of the trailing arbutus look up at him and breathe their fragrant, spring greeting to him?

"Why, no!" said the little boy. "New England is a pretty good place, after all, isn't it? I just didn't think right-that's all." F. P. P.

"SPECKED" APPLES.

Farmer Brown owned a large apple orchard, and so, each winter, his well-stocked cellar contained many barrels of apples for his family's use. Now, Farmer Brown was very much like some other persons who always keep putting off a duty to be done as long as possible. As a result, he never sorted his apples, though he often talked of doing it. So, whenever one of his children was sent to the cellar for a dish of apples, it was always with instructions to take none but the "specked" ones—those having begun to decay. And, as decayed fruit will always spoil the sound fruit in the same barrel, the apples kept on spoiling, and Farmer Brown's family kept on eating "specked" apples the whole winter through-the sound fruit being left untouched until it should show signs of decaying.

There were occasions, however, when Farmer Brown would go to the cellar himself and select sound, rosy-cheeked apples, and, carefully wiping them, he would place them on the table in the very best fruit-dish. But that happened only when the Browns had company. Now, if "specked" fruit was not fit to place before his company, why should he have considered it fit for his own family-those nearest and dearest to him?

It is easy to draw a comparison between Farmer Brown and his apples and the person possessing good qualities as well as bad ones, but never sorting them out, and whose family see mainly the bad ones-except when there is company! Loving smiles and gentle manners bring sweet and willing and loving service in the family, while sour looks and cross words bring sullen, unwilling service. Bad habits and ill manners, like "specked" apples in a barrel, will, if not sorted out, sooner or later spoil all the good qualities.

My little men and women, sometimes we grow careless, and we get "specked" manners and habits. But those of us who are wise and sincere, and who long to do our share in making the world bright and happy, will sort out our good and bad qualities. Do not try to cut away the worst or weakest part of a fault. Throw it all away, for a fault is a fault, all the way through; and your conscience will detect its less harmful side as quickly as your sense of taste detects the flavor of a "specked" apple, even after the cutting away of the decayed part.

Let us keep ourselves sound and sweet and wholesome, and then we will draw out from those about us only the sound and sweet and wholesome, and thus we will be doing the will of our Father. FRED J. EATON.

THE MESSAGE OF THE WINDS, AND THE COUNTESS.

(Part I.)

In a grove of elms near a rose hedge, on one of the south lawns of the castle of Beaupré, a tiny maiden played, napped, and chattered away most of her baby days. She was brought to the castle by a passing hunter who picked her up on the highway. It would seem as if some one had stolen her, then repented and left her to chance; and chance took the form of the kind hunter who carried her to the nearest shelter. No one could find out where the little one belonged; so the castle, or rather the elms and the rose hedge, became her home. She was named Nannie, and given in charge to an elderly woman whom every one knew as "Grandma." They lived in the elm grove and out by the rose hedge most of the time, and passed their lives in a very simple way during Nannie's first year.

As she had no companions, all about her in Nature's keeping grew to be her dear friends. The winds brought her stories from the birds, the breath of the flowers, the whisper of the leaves, and the ever-varying pictures of the clouds.

As Nannie grew older, cares came. The early glories of the castle had passed away, and its few inmates now joined in the

necessary household service. But out-of-door life yet filled some hours for Nannie's day, and she clung to the freedom of being out under the sky. Sometimes she watched the sheep in the meadow near the wood, lest they should go astray, and many a time she had to run quickly to head them off from steep rocks near by. When the sheep were in the fold, she would make Grandma's porridge and sit down in front of the great open fire in the old castle hall, with the light dancing over her and on the dim old tapestries that hung about the walls. Poor little Nannie! The bright fire was such a comfort to her. It shone into her heart, and she would bubble over in a gay little song. But her happiest time was out in the grove or by the rose hedge, where the winds used to tell her where they had been and what they had seen. She knew the sheep and the sheep knew her, but they did not have so much to tell her as the winds, the roses, and the birds had. No one cared much for Nannie.

All the grand people of the castle had gone away, and there were left only a faded "Aunt Daphne;" Bessie, general housemaid; John, a burly old manservant; and last, but by no means least, Lulie, a collie, Nannie's devoted friend.

Nannie and Lulie used to sit together many a time between work hours and listen-listen to the wind. In the quiet shades of the elms such famous pictures would pass-knights and ladies from the dim old tapestries would move by. Nannie would start watchfully, Lulie's ears would prick up, and then-the procession would vanish into the wood. When the rain was coming the wind brought word, and Nannie and Lulie would start together for the castle. When the wind turned cold, and Nannie's work kept her out a little longer, Lulie would go to the castle, when Nannie gave the word, and bring back a warm cape.

You should have seen the birds wait in the boughs for Nannie, near where she loved to sit. You should have seen the leaves brighten at her touch. In her room, high up in one of the towers of the castle, where Grandma could call Nannie if she was needed, stood Nannie's little bed. Near it was a chink in the wall through which the winds had a great deal to say to her at night, when she was dropping off to sleep. Some nights the south wind came, with its warm, gentle breath, to the little

chink, and soothed by its soft caress Nannie would fall asleep dreaming of a tale "Aunt Daphne" told her long ago; and this was the tale:

One day a little peasant girl wandered away from her home and was given up for lost. Many years after she was missed, a great earl was hunting in the forest near his old home, a woodcutter's hut, and came across the wood-cutter's wife, who was piling wood.

"Good-morrow, dame," said the earl.
"Good-morrow, sir."

"And how goes the world with you?"

"A sorry, sorry world, sire; for since we lost our lass the sun does not warm us."

"And when did you lose your lass?"

"Many a year ago, please you, sire."

"Aye, that is sad, sad; but be brave. There is time yet for good things to come to pass, and the sun may shine on you together again."

The earl looked thoughtful. His heart opened in giving cheer, and he said: "I'll tell my men this very day to begin a search for her, and-who knows?-she may not be so far away."

"And, please sire, does your lordship feel that to be true?" "Stranger things than that have happened. What was the lassie's name?"

"Lucie Vanwinne."

The earl seemed to hesitate, and looked so sad that the woman spoke her thoughts aloud, and said: "It may be, my lord's heart, saving his presence, has had a like blow?"

"Yes, yes; that it has, woman. But there's ever a way out of sorrow; and we'll hope that the sun may bring warmth to you for the finding of your lassie."

And the old woman wiped away a tear, and the earl went on his way.

Sometimes the wind would come into the north and blow cold, and Nannie would curl down in her little cot and wonder if the little peasant girl was ever found.

L. K. TRIVETT.

PLAIN TALK IN PSALM AND PARABLE. By Ernest Crosby. 188 pp. Cloth, $1.50. Small, Maynard & Company, publishers, Boston.

This is a volume of real poetry-real in that the key-note of its stanzas is Truth unveiled. Even the "Psalms," in their rhythmic prose expression, breathe the melody and harmony of utterance that bring conviction to every mind having sincerity and candor among its qualities. The author is an advocate of feasible reform, and his lines have been written with a purposethe upbuilding rather than the upliftment of the human race through inculcation of rational thought and the thinking habit. The son of a famous Presbyterian divine, now deceased, Mr. Crosby is a worker in the ranks of the struggling masses-a lover of his fellow-man who has the courage of his principles. Readers of "Things as They Are," by Bolton Hall, which was reviewed in last month's MIND, will find this book of peculiar interest; but it may be read with profit by every one who recognizes the need for improvement in the social and ethical conditions of modern communities.

THE MEMOIRS OF VICTOR HUGO. Translated by John W. Harding. With a preface by Paul Meurice. 404 pp. Cloth, $2.50. G. W. Dillingham Co., New York.

It is doubtful if any of the published works of Victor Hugo give so clear an insight into the real character and transcendent genius of the great French author as this long-looked-for volume of "Memoirs." The "Shakespeare of France" throws some sidelights on Gallic history that have all the fascination of personal experience and the charm that can be imparted only by the trained litterateur. The actual reminiscences date from 1825, though many unpublished details of the execution of Louis XVI. and the arrival of the first Napoleon at the French capital ten years earlier are given as recounted to Hugo by eye-witnesses. Included in the book are a few short stories that contain some of the poet's finest passages, revealing a breadth of intellectual grasp and subtlety of analysis that parallel anything to be found