Mrs. Fig told the story all over again, and I wanted to explain to her that I had never heard it just that way; but her stubby branches were standing very firm and determined, and I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good. “Poets,” said Mr. Pine, “are the wisest people in the world, and one of them”— “I don’t care a twig for the first man or the first woman,” said Mrs. Pepper crossly. “I know all the painters choose me, and they put my leaves and my clusters of white blossoms and red berries on paper and boards, and painters are the people of all the earth who know what is beautiful, so that proves the first place mine.” “This poet once said of our family,” Mr. Pine began again. “The brides all choose me,” cried Mrs. Orange, “and who in the world is so important as a bride? And if they choose me, I must be first and prettiest.” “As I remarked,” said Mr. Pine, “this poet”— But such a noise you never heard, and even Grandma Liveoak as bad as the rest, and Mrs. Pepper and Mrs. Fig and Mrs. Orange, all claiming so many things for their family. And they got to saying unkind things to each other—they really did—and you have no idea how dreadfully sarcastic trees can be. But just as I was wondering however it would all come out Mrs. Pepper stopped still for a minute, then leaned her graceful boughs fringed with fine narrow leaves way over until they kissed Mrs. Fig’s bare branches, and said gently: “I am sure it was a great honor to have your pretty leaves chosen by the first man and woman, and I am very sorry I was cross.” Grandma Liveoak gave a little laugh, exclaiming, “Well, what a silly old tree I am! Do you know, I came very near being a little put out there, just for a second, simply because another tree mentioned her family.” Then she praised Mrs. Fig and told her it was a good thing to think well of one’s own sap and wood. And Mrs. Fig said she might have been mistaken about what the first woman said, and that probably she took the fig leaves because they were the handiest or something. And Mrs. Orange got the wind to blow over some of her prettiest blossoms to the other trees, while high above Mockingbird was singing and over on the hedge a meadow lark gave its call, and it was all very sweet and pretty. “As I was saying,” calmly remarked Mr. Pine, “a poet once said of our family: Who is the king of all the wood? Be it distinctly understood It is the Pine!” Karrie King. BUILDING FOR BIRD TENANTS. When on walking through a city park on a blustery winter day one suddenly spies the little bird houses, built by the custodian and perched high up among the branches of the trees, a smile invariably creeps over the face and a thought of summer steals into the tired brain. Would that the building of bird houses became more fashionable among our boys!