F

"Here is no enemy

But winter and rough weather."

ROM May-day until midsummerday, the hours, filled as they are with flowers and bird-songs, are one long delight to the lover of nature. The country becomes swathed and muffled in over-topping verdure. The tide of life is scarcely at flood when the earth wheels past the solstitial point; there follows yet a month of fervid heat before we feel that the ebb has fairly begun. According to the prediction furnished by Gen. Greely of the Weather Bureau, in the Northwestern States the week of greatest heat has now passed and a series of nights without dew may be expected-nights when one may easily feign he hears the corn grow. This is a good time to live out of doors. Too often the summer flitting of city folk is postponed until the country has lost most of its attractiveness. By August the farmers themselves should have leisure to visit some of the pleasant mountain or seashore resorts where good music and wide-awake lectures afford much needed relief from the tedium of country life.

Following midsummer-day-the noon of the year-a midday quiet comes over the fields; one by one the birds, busy with flocks of gaping fledgelings, forget to sing; even the shrilling of innumerable grasshoppers seems only to emphasize the sultry silence. The flowers that remain have a certain firmness of petal and tropical wealth of color in place of the dewy freshness of spring blossoms.

The fiery-hearted meadow lilies grow here and there on unmown banks. Later, in a tangled thicket of climbing bittersweet, smilax and iron-weed, or by the grassy margin of the creek may be found the rarer and more stately Turk's-Cap lily. In the meadows, the timothy, or herd's-grass, standing close-ranked and tall, is covered with a fine misty purple bloom which has a mealy smell like tasselled corn, only perceived as the wind brings us the breath of the field. If there is any fair and grateful husbandry, it is seen in the hay-field. Every step in the

process of haying is picturesque, from the cutting of the grass to the stowing away of the freshly dried, fragrant hay in the great stacks or mows. Besides, the farmer must keep a weather-wise eye on the summer clouds' slow moving, laden wains, from the hour when the clicking mowing-machine is first sent into the meadow, until the last load is securely put away. While the hay is being cared for, the winter wheat is growing golden and ready for the reaper. The oats which now look as though covered with blue gauze, will ripen next. Then the russet stubble fields will suggest only too forcibly that the summer is on the wane.

In the still mid-summer heat, every green thing gives out a good smell, from the delicious blossoms of the grape to the resinous odor of evergreens. The woodlands have a luxuriance of foliage that makes their recesses look dark and shadowy-almost forbidding. But in the honeyed bloom of the basswood trees, a bait is held out to the bees which those nectar-hunters are not slow to seize upon. Later yet, the chestnut hangs forth its creamy tassels. Ferns are now in greatest perfection, and, in most varieties, the fruitful fronds will be found well covered with spores, while the lover of wild flowers will find some of the less familiar sorts in suitable nooks. In a moist opening in the woods, one may come upon a truss of the great purple fringed orchis-reward enough for one walkor, failing that, some smaller yellow ones, or meadow lilies like a flame in the dim recesses. Among the glossy leaves that carpet the ground under the trees, there are checker berry (or partridge berry) vines strung with fragrant twin blossoms, and careful search may uncover the waxen bell of the wintergreen, a flower rarely seen although the red berries are so familiar. In some rich spot we may find a white plant whose short stalks, growing in little colonies, hold each a single flower either drooping "like sweet soul chidden," or facing directly skyward-a fair chalice before which one involuntarily pauses in won

der. This is the monotropa or Indian pipe. It lives so without one stain of earthly green in stalk or leaf, only by grace of the trees that spreading their foliage above in the sunshine, elaborate the sap that feeds both tree and flower. So some fair lives are made possible by heritage of others' toil.

The first wild fruit of the season ripens under June suns and is in its prime about midsummer-day. If we go strawberrying, we will skirt the meadow, keeping close to the fence (so as not to tread down the farmer's mowing), until we reach a wilder and more weedy field, where the grass looks thin and poor. Here is our prize. But it is well for us if the berries are not too abundant. The gathering of wild fruit is like the angler's art in its gentle associations with nature. If we fill no baskets, we shall

grow the better acquainted with sun and wind, bird and insect. The earth-mother seldom takes close to her heart a child preoccupied with any quest. She can wait, keeping her own counsel, until we come asking only to learn what she deigns to reveal. So leave the berries to the birds; rest awhile on the broad lap of mother earth, with only a hedge of grasses round about you, and gaze into the deeps of over-arching sky. Here is time to listen to the meadow larks whistling "O quit you, quit you," in long-drawn cadence; to feel how the warmth of the sun beams upon all lowly things; to have some thought for the swarming insect lives that find a home in the (to them) almost impenetrable jungle of grass-stems; and to take into your heart somewhat of the breadth and peace of the summer fields.

HE little lady was in despair. It was such a lovely bonnet-so becoming, so faultless, so ravishingly sweet. There it stood on its perch in the modiste's window, beckoning to her, half impatient to be poised upon her head and shine amid the throngs on the Avenue, or arouse to placid thought at church. She could not resist its entreaty-she had crossed the street, lingered at the window, admiring its fresher beauties from a nearer view, and then-had fled in confusion, closing her eyes to shut out that beatific vision from Paris!

A wise little woman, indeed, and she flushed in triumph when she reached her snug house, and felt an inch or two taller on having gained a moral victory. And when Fred Dennison came home from his law-office that evening, she beamed upon him with more than angelic rapture. There were no bounds to her effusiveness. She never looked more charming. Not every struggling young lawyer could boast of a wife so economical, yet so lovely, as his little queen Alice.

She was only five feet two inches in height, it is true, but her brain and her heart were larger than the average. She was wisdom and affection personified. And when the meal ended and they had adjourned to a cosy end of the sitting room, his happiness was complete, listening to her terse and suggestive inquiries on the tariff question, which were interrupted by a sudden move to the piano. Then she lingered over Chopin's Etudes, dashed frantically into Brahms, and ended solemnly with Beethoven, while Fred Dennison's eyes after vain efforts to keep open, closed in sympathetic sleep. She was a clever little lady, indeed, A year ago, a prize graduate of Miss Delicatessen's fashionable school, and now a happy wife of the dearest man in the world who was destined to become a judge of the United States Supreme Court, and allow her all the bonnets she wanted.

The next day, Mrs. Dennison by one of those curious coincidences common in this transitory life of ours, found herself on the identical street and gazing at the same bonnet. A sudden resolution seized her. She would enter in a casual way, unconcernedly ask its price. Its

and

The little lady was at home again. She was thinking. Her forehead was furrowed with frowns. Something had to be done and that, too, speedily. The bonnet must be bought, and even at the price asked for it. But could she, dared she inflict this expense on Fred? She knew his income was limited. She had purchased a bonnet only the week before, but she thought it so nice to have another, but not at Fred's cost. No. She was determined on that. She would not object to it, if he were a judge or if his army of clients forced him to engage a regiment of clerks, or if his offices were in a magnificent marble edifice on Broadway. Then he might buy a dozen bonnets for her in a single season. But now it was out of the question. What could she do?

So she frowned and frowned, clenched her fist, knitted her brows, walked up and down the room, as if the heroine in some luckless tragedy. Then-thenlight dawned. She grew calmer. Her frowns disappeared. Her brows resumed their usual comely expression. She positively smiled, as the clouds of anxiety

vanished. The sunbeams danced around

her again. She was jubilant as she opened the drawer of her writing-desk and drew forth some folded sheets. She had it!

She had it!

"What? The bonnet?" the curious reader exclaims.

"No, madam," the author must reply, deeply annoyed at the interruption. "No bonnet at all. But an idea, madam, a glorious idea, which is worth a bonnet. And let me whisper, madam-nowadays, when so many ideas are not worth a cent, is it not a subject for the profoundest

congratulation to have an idea worth the exquisite creation of a milliner?"

Mrs. Dennison seized the MSS., read

the pages with many a nod of her pretty

sistible grace that the canary bird began head, and then laughed with such irreto sing in sympathy.

"The very thing," she said to herself. "The very thing. I am sure it will do. It gained the prize. I will re-write it, and cross every t and dot every i, and tie it neatly with a blue ribbon to soften the editor's heart. And it will be published in the Fireaway Magazine. And I shall receive a handsome check. And thenthe bonnet! Oh, oh, oh!" And she laughed once more, while the bird caroled its gayest.

Mrs. Dennison never wasted time. She had all the impulsiveness of youth. She took her graduation essay, copied it in her boldest hand on her stoutest paper, numbered each page carefully, tied it in ribbon of dainty blue, and carried it herself to the post-office. She was sure it would be accepted. In a little note she had requested the article to be published anonymously, enclosing her name and address for the editor only. The deed was done. Mrs. Dennison had a secret.

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office after lunch when a strong hand Fred Dennison was walking to his grasped his, and a cheery voice exclaimed: Fred, you incorrigible fellow. I have you now. Come to my den. You can leave your clients for a few minutes; I am sure you can."

Fred was of the same opinion on this point, and he was soon in the office of the editor was his dear old college chum, Fireaway Magazine, whose managing Harry Reed, now the distinguished author Henry Reed, Esq., for the past three months editor of the magazine in question.

"You have a pleasant position, Harry." Fred remarked, as he glanced at the surroundings of the office, walled in by books.

Am abundantly satisfied, old fellow." Reed replied, "but it is grind, grind all the time."

"It can't be worse than law, my boy. I am growing prematurely old, there is

so much wear and tear. And, besides, it makes me lachrymose. I live on other people's complaints."

Complaints! Very good, Fred, for you, but what do you say to this," and Reed opened a huge safe, choked with MSS. "And to that," pointing to shelves upon shelves similarly burdened. "And the next room, my dear boy, is crowded with the same class of occupants. Tales of passion and despair, poems of romance and devotion, essays in every department of literature, sketches, biographies, funny sayings, stories of travel and adventure, all come into my net. And what is most curious, the supply like Keats' "poetry of earth" is ceasing never. Say, Fred, I ought not to disclose editorial secrets, but have you a literary sister?" And Reed looked oddly at his friend.

"A literary sister?" and Fred laughed. "Why, I have no sister in this blessed world."

"Ah! Fred, Fred, you have a literary sister after all, and you have never introduced me. There is her article, my boy; received yesterday. Daintily tied, of course. Bit of blue ribbon to soften the editor's heart. Charming chirography to capture his taste. 'An essay on the beautiful!' Ha! Ha! Why, it's a schoolgirl's composition. Not a bad idea of hers to send it to the Fireaway. Shows her judgment, Fred."

"Reed," Dennison exclaimed after a glance at the MSS. "It's my wife's prize essay at school. I know it by heart. The little woman must have meant it for a joke, I assure you. You know her. You met her at our wedding."

"Your wife!" Reed said in a tone of astonishment. "Of course I met her at your wedding. But why does she want to publish her prize essay?"

So Fred took the essay in hand, read it to the amazed editor. It began "What's Beauty?" and strove to give the philosophy of æsthetics in ten pages. It quoted Plato, then cited Hegel, mentioned Joubert, glanced at Cousin's definition, and contrasted the views of Burke. "Beauty is in the mind, not on the canvas. must be in the soul, before it can be perceived in the canopy of nature. It is the expression of the highest intelligence. It resists definition, like the dew resists our touch. It is the ideal. It is not mere utility or proportion; 'tis Divine!" Bravo!" cried Reed. "Is that all?"

It

"No, there is one line more: 'Let us follow the Good, the Beautiful, the True.' There's a wife to have."

"I agree with you, Fred. She is a precious treasure, but I could not print the essay, not even for her sake. It must be rejected.'

"I have an idea, Reed-a glorious idea. It would break her heart to have the MSS. returned. Come, let me advance the remuneration. Accept the essay, send the usual honorarium, and give me the MSS. I will never breathe a word."

"It is terribly undignified, Fred," said Reed smiling, "and for an editor almost out of the question. But she is a charming little woman, and I am sure she will forgive us the deception."

"Don't let that worry you, my boy. She will be perhaps ashamed to have it published. Anyway, I know you editors hold MSS. on hand ten years and more before you print them. So I don't anticipate any special anxiety on the author's part. Mail the check at once, Reed, and there will be high comedy to-night at dinner."

When Dennison reached home that evening, his wife met him at the door as usual. She seemed a little flushed, however, and her eyes were fairly aflame with suppressed excitement. She controlled herself bravely during dinner, and Fred was wondering whether Reed had really sent the letter, when just as they were about to leave the table, she remarked in a curiously quiet tone: "Fred, I have news for you."

'Have you, my love? Pleasant news, I hope. Is your mother coming on a visit?"

"Oh, Fred!" with the least bit of reproach in her voice. "It is not about mother. It is-it is-this," and she produced the following letter:

"The Editors of the Fireaway Magazine beg to accept for publication your essay entitled, "What is the Beautiful?" and enclose a check for the same."

"Why, my love, you take my breath away. What is the amount? Twentyfive dollars! Just endorse it, dovey, and I'll cash it for you at once. Twenty-five dollars! Was it your prize essay?"

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"Yes, Fred," she said in a low voice. About Hegel, Plato, Joubert, Cousin and those other literary fellows?"

Reed are warmer friends than ever. Mrs. Dennison has never asked why her article does not appear in print, and her husband is in no hurry to tell her.

A. S. Isaacs.

J

un

T is now many years since children were perpetually admonished to be "unheard," by their elders, with a manifest deprecation of the physical obstacles to their being, also, seen." So long it seems since all this was changed, that we of the generations whose youth was not held royal-something to be cherished and guarded as of value to the State-must rub our eyes at the embarras de richesse poured out for our children.

"When we were young," say Mr. and Mrs. Methuselah, "Red Riding-Hood,' 'The Story of the Three Bears,' and 'Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp,' were considered the very acme of polite, juvenile literature. When we grew into that old-young period, classified by the ready-made-clothing man, as 'boys and misses,' our childhood's joy in these and like tales had staled, and we found very little preparation for our healthful, mental hunger."

In your day, dear sir and madam, the immature mind was too often overstimulated by open, or surreptitious, dipping into poetry and romances "never writ for babes." Much of this you could not understand, thanks to the guardian angels of innocence, but much still stirred your childish hearts to an untimely knowledge of life's passions and woes.

He, or she, who gave the first impulse to the present state of the literature prepared for the coming man and woman, finds an enduring epitaph in the universal acceptance of a motto, which seems to govern the publishers of this generation: "For our children-nothing, if not the best."

No country seems too distant, no science too abstruse, no mechanical process too intricate, that one and all may not be held tributary to the amusement and culture of these young sovereigns of ours. Not presented in bare and un