om of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Gallop, gallop! far away.
Pony and I are going today.
Please get out of our way,
Don't ask us to stay;
We'll both come back
Some sunshiny day.

BABOUSCKA.

If you were a Russian child you would not watch to see Santa Klaus come
down the chimney; but you would stand by the windows to catch a peep at
poor Babouscka as she hurries by.

Who is Babouscka? Is she Santa Klaus' wife?

No, indeed. She is only a poor little crooked wrinkled old woman, who
comes at Christmas time into everybody's house, who peeps into every
cradle, turns back every coverlid, drops a tear on the baby's white
pillow, and goes away very, very sorrowful.

And not only at Christmas time, but through all the cold winter, and
especially in March, when the wind blows loud, and whistles and howls
and dies away like a sigh, the Russian children hear the rustling step
of the Babouscka. She is always in a hurry. One hears her running fast
along the crowded streets and over the quiet country fields. She seems
to be out of breath and tired, yet she hurries on.

Whom is she trying to overtake?

She scarcely looks at the little children as they press their rosy faces
against the window pane and whisper to each other, "Is the Babouscka
looking for us?"

No, she will not stop; only on Christmas eve will she come up-stairs
into the nursery and give each little one a present. You must not think
she leaves handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus brings for you. She does
not bring bicycles to the boys or French dolls to the girls. She does
not come in a gay little sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on
foot, and she leans on a crutch. She has her old apron filled with candy
and cheap toys, and the children all love her dearly. They watch to see
her come, and when one hears a rustling, he cries, "Lo! the Babouscka!"
then all others look, but one must turn one's head very quickly or she
vanishes. I never saw her myself.

Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when the tired mothers
sleep, she bends over their cradles, puts her brown, wrinkled face close
down to the pil