BY ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.
"It's going to rain, you dear little bird:
Fly into your house; don't stop for a word."
"Yes, I saw a black cloud as I sat on the tree,
But I care not for rain—I have feathers, you see."
"You have feathers, I know, but your little pink feet
Will be numb with the cold when the cruel rains beat."
"Oh no; I shall tuck them up snugly and warm,
Close under my body, all safe from the storm."
"But the branches will rock, and the dark night will come:
Oh, do, little bird, fly away to your home!"
"Never fear, pretty one, as I rock I shall sing,
And how soundly I'll sleep with my head 'neath my wing!"
"Oh, birdie, dear birdie, I'd like much to know
How you're always so happy, blow high or blow low."
"Don't you know we've a Father who cares for me?
And that is the reason I'm happy and free."
[PENELOPE.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
Chapter I.
"Well, miss, how can I serve you?"
Mr. Searle, the grocer of Nunsford, spoke rather sharply, bending over his counter in the twilight, and looking half contemptuously upon his customer.
She was a tall girl of fifteen, rather old-looking for her years, but with a face so evidently designed by Nature for blooming color, dimples, and good-humor, that its lines of care and want were peculiarly painful.
"Well, miss," repeated the grocer, as his customer hesitated.