the river on which was his mill, where he worked busily all day long. In the evening, after his long day's work, he would walk home to his little cottage, where he always found his good little wife awaiting him. And his chil

dren ran happily out to meet him as he came. So this miller was always happy and contented, in spite of his poverty and hard work, because God had given him wife and children, and all things that he needed, and kept him from debt and misery. He used to sing to himself as he worked, and this is what he sang

"I envy nobody-no, not I

And nobody envies me."

One day as he was singing this he looked up and saw before him a man handsomely dressed, sitting on a beautiful horse, and followed by attendants. This man was the king. He was very powerful and very rich, and had many people around to wait upon him and to flatter him; but still he was not happy. He had so many cares and worries that he could not rest. He looked at the miller and said, "Miller, how is it that you are so happy, though you are poor and have to work hard?"

And the miller answered, "I am happy because I can work and earn my bread. I owe no man, and I have my wife and children to love me."

Then the king turned away bidding the

miller farewell, and saying, "Do not sing any more that no one envies you; for I would rather be a happy miller by the Dee than the king on his throne."

XXXIX.-A GOOD HOME.

Better than gold is a peaceful home,
Where all the fireside charities come-
The shrine of love, the haven of life,
Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.
However humble that home may be,
Or tried with sorrows by Heaven's decree,
The blessings that never were bought or sold
And centre there are better than gold.

pûr ple sheltered plaid é clipse' for lôrn'

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap;
The wind that through the pine-trees sung,
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;

While, through the window, frosty-starred,
Against the sunset purple barred,

We saw the sombre crow flap by,
The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,
The crested blue-jay flitting swift,
The squirrel poising on the drift,
Erect, alert, his broad gray tail
Set to the north wind like a sail.

It came to pass, our little lass,
With flattened face against the glass,
And eyes in which the tender dew
Of pity shone, stood gazing through
The narrow space her rosy lips

Had melted from the frost's eclipse:

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Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue-jays! What is it that the black crow says? The squirrel lifts his little legs, Because he has no hands, and begs; He's asking for my nuts, I know: May I not feed them on the snow?"

Half lost within her boots, her head
Warm-sheltered in her hood of red,

Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,
She floundered down the wintry lawn;

Now struggling through

the misty veil

Blown round her by the shrieking gale;

Now sinking in a drift so low,

Her scarlet hood could scarcely show

Its dash of color on the

snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn

Her little store of nuts and corn,

And thus her timid guests bespoke :

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Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak,

Come, black old crow, come, poor blue-jay, Before your supper's blown away!

Don't be afraid, we all are good,

And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood."