The young prince soon returned, and was delighted to see the green plumes of the heavenly stranger springing up from the earth through the soft mould, but contending with unsightly weeds for the privilege of light and air. These incumbrances to growth were removed, and the earth around was kept fresh and clean. In due time the youth was charmed by the vision of a stately plant, taller than himself, surmounted with tassels of flowers of clustered spikes, and bearing delicious fruit incased in sheaths of long leaves, and lined with silk. When the frost season approached, this fruit became hard, golden-hued grain, containing most nutritious food for man and beast. The plant gracefully waved its long leaves and golden tassels in the autumn wind.
"Come," said the young prince to his parents, on a soft October day, "and I will show you a great blessing from the Master of Life."
They followed him to the sunny savanna, where hoar-frost lay hidden in shaded nooks. They pounded the golden grains, and made cakes from the flour thereof.
"It is Men-du-min, the grain of the Great Spirit," said the father.
They invited their friends to a feast on the excellent grain, and there were soon great rejoicings among many nations because of the boon. It was Maize. When Europeans came, centuries afterward, they called it Indian Corn. It proved to be as great a blessing to them as it had been to their barbarian neighbors. To-day it is the food of thousands of Christians and pagans, civilized men and savages, from the Gulf of Mexico far toward the frigid zone. It is indeed Men-du-min—the grain of the Great Spirit.
[NEXT SUMMER.]
BY LAURA LEDYARD.
Beautiful things there are coming this way
Nearer and nearer, dear, every day—
Yes, closer and closer, my baby.
Mischievous showers and faint little smells
Of far-away flowers in far-away dells
Are coming in April, my baby.
Sly little blossoms that clamber along
Close to the ground till they grow big and strong
Are coming in May, little baby.
Roses and bees and a big yellow moon
Coming together in beautiful June,
In lovely midsummer, my baby.
Pretty red cherries, and bright little flies,
Twinkling and turning the fields into skies,
Will come in July, little baby.
Feathery clouds and long, still afternoons,
Scarce a leaf stirring, and birdies' soft croons,
Are coming in August, my baby.
Glimpses of blue through the poppies and wheat,
And one little birthday on fast-flying feet,
Will come in September, my baby.