The years have rolled on since then, enough of them to make little Nannie twenty-six, and the mother of one Rosamond, who has golden hair like the dollie, her namesake, but who is mischievous, as Rosamond of old never was. And I heard the sweet mother say, last Thanksgiving morning, after having told this story of her past for the benefit of some young mothers, “I am thankful for two things: that I had a mother who taught me that wrong-doing must bring unhappiness, not only to myself, but to others; and that I had a dear Grandmother who taught me what it was to have a powerful friend to come between me and Justice, and say, ‘For my sake.’“ PANSY. [Illustration: PAPA’S CHOICE.] HERE stands my baby, On two little feet; With her bushy brown head, And her dimples so sweet. Her arms are all ready To give me a hug; So give me my baby, And you keep your pug. R. NOVEMBER. WHAT is thy mission, November, Thou link ’twixt the living and dead? What message would’st have us remember, Writ on thy dried leaves, to be read As lessons to youth and to age, To the simple, the student, the sage? Stern duty, thy scepter of power, The husbandman readily sees; And takes up the tasks of the hour As the limbs bear the buds on the trees; For he sows not, ploughs not, nor reaps; He laughs not, he frowns not, nor weeps. The frosts, without cost, starch the ground; Spread a mirror o’er river and lakes; While nuts scattered thickly around, More treasured than apples and cakes, The children may gather with ease, With the squirrels which hide in the trees. The apples are now in the bins, The pumpkins upon the barn floor, Save those which, bereft of their skins, Hang to dry on the biggest barn door; The banking’s high piled ’gainst the house, To keep it as snug as a mouse. Thou wast wisely ordained for man, For time was much needed, we see, In which for cold winter to plan, And prepare for the storms which must be; So, while few may sing of thy praise, We will welcome and treasure thy days. Not all the best things of this grand old earth, Not all the hours of the year around, Are welcomed here with the songs of mirth, Nor in fields of pleasure are ever found, For cloudy are the days of welcome rain, And sharp the sickle for the golden grain. G. R. A. * * * * * THE soul that perpetually overflows with kindness and sympathy will always be cheerful. [Illustration: NOVEMBER.] BABY’S CORNER. WHAT MADE BABY LAUGH? BABY DALE’S mamma had a great many pictures of her little boy, but they were not pretty.