beam danced around her spinning wheel, so that she seemed to spin behind a veil of gossamer; and in her gray dress, with her quiet eyes smiling out from under her white, smooth hair, she was more than beautiful.

Floss-Hair broke a downy seed globe from its stalk, and blew it one, two, three times. The plumes fluttered around her in the air; not one was left on the stem. "Grandmamma wants me," she said, and ran back to the door. "What was it stopped your play, little one ?"

66

Why, there is scarcely a dandelion left there in the grass, and in their places are rows of round gray heads, standing up like ghosts. Why need flowers die, grandmamma ?”

"Did you see where the seed feathers went, Floss-Hair, when you blew them from the

stem ?"

66

Oh, into the air, to sail off on the clouds, perhaps."

"No, no, dear; some of them glided away to hide under the velvet grass of the lawn, where they will sleep all summer and all winter, and next spring will come out again,

wide-awake young dandelions. And see there, the yellow-birds are taking the gray plumes to weave into the lining of their nests, and hundreds of little shivering birds will be thankful another year that the golden blossoms were changed to dandelion-down.”

"So the dandelions are spinning silk to line the birds' nests with," said Floss-Hair; “and grandmamma sits and spins for me. Dear grandmamma, your hair is gray and soft like dandelion-down, I hope no cruel wind will ever blow you away from me."

66

But, little one, my hair was once all flyaway gold, like yours. Call me DandelionDown, the phantom of a little Floss-Hair that played among the meadow blossoms seventy years ago."

66

'No, no, grandmamma; I will not call Dandelion-Down a ghost any more; it is a little, common, yellow flower turned to an angel, scattering blessings about the world, like a white-haired grandmamma I know, who has kind words always ready to give everybody. If people could only be sure of growing good and lovely as they grow old!”

The next spring little Floss-Hair strayed silently among the dandelions, for the chair in

the doorway was wheel was still. not wholly sad. Her memory was a nest of warm and tender thoughts that seemed fluttering back to her from the dear, silverhaired friend, now one of the white angels of heaven.

vacant, and the spinning But the child's heart was

gorgeous

á něm'ô né

cănổ py rev'er ence

dea'cons pro fanely sûrplice
sen'ti nels ĕx pound'

Come, hear what his rever

ence

Rises to say,

In his low, painted pulpit This calm Sabbath day.

Fair is the canopy
Over him seen,

Pencilled by Nature's hand,
Black, brown and green.
Green is his surplice,
Green are his bands;
In his queer little pulpit
The little priest stands.
In black and gold velvet,
So gorgeous to see,

Comes with his bass voice
The chorister bee.

Green fingers playing
Unseen on wind-lyres-
Low singing bird voices-
These are his choirs.

The violets are deacons―
I know by the sign

That the cups which they carry Are purple with wine;

And the columbines bravely

As sentinels stand

On the lookout with all their
Red trumpets in hand.

Meek-faced anemones,
Drooping and sad;
Great yellow violets,

Smiling out glad;
Buttercups' faces,

Beaming and bright;
Clovers, with bonnets-

Some red and some white;
Daisies, their white fingers
Half clasped in prayer;
Dandelions, proud of
The gold of their hair;
Innocents, children,
Guileless and frail,
Meek little faces
Upturned and pale;
Wildwood geraniums,
All in their best,