to get over.

"Why, what a sweet humor you are in to-day, sir!" said Lucy, walking
away, and arranging her bunch of violets for Cousin Susan as she went.

IDA FAY.

[Illustration]

THE BUTTER SONG.

WHEN I was a little boy, I often helped my mother when she was making
butter.

I liked to stand in the cool spring-house, and churn for a little while;
but I liked better to look out of the window, and watch the ducks
swimming in the creek, or the little shiners and sunfish darting back
and forth through the clear bright water.

Sometimes I would forget all about my work, and stand watching the
insects, ducks, and fishes, until some one would call me, and tell me to
go to work again.

One day I wanted to churn very fast; for my mother had told me that I
might take a swim in the creek when my work was done.

So I sang a little song that our German girl Bertha had taught me. She
called it the "Butter Song;" and here it is:--

Come, butter, come!
Little Harry at the gate
For his buttered bread does wait:
Come, butter, come!

Come, butter, come!
Fish for Lent, eggs for Easter,
Butter for all days, butter, come faster:
Come, butter, come!

I thought then, as Bertha told me, that if I sang that song a hundred
and eleven times, and didn't stop churning once while singing it, the
butter would soon be made. I believe so yet; but I think now, that the
_steady work_ had more to do with it than the song had.

S.

[Illustration]

THE SINGING MOUSE.

HAVE you ever heard of singing mice? There are
such creatures, you must know, or you will not
believe what my verses will tell you. Yes,
indeed: it was only the other day that I heard
of one that was kept in a little cage, like
those used for squirrels, and sang so
delightfully that her owner used to have her by
his bedside to charm him to sleep. She was a
wood-mouse. Wood-mice are the best singers.
Whether the one about which you shall hear came
from the woods or not, I cannot say; nor how
she happened to be in my friend C.'s house: but
there she certainly was; and this is the story
of what she did there. I call it,

SERENADE.

A certain friend Wi