In one of the houses there was a pale little child with a sad, thin face. "Mother," he said, "here are some children with a garland. Will it be summer when they have gone by?" He called after them as they went on, "Come back, oh, come back again!"
"Yes, we will come back," they answered, but they went on their way singing. All through the day he waited for them, but they did not come; and at last, when it was evening, the mother took him up into her arms to carry him to his bed. Suddenly he heard the children singing in the distance. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "they are coming;" and he watched till they came up the hill again and stood before him. "But where is your garland?" he asked.
"We gave it to lame Mary, the postman's wife, for she is always longing to see the fields," they answered; "but these roses are for you, dear little boy; they are all for you," and putting them into his hands they went back to the village.
"You are very tired," the child said to the roses; "all your leaves are drooping. Poor roses, perhaps you are lonely away from the garden; but you shall sleep near me, and there is a star rising up in the sky; it will watch us all through the night." Then the child nestled down in his white bed—he and his little warm heart, in which there was love for all things. While he slept the roses looked at his pale little face and sighed, and presently they stole softly on to his cheeks and rested there. The children saw them still there when the summer was over; when the garland was quite dead, and lame Mary longed for the fields no more.
ROUND THE TEA-TABLE.
A nice little party we're seated at tea,
The dollies all seem very glad,
Save the poor little thing who is leaning on me;
I fear that she feels rather bad;
Poor limp little thing! she wants a back-bone,
She's only just made up of rag.
There's little Miss Prim sitting up all alone,
And the Japanese looks like a wag.
Now what shall we talk of, my own dollies fair?
And what shall we give you for tea?
That queer little thing with the short frizzy hair,
Why does he keep looking at me?
My sister and I we will sing you a song
Before we get up from the table;
It shall not be sad, and it shall not be long—
We'll sing it as well as we're able.
SONG.