Next marigold speaks to the crowd, Who is known to be forward and pert; But a nettle makes stinging remarks, Till the speaker declares himself hurt! And then to rampage they begin; Sweet William is scragging a rose; Sweet-pea in a neighborly way, Is pulling young marigold's nose! Such a noise and confusion ensues That a snail faints away on the wall; And never as yet have I heard What the end of it was after all. MAUD EGERTON HINE, a child of less than eight years old. * * * * * "Doing anything now, Bill?" "Oh, yes, I'm busy all the time."--"Ah! Glad to hear it. What are you doing?"--"Looking for a job." * * * * * THE LITTLE FRENCH GIRL OF ST. SULPICE. When I was in Paris, a year or two before the terrible war broke out, I often went to the church of St. Sulpice. A grand old place is St. Sulpice, not so majestic outwardly as Notre Dame, but far more interesting to me. Its painted chapels, its noble altar with the royal seat in front, its chairs full of kneeling people, from the splendid dame to the bonnetless peasant, its gorgeously dressed priests, its magnificent organ,--everything about it charmed and interested me. One day I saw a little girl asleep at the foot of a statue. The calm, white, marble face seemed to look down in pity on the child, whose beauty startled me. Her white cape-bonnet had fallen from her head, and curls, lustrous as gold, and quite as yellow, fell over neck and cheeks. What long, dark lashes she had! Her complexion seemed blended roses and lilies. But her dress was very shabby. The most beautiful feet will get soiled if they go shoeless, and this child seemed one of the very poorest of the poor. There came a grand burst of organ music, with which a thousand voices joined, and the child awoke. She lifted her head, and the great brown eyes seemed to drink in the melody. Then, seeing that we were watching her, she held out a little palm. The mute appeal was not resisted; I gave her my last franc. She followed us out of the church. On the stone steps we could see the fountains playing. Omnibuses decorated with gay little flags, horses decked out with ribbons, merry groups passing, the red sunshine, the distant beauty of the green park, with its gravelled walks and flowery borders, made a picture that I shall never forget. The child touched my dress. "I must sing for you, madame," she said, holding up the franc. Then she stood back a little, let her pretty arms drop, and sang in a sweet contralto, a little French air. Her voice was charming. "Why do you beg?" I asked. "I do not beg, madame, I sing;" and her cheek flushed. "Where do you live, my dear?" "Rue St. Père." "Near Hôtel St. Père?" "Not far from that, madame. My father makes wooden images; perhaps you pass his window. At least I call him my father."