The Indians instituted a dance, and with it a mode of worship. These few were the first who composed the Great Medicine Lodge, and they did so from the hands of the Great Spirit. There is not a flower that buds that is not for some wise purpose, however small. There is not one blade of grass that the Indian requires not. Learning this, and acting in view of it, will be for your good, and will please the Great Spirit. * * * * * LILY LESLIE. A BALLAD. BY GRETTA. Bonny Lily Leslie roved Down among the heather. In a clear and sunny day Of the summer weather. Something seemed to cloud her brow Mingling with it gladness, Half the look betrayed a wish, The other half was sadness. By the brooklet’s flashing course Then she stopped to ponder— Why did Lily look so sad? Why so lonely wander! Did she gaze within the stream At the form reflected? Was her fancy pleased to see What she there detected? Did she note her sportive curls, Did she try to twine them, As the saucy breeze untied The snood that would confine them? Did she mark her rounded cheek Warm with youth’s bright dawning, Soft as sunlight on the snow In a winter’s morning? Did she count the summer’s o’er Since she watched them flying? Sixteen times had known them come, Sixteen mourned them dying. Was she thinking how at home In her mountain shealing, She unseals her father’s heart, All its love revealing? How she nestles in his arms When he says he’s lonely, Tells him he must love her well Because he has her only! No! I’m sure that none of these Made the lassie wander— Then why did Lily walk alone, Why did Lily ponder? Why did Lily sit her down Mute as Sorrow’s daughter, With her little blue veined feet Shining through the water? Why was Lily’s voice not heard ’Mid the brooklets laughter, Caroling like free-born bird With echo babbling after? Stealing softly through the shade I heard what she was saying, And a rare complaint indeed The maiden was betraying. She was sighing, “Would that God —Ere he took my mother— Had given me, like Mary Hill, A darling, darling _brother_! “How proud that Mary Hill appears, When Harry comes from sea, But I have none to wish returned, And none to come to me. “The old man in our little home Might then forget my mother, And when he died would know me safe— Oh that I had a brother!” “A brother! Lily,” soft I said— As springing to her side I caught her, like a startled fawn Just bounding o’er the tide—