A little Humming Bird had brought the news and had told it only to the Sweet Peas, so they thought it must be for them that this beautiful change was to come. Had they not heard that years ago a sweet flower called Narcissus had been changed into a beautiful youth, who could wander where he wished? What delight that would be! And had they not also heard of Pansies changing into little children, and Larkspurs into larks that soared away into the bright blue sky? Of Water Lilies changing into maidens, who made their homes under the green waves? And they had always thought that myriads of brilliant flowers were changed into the daintiest of all things. The little Humming Birds must have been flowers at one time, for they were always hovering around them, kissing them and making love to them. Oh! if the Fairy Queen would only change them into birds, or velvet bees, or, better still, into the beautiful butterflies, that came to them so often and fluttered like a cloud around them. Yes, they would rather be butterflies than anything else. Slowly the moonlight faded from the flowers, the shadows of the night deepened and the soft dew fell like a benediction. A Fairy form floated over the sweetest of blossoms, then disappeared, and all was dark and silent save a gentle flutter, as of wings. But in the morning when the sunbeams had awakened the sleeping blossoms, a flight of bright-winged Butterflies floated in the air or lighted for a moment on the flowers, but the Sweet Peas had all disappeared and were nowhere to be seen. Fannie Wright Dixon. RABBIT’S CREAM. Everyone is well acquainted With the arts of Frosty Jack— With his etchings on the windows, With the tints that mark his track; But the quaint and merry artist Has a fancy of his own That is delicate and graceful, But is not so widely known. When no green is in the forest, And no bloom is in the dell, Not a flower star to twinkle, Not the smallest blossom-bell,— Here and there, an herb he singles, Brown and dry, and round its stem Fastens, with his magic fingers, One great, silver-shining gem; Shell-like, delicate and dainty, White and lucent as a pearl; Just as though he took a fragment Of the mist, and with a twirl Froze it into shape and substance— Such a fine and fragile thing, That the fairy queen might crush it, If she brushed it with her wing. Then he steals away, delighted; He has planned a morning treat For a troop who soon will flutter Through the wood, on dancing feet; All the little country urchins Love to see its silver gleam— Love to fancy it a dainty, And they call it “rabbit’s cream.” —Hattie Whitney. THE APPLE.