"'_Never, never a day should pass,_ _Without some kindness kindly shown_,' The preacher said. Then down to the grass A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone. "'Well, a day is before me now; Yet what,' thought she, 'can I do, if I try? If an angel of God would show me how! But silly am I, and the hours they fly.' "Then the lark sprang, singing, up from the sod, And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, 'He says he will carry my prayer to God; But who would have thought the little lark knew?' "Now she entered the village street With book in hand and face demure; And soon she came, with sober feet, To a crying babe at a cottage door. "It wept at a windmill that would not move, It puffed with its round red cheeks in vain; One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove, And baby's breath could not stir it again. "So baby beat the sail, and cried, While no one came from the cottage door; But little Cristelle knelt down by its side, And set the windmill going once more. "Then baby was pleased, and the little girl Was glad, when she heard it laugh and crow, Thinking, 'Happy windmill that has but to whirl To please the pretty young creature so!' "No thought of herself was in her head, As she passed out at the end of the street, And came to a rose tree, tall and red, Drooping and faint with summer heat. "She ran to a brook that was flowing by, She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And washed the roots of the rose tree high, Till it lifted its languid blossoms up. "'O, happy brook!' thought little Cristelle; 'You have done some good this summer's day: You have made the flowers look fresh and well.' Then she rose, and went on her way. "But she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook, Some great rough stones, that troubled its course, And the gurgling water seemed to say, 'Look! I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse. "'How these stones obstruct my road! How I wish they were off and gone! Then I would flow, as once I flowed, Singing in silvery undertone.' "Then little Cristelle, as bright as a bird, Put off the shoes from her young, white feet; She moves two stones, she comes to the third; The brook already sings, 'Thanks! Sweet! Sweet!' "O, then she hears the lark in the skies, And thinks, 'What is it to God he says?' And she tumbles and falls, and cannot rise, For the water stifles her downward face.