a-Maying?--June, with her light, green robe, and violet-slippered feet,
and sweet, warm breath, and rose-garlanded hair? ah, June is the month
to go a-Maying! Pat will tell you so.

THE LITTLE DANDELION MERCHANT.

Tattered straw hat, buttonless jacket, and shoeless feet. That is a
large basket for so young a lad as Jemmy to carry. He brushed the dew
from the grass this morning by daylight; his stock in trade consisting
of only a jack-knife and that basket; but "Uncle Sam" owns the
dandelions, and Jim is a Yankee, (born with a trading bump,) and
ninepence a basket is something to think of. To be sure he has cut his
bare feet with a stone, but that's a trifle. See, he is on his way to
the big house yonder, for the old housekeeper and her mistress have
both a tooth for dandelions. Jemmy swings the tattered part of his hat
round behind, and using a patch of grass for a mat, steps lightly up
the avenue.

How still and mirror-like the little pond looks. How gracefully the
long willow-tips bend to kiss the surface; how lazily the little gold
fish float beneath. There is not air enough to shake the perfume from
out the locust blossoms, and old Bruno has crawled into the shade,
although the sun is not two hours high.

What a fine old house! and how many dandelions somebody must have dug
to buy it!--Jemmy's arithmetic couldn't compute it; and that fine
statue, too, on the brink of the pond, with its finger on its lip;
(it's no use, is it Jemmy?) the birds won't "hush" for the daintiest
bit of marble ever sculptured; nested to their minds; no taxes to
pay;--nothing to do but warble. May no sportsman's gun send them
quivering through the branches.

Now Jemmy has reached the kitchen door, and gives a modest rap. Smart
"Tim," the footman, opens it, and with one application of his
aristocratic toe, sends the dandelion basket spinning down the avenue!
Jemmy's Yankee blood is up; his dark eyes flash lightning, he clenches
his brown fist, sets his ivory teeth together, and brings his little
bare foot down on the gravel-walk, with an emphasis; but he sees it is
no use, he is no match for the pampered footman; and great rebellious
tears gather in his eyes, as he picks up his scattered treasures,
saying,--"Ninepence would have bought my book."

"Would it, Jemmy? Well--here it is--'the fairies' have sent it you."

What a pretty picture he makes, as he pushes back his thick locks, and
flashes those great, dark, Italian eyes-