and sing to me always!"

"No, dear Emperor," said the little Nightingale, "I sing best when I am
free; I cannot live in a palace. But every night when you are quite
alone, I will come and sit in the window and sing to you, and tell you
everything that goes on in your kingdom: I will tell you where the poor
people are who ought to be helped, and where the wicked people are who
ought to be punished. Only, dear Emperor, be sure that you never let
anybody know that you have a little bird who tells you everything."

After the little Nightingale had flown away, the Emperor felt so well
and strong that he dressed himself in his royal robes and took his gold
sceptre in his hand. And when the courtiers came in to see if he were
dead, there stood the Emperor with his sword in one hand and his
sceptre in the other, and said, "Good-morning!"

MARGERY'S GARDEN[1]

[1] I have always been inclined to avoid, in my work among children,
the "how to make" and "how to do" kind of story; it is too likely to
trespass on the ground belonging by right to its more artistic and less
intentional kinsfolk. Nevertheless, there is a legitimate place for
the instruction-story. Within its own limits, and especially in a
school use, it has a real purpose to serve, and a real desire to meet.
Children have a genuine taste for such morsels of practical
information, if the bites aren't made too big and too solid. And to
the teacher of the first grades, from whom so much is demanded in the
way of practical instruction, I know that these stories are a boon.
They must be chosen with care, and used with discretion, but they need
never be ignored.

I venture to give some little stories of this type, which I hope may be
of use in the schools where country life and country work is an unknown
experience to the children.

There was once a little girl named Margery, who had always lived in the
city. The flat where her mother and father lived was at the top of a
big apartment-house, and you couldn't see a great deal from the
windows, except clothes-lines on other people's roofs. Margery did not
know much about trees and flowers, but she loved them dearly; whenever
it was a pleasant Sunday she used to go with her mother and father to
the park and look at the lovely flower-beds. They seemed always to be
finished, though, and Margery was always wishing she could see them
grow.

One spring, when Margery was nine, her father's work changed so that