ound and sparkled on the tree tops in the morning sun. But the happy,
rosy-cheeked children, lately freed from the restraints of city life,
who played in the old garden in Concord, Massachusetts, that bright
spring morning many years ago, heeded not the biting wind or the
lingering snow. As they raced up and down the paths, in and out among
the trees, their cheeks took on a deeper glow, their eyes a brighter
sparkle, while their shouts of merry laughter made the morning glad.

But stay, what is this? What has happened to check the laughter on
their lips, and dim their bright eyes with tears? The little group,
headed by Louisa, has suddenly come to a pause under a tree, where a
wee robin, half dead with hunger and cold, has fallen from its perch.

"Poor, poor birdie!" exclaimed a chorus of pitying voices. "It is dead,
poor little thing," said Anna. "No," said Louisa, the leader of the
children in fun and works of mercy alike; "it is warm, and I can feel
its heart beat." As she spoke, she gathered the tiny bundle of feathers
to her bosom, and, heading the little procession, turned toward the
house.

A warm nest was made for the foundling, and, with motherly care, the
little Louisa May Alcott, then only eight years old, fed and nursed
back to life the half-famished bird.

Before the feathered claimant on her mercy flew away to freedom, the
future authoress, the "children's friend," who loved and pitied all
helpless things, wrote her first poem, and called it "To the First
Robin." It contained only these two stanzas:--

"Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger,
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing, 'Sweet spring is near.'

"Now the white snow melts away,
Now the flowers blossom gay,
Come, dear bird, and build your nest,
For we love our robin best."

THE "WIZARD" AS AN EDITOR

Although he had only a few months' regular schooling, at ten Thomas
Alva Edison had read and thought more than many youths of twenty.
Gibbon's "Rome," Hume's "England," Sears's "History of the World,"
besides several books on chemistry,--a subject in which he was even
then deeply interested,--were familiar friends. Yet he was not, by any
means, a serious bookworm. On the contrary, he was as full of fun and
mischief as any healthy boy of his age.

The little fellow's sunny face and pleasing manners made him a general
favorite, and when circumstances forced him from the