“When they awaked the sun was high up in heaven. They found themselves lying among the furze at the foot of the rock, which, however, no more resembled a castle than it did a rose-bush. It was as common and disagreeable a mass of stone, granitic or otherwise, as one could wish to see. Full of shame, and foaming with rage, they began to make their way through the woods; but the horrible ‘hush! hush!’ sounded from all sides; the old witches looked out mockingly from every bush, and the three birds followed them, hopping from tree to tree; the starling proposing his riddle, the crow singing his song, and the magpie as biographical as ever. “Nor were they at all relieved until they got to the edge of the wood, where they met a little man—just as you met me this morning, sir—and of him they demanded what these infernal birds could mean. “‘The answer to the starling’s riddle,’ said the little man, ‘is, that each of you have received, invisibly to yourselves, a good six inches of additional nose. But the crow instructs you, when you have good, little sweethearts at home, to stick to them, and not to go about gaping at every pretty face whose lips may cry ‘hush! hush!’ as if you expected her to fly down your throats as the friars did the ortolans.’ “‘But the magpie, worthy sir; what does she mean?’ cried the three. “‘Oh, the magpie! Why she tells just such a story of her grandmother as your grandchildren will tell of you.’ “So Weinsoffer, Würzelkopf and Kleidermacher went on their way, repentant and resolving—which is the moral of this legend—never to get tipsy on holyday mornings, and not to be attracted by every pretty face that might cry ‘hush! hush!’ from a window. “Such, sir, is the legend, and see yonder is the very magpie!” I turned to look, but saw no bird whatever, only I heard a chuckling laugh behind me, and when I turned round, the little man with the large head had disappeared. So I reflected that he was perhaps the father of the three witches, and had been making fun of me. Then I shrugged my shoulders and walked meditatively back to Lorch. * * * * * =ANNIE MORTON.= =BY AMY HARNED.= “There comes dear father at last!” exclaimed Annie Morton, springing from her seat at an open window through which she had been earnestly looking a long time in expectation of his arrival, while her sewing rested unheeded upon her lap. “Oh, what a long, long week this has been without him: dear father!” And the rich blood mantled on her cheek; her black eyes sparkled, and the smile that parted her ruby lips made her very beautiful, as she stood for one moment ere she sprang through the casement and down the long avenue to meet the carriage which contained her father. The mother looked after her daughter with pride; but pressing her hand upon her heart as if in pain, she sunk back upon her seat.