ill," said the man; "jump in." And Conrad clambered into the
cart.

"You look tired," said the driver. "Lie down on that blanket and rest
yourself."

Conrad gladly did as he was told and, feeling much fatigued after his
adventures, he was soon fast asleep.

He did not awake until he felt himself carried out of the cart, and was
just enough awake to know that all the inmates of his father's house,
together with a few of the neighbors, were crowding about and asking him
where he had been. And that was all he noticed, for the next moment he
was off to sleep again, and was carried upstairs and put to bed.

He did not feel very well the next morning, so the doctor was called in,
who advised that he should remain in the house for a few days, as he had
a slight fever.

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.

Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,
Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!
Kiss her, and crown her, and flutter adown her,
And carpet the ground for her dear little feet!

A SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF.

BY ALICE MAY.

[Illustration]

Early one morning, a palanquin carried by native bearers, and containing
as passengers Mr. Steedman, an English missionary, and his little son
Harry, was proceeding up the one street of Biforana,