While at home, he told his aunt what had happened to him; but she only patted his head, and told him that he must have been dreaming. But this Conrad refused to believe.
When he recovered, however, he became a much better boy, more quiet and attentive to his studies; and it may be mentioned that, whenever any one told a fairy-tale, he wore a very solemn face, took a back seat, and said nothing.
It is not known whether he still believes in fairies; but one thing is certain—he never saw the little old enchanter again, nor the school-books that he had left with him.
BLOSSOM-TIME.
By L. E. R.
Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,
Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!
Kiss her and crown her our Lady of Blossoming,
There as she sits on the apple-tree sweet!
Has she not gathered the summer about her?
See how it laughs from her lips and her eyes!
Think you the sun there would shine on without her?
Nay! 'Tis her smile keeps the gray from the skies!
Fire of the rose, and snow of the jessamine,
Gold of the lily-dust hid in her hair;
Day holds his breath and Night comes up to look at her,
Leaving their strife for a vision so rare.