The sweet things tumble out,
Then carrying toes again
We'll have to trot about.
Run, run, race all day,
Mother'll mend us after play,
We don't care, we'll swing so gay
While we can--away, away!"

MARGARET SIDNEY.




JOE LAMBERT'S FERRY.


It was a thoroughly disagreeable March morning. The wind blew in sharp
gusts from every quarter of the compass by turns. It seemed to take
especial delight in rushing suddenly around corners and taking away
the breath of anybody it could catch there coming from the opposite
direction. The dust, too, filled people's eyes and noses and mouths,
while the damp raw March air easily found its way through the best
clothing, and turned boys' skins into pimply goose-flesh.

It was about as disagreeable a morning for going out as can be
imagined; and yet everybody in the little Western river town who could
get out went out and stayed out.

Men and women, boys and girls, and even little children, ran to the
river-bank: and, once there, they stayed, with no thought, it seemed,