rong--then I wisht I wuz a woman!
For, bein' a woman, I could have riz up, an', standin' so, I could have
cried: "Come, Bill! come, let me hold you in these arms; come, let us
weep together, an' let this broken heart uv mine speak through these
tremblin' lips to that broken heart uv yourn, Bill, tellin' ye how much
I love ye an' sympathize with ye!"

But--no! I wuz _not_ a woman! I wuz a _man_! an', bein' a man, I must
let my heart break; I must hold my peace, an' I must make no sign.

THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS

An angel once asked the Father if he might leave heaven for a day and
go down to earth to visit the flowers and birds and little children,
for you must know that no other earthly things so much please the
angels of heaven as do the flowers, the birds, and the little children.

"Yes," said the Father, "you may go down to earth, but be sure to stay
no longer than a day; and when you come back to heaven bring me the
loveliest flower you can find, that I may transplant it to my garden
and love it for its beauty and its fragrance. Cherish it tenderly,
that no harm may befall it."

Then the angel went down to the earth, and he came to a beautiful
rose-bush upon which bloomed a rose lovelier and more fragrant than any
of her kind.

"Heyday, sweet rose," said the angel; "how proudly you hold up your
fair head for the winds to kiss."

"Ay, that I do," replied the rose, blushing, albeit she enjoyed the
flattery. "But I do not care for these idle zephyrs nor for the wanton
sunbeams that dance among my leaves all the day long. To-night a
cavalier will come hither and tear me from this awkward bush with all
its thorns, and kiss me with impassioned lips, and bear me to his lady,
who, too, will kiss me and wear me on her bosom, next her heart. That,
O angel, is the glory of the rose--to be a bearer of kisses from lover
to lover, and to hear the whispered vows of the cavalier and his lady,
to feel the beating of a gentle heart, and to wither on the white bosom
of a wooed maiden."

Then the angel came to a lily that arose fair and majestic from its
waxen leaves and bowed gracefully to each passing breeze.

"Why are you so pale and sad, dear lily?" asked the angel.

"My love is the north wind," said the lily, "and I look for him and
mourn because he does not come. And when he does come, and I would
smile under his caresses, he is cold and harsh and cruel to me, and I
wither and die for a season, and when