l
surprising that the idea occurred to him that this crop ought to be
"picked." He found himself becoming highly indignant at the negligence
of the planter--whoever he might be--in leaving all these good things
to spoil on the bushes; and he burned with a desire to have them
properly gathered, and to assist in that work himself. Accordingly, he
was just about to reach for a pie and a jew's-harp, by way of
beginning, when he found that this was made impossible, by the fact of
himself having been suddenly and incomprehensibly changed to a huge
water-melon. Over him grew one of the largest bushes, from whose
branches depended seven roasted 'possums. It was some consolation to
look at them, and imagine how good they would taste if he only _could_
taste them. Presently a little gingerbread bird flew down and began to
peck at him, and say, "Git up, Sam! You Sam! Sam!"

He woke up, and found that the wonderful field had vanished, and that
he was lying under the old pecan-tree instead of the 'possum-bush; and
there was his mother shouting in his ear:

"Sam! don't you heah me, you lazy--_S-a-m_! _Git_ up dis minnit an' go to
de well for a bucket ob water, sah, foah I _whoop_ you!"

Pumble sat up and stared.

"Why, mammy," said Sam, "you tol' me I needn't do no work, kase it's my
buff-day."

"I's ben countin' it up ag'in," said Aunt Phillis, "an' foun' out where
I made a mis-figger, de fust time, and tallied wrong altogedder.
'Cordin' to de _c'rect_ calkilation, yo' buff-day was one day _las'
month._ WALK arter dat water!"

WAIT

BY DORA READ GOODALE.

When the icy snow is deep,
Covering the frozen land,
Do the little flowerets peep
To be crushed by Winter's hand?

No, they wait for brighter days,
Wait for bees and butterflies;
Then their dainty heads they raise
To the sunny, sunny skies.

When the cruel north winds sigh,
When 'tis cold with wind and rain,
Do the birdies homeward fly
Only to go back again?

No, they wait for spring to come,
Wait for gladsome sun and showers;
Then they seek their northern home,
Seek its leafy, fragrant bowers.

Trustful as the birds and flowers,
Tho' our spring of joy be late,
Tho' we long for brighter hours,
We must ever learn to wait.

THE STORY OF MAY-DAY.

BY OLIVE THORNE.

Alas, children! the world is growing old. Not that dear old Mother
Earth begins to show her six thousand (more or less