We'll call the pretty birdies nigh,
And scatter crumbs for them.

For mother loved their songs to hear,
To watch them on the wing:
She'll love to know they still come near
Her little ones, and sing."

"Heaven shield thee, precious child!" methought,
"And sister Annie too!
And may your future days be fraught
With blessings ever new!"

Hanna F. Gould

* * * * *

This is a true story. A little girl received it in a letter from a
very dear friend before it was printed.


THE FEATHER BRUSH.

So, my dear little friend, you wish for an answer to your letter, and
could not understand that the little feather brush I sent you was a
reply to your loving remembrance, just as if I had written one with
pen and ink. But you were a kind and loving child to transfer the gift
to little Julia, in your pity for her tears. I hope it soothed her
troubled heart, and dried her blue eyes; and you now shall have,
instead, the story which those soft feathers were sent to tell.