay and
And song birds filled the glen,
And the air were purple with butterflies,
What good would they do us then?

Ah, think of it, my little friends,
And when some pleasure flies,

Why let it go, and still be glad,

That

you have

your ears and eyes.

ALICE CARY.

Esther is a happy little girl.

She lives in a home on a Western prairie where her father has a large stock farm.

All summer long she has played out of doors until her face and hands are brown as a berry; but her cheeks are red and her eyes are bright.

It is her delight to feel the strong prairie wind toss her hair.

She thinks that there is nothing in the world so bright and beautiful as the field of sunflowers near her house.

A walnut grove is on the other side of the road.