He came forward, his round face all aglow with pleasure, as he bowed and said, "Your thanks, my friends, do not belong to me, but to our beloved Mother Goose, who, to make a poor boy happy, gave him her three magic fire-crackers."
[Begun in Harper's Young People No. 34, June 22.]
MISS VAN WINKLE'S NAP.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
Chapter III.
"Au printemps Poiseau nait et chante,
N'avez-vous pas oui sa voix?
Elle est pure, simple, et touchante,
La voix de Poiseau dans les bois."
So sang Julie Garnier, as she trudged with weary little feet up the mountain-side, listening to the birds, and in search of the squaw in charge of the doors of Day and Night. The pretty Indian legend had bewitched her. Here she was wandering away from all who cared for her, to see an old woman who cut up the old moons into stars; and already twilight was making the woods more dusky. The slanting sunbeams made a golden green in the young underbrush; the birds were seeking their nests; night would soon wrap the world in darkness; then what would become of Julie? The good God would protect her, she felt sure. But she was undoubtedly hungry, and yonder, where the road turned, was a great flat stone; on it she might rest, and eat a little ginger cake she happened to have in her pocket. To it she hastened, and what a world of beauty lay before her! It was at the head of a ravine, one of those deep mountain gorges lined with pines and cedars, through which rushed a rapid stream, but beyond this and over it were the dark defiles of the mountain range sweeping away to the north in purple shadows, while the sun tipped the tops of the nearer forest with gold and crimson. Here Julie paused, overcome with the grandeur and beauty her young eyes beheld. She sat down and listened to the noise of the stream beneath, and she watched the birds skimming over the ravine. Then remembering her cake, she took it from her pocket and nibbled it daintily, for it was all the food she had, and she must make it last until she came to the old squaw's wig-wam, where, of course, she would be hospitably regaled. She pushed her daisy-wreathed hat from her head, and leaned against a pine-tree; the soft breeze fanned her hot little head, and played with her brown curls; she drew her knees up and clasped her hands about them, watching the sky change from one bright hue to another. The stream's voice was a lullaby, and slowly, softly fell the fringes of her eyelids; till the bright eyes were closed, and Julie was asleep.
She was so wearied and in so deep a slumber that the approaching stage-coach with its freight of tourists did not disturb her; and so eager was every one to see the famous view, that no one apparently noticed the little sleeping wayfarer, but behind the stage came in a more leisurely manner a private conveyance with only four occupants—a lady and gentleman and two children, all evidently foreigners. The elders were indeed occupied in gazing at the glorious picture Nature here displayed, but the eyes of the children were equally sensitive to smaller objects, and when they beheld a sleeping child, they at once drew the attention of their parents to this interesting incident.
The gentleman bade the driver halt, and assisted his pretty little wife from the carriage. She went hastily forward toward Julie, but as she neared her she stopped, clasped her hands, and turned toward her husband. Her face grew so white that he became alarmed, and asked,