the hill where she dwelt to the ground, and left her lying dead amidst
the ruins.

Then the same kind little bird that had buried the grasshopper came and
picked her out and buried her also; and afterwards he composed and sang a
song, the burthen of which was, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." It
was a very pretty song, and a very wise song, and a man who lived in
those days, and to whom the birds, loving him and feeling that he was
almost one of themselves, had taught their language, fortunately
overheard it and wrote it down, so that all may read it to this day.

Unhappily for us, however, Fate is a harsh governess, who has no sympathy
with our desire for rosebuds. "Don't stop to pick flowers now, my dear,"
she cries, in her sharp, cross tones, as she seizes our arm and jerks us
back into the roadway; "we haven't time to-day. We will come back again
to-morrow, and you shall pick them then."

And we have to follow her, knowing, if we are experienced children, that
the chances are that we shall never come that way to-morrow; or that, if
we do, the roses will be dead.

Fate would not hear of our having a houseboat that summer,--which was an
exceptionally fine summer,--but promised us that if we were good and
saved up our money, we should have one next year; and Ethelbertha and I,
being simple-minded, inexperienced children, were content with the
promise, and had faith in its satisfactory fulfilment.

As soon as we reached home we informed Amenda of our plan. The moment
the girl opened the door, Ethelbertha burst out with:--"Oh! can you swim,
Amenda?"