One spring we were cleaning away the leaves and ice from about the roots of a little thicket of white Scotch roses, as we have always called the low-growing, small-blossomed white rose so popular in many country places. The sunshine had not warmed the air enough to melt the snow and ice which had been formed in early winter about the roots and which held together a mass of oak leaves driven by the wind to this hiding-place or else put there by the farmer in the fall. One lump of ice about the size of a man’s fist had been very hard to dislodge from the rose bushes and as it was brought out by the teeth of our iron rake we picked it up to show to some interested bystanders and to our surprise, and theirs also, we found a number of the small orange-colored beetles usually called lady-birds closely imbedded in this icy prison. Breaking off a part of the lump which held a half dozen or more of the tiny beetles, we carried it into the house and allowing it to melt in our hands we were surprised to find the lady-birds slowly begin to come back to life and its pleasures. They seemed at first as stupid and drowsy as any other mortals when just aroused from a heavy sleep, but in an hour’s time they were flying about the room and finally all gathered on the window where the sunshine was streaming in with greatest light and warmth. The children who had at first mourned over the supposed death of these special insect pets of children were never tired of telling the story afterward of how “the lady-birds could freeze to death all winter and then wake up and fly in the springtime.” Mary Catherine Judd. CHERRY AND I. No one knows where the alder boughs lean, And the willow dips its head, And the whitest pebbles sleep and dream In their sandy, wave-washed bed. Where the mosses creep o’er fallen trees, As softly asleep they lie, Lulled by the drowsy hum of bees— No one but Cherry and I. No one knows how the cardinal flower, Velvety, gorgeous and tall, Was ’prisoned fast in a virgin bower Of golden thread for a thrall, That the dodder spun one summer day, When only we two were nigh; No one else saw—so no one can say— No one but Cherry and I. No one knows where the blue-berries hide, In the fern beds, thick and green, Where the mossy floor is soft and wide, And the sunlight sifts between Layers of leaves, in the roof o’erhead, With never a glimpse of sky; Where the trillium’s cup is the wild bee’s bed— No one but Cherry and I.