"I think, dear," she said, one morning, when we were in the garden, "you had better send her a new one. Perhaps it would be a good idea to save some of your pocket-money for this purpose." And very gladly I consented to this little discipline.
Laura, who is opposite me as I write, teaching my little girl to pronounce f, has just asked me if I remember how long ago all this happened.
"Can it be fifteen years?" she says—and in my heart it seems only yesterday, although never since have I forgotten the lesson that day taught: that false colors never help us to be happy, and that "fun" built up on wrong-doing never can be honest enjoyment.
THE END.
h, lovely days are hasting here, when Summer's tripping feet
Will dance along the clover fields and o'er the golden wheat,
When winds will wander through the rye, and merry brooks shall sing,
And scarlet-vested orioles in cradle nests shall swing.
Then up and down the sunny hills, and o'er the velvet turf,
And where the great waves thunder in to break in foamy surf,
You'll see the little children come, so quick to hear are they
When Summer bids them follow her, and tells them what to play.
She'll show them where the berries ripe are blushing thick and sweet;
She'll lead them where the tangled boughs in fragrant arches meet;
She'll smile when in the shady pool the little fishers dip,
And hush the prattling breezes near with finger on her lip.
What fun to pitch the new-mown hay, and climb the load so high
That proudly lifts the darlings up between the earth and sky!
What joy to build the mimic fort, and pelt it down with sand!
What wealth to fill with buttercups each small despairing hand!
And, oh, to toss the torn straw hat upon the shining curls,
And after Bess and Brindle trot through pastures strung with pearls!
What bliss and what supreme content in afternoons to lie,
And from the hammock watch the clouds like white sails gliding by!
Ah! sweet it is to sit and dream, my little Golden-Hair,
And picture summer's happy days without a single care;
For blither than your gladdest thought the summer-time will be,
That hither comes with tripping feet to reign o'er land and sea.