could straighten themselves up and run. Fortunately, the
snake's head was turned the other way.

"Ada," said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his grandpapa,
raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not hear, him, "there's
a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep very still and crawl
right after me."

"Yes, Ada," he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming himself out and
wriggling past the snake till he could stand upright. "_There's room_,
but you mustn't make any noise!"

Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down the avenue,
hand in hand.

"Grandpapa," said Marland, "there's a rattlesnake in there where Ada
and I were; perhaps you'd better kill him!"

And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the hundredth time
had folded his little boy in his arms and murmured, "My brave boy! my
dear, brave little boy!" Marland looked up in surprise.

"Why, it wasn't _I_ that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa! I
didn't do anything; I only kept very still and ran away!"

But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running away was
just the bravest thing the little fellow could have done; and I
think his mamma--for I am his mamma, and so I know just how she did
feel--felt when she took him in her arms that night that in her little
boy's soul there was something of the stuff of which heroes are made.

MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.

THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.

Come, come, come, little Tiny,
Come, little doggie! We
Will "interview" all the blossoms
Down-dropt from the apple-tree;
We'll hie to the grove and question
Fresh grasses under the swing,
And learn if we can, dear Tiny,
Just what is the joy called Spring.

Come, come, come, little Tiny;
Golden it is, I know:
Gold is the air around us,
The crocus is gold below;
Red as the golden sunset
Is robin's breast, on the wing--
But, come, come, come, little Tiny,
This isn't the half of Spring.

Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;
Fragrant it is--for, see,
We catch the breath of the violets
However hidden they be;
And buds o'erhead in the greenwood
The sweetest of spices fling--
Yet color and sweets together
Are still but a part of Spring.

Then come, come, come, little Tiny,
Let's hear what _you_ have to tell
Learned of the years you've scampered
Over the hill and dell--
What! Only a _bark_ for answer?
Now, Tiny, that is