Contentment

Once on a time an old red hen

Went strutting round with pompous clucks, For she had little babies ten,

A part

of which were tiny ducks. "Tis very rare that hens," said she,

"Have baby ducks as well as chicksBut I possess, as you can see,

Of chickens four and ducklings six!"

A season later, this old hen

Appeared, still cackling of her luck, For, though she boasted babies ten, Not one among them was a duck! ""Tis well," she murmured, brooding o'er The little chicks of fleecy down, "My babies now will stay ashore, And, consequently, cannot drown!"

The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as of yore-
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens as before!

"Tis better," said the old red hen, As she surveyed her waddling brood; "A little water now and then

Will surely do my darlings good!"

But oh! alas, how very sad!

When gentle spring rolled round again,

The eggs eventuated bad,

And childless was the old red hen!

Yet patiently she bore her woe,

And still she wore a cheerful air, And said: ""Tis best these things are so, For babies are a dreadful care!"

I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen

With plumage of vermilion hue.
She ne'er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence-

She was contented-that was all!

EUGENE FIELD.

Toys and Play, Indoors and Out

The Land of Story-Books

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall,

And follow round the forest track

Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,

All in my hunter's camp I lie,

And play at books that I have read

Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,

These are my starry solitudes;

And there the river by whose brink

The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

R. L. STEVENSON.

Sand Castles

Build me a castle of sand

Down by the sea.

Here on the edge of the strand

Build it for me.

How shall a foeman invade,

Where may

he land,

While we can raise with our spade

Castles of sand?

Turrets upleap and aspire,

Battlements rise

Sweeping the sea with their fire,

Storming the skies.

Pile that a monarch might own,
Mightily plann'd!

I can't sit here on a throne,

This is too grand.

Build me a cottage of sand

Up on the hill;

Snug in a cleft it must stand

Sunny and still.

Plant it with ragwort and ling,

Bramble and bine:

Castles I'll leave to the King,

This shall be mine.

Storm-clouds drive over the land,

High flies the spray;

Gone are our houses of sand,

Vanished away!

Look at the damage you've done,

Sea-wave and rain!

-"Nay, we but give you your fun

Over again."

W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON.