The one with his hat off and flag in hand—his name is Judson. The neat little Miss, her fingers tucked in that warm muff, and her satisfied face saying: “See what a nice big snowball we’ve made,” she is Miss Emily Chubbuck, to be sure. The third—wouldn’t you give a penny to see his face?—he looks like a young Scotch Highlander in plaids. He it is who fixed up the funny mouth, nose and eyes, and is now putting something sweeter than a nasty cigarette into his snow mouth; well, this one is Master Carey. Now they look only like children having fun. Not a hundred years after they became missionaries. Heard you ever of Carey? Of Adoniram Judson? Of his wife, Emily Chubbuck? L. FIRST TIME AT CHURCH. A GRAVE sweet wonder in thy baby face, And look of mingled dignity and grace, Such as a painter hand might love to trace. A pair of trusting innocent blue eyes, That higher than the stained-glass window rise, Into the fair and cloudless summer skies. The people round her sing, “Above the sky There’s rest for little children when they die.” To her, thus gazing up, that rest seems nigh. The organ peals; she must not look around, Although with wonderment her pulses bound— The place whereon she stands is holy ground. The sermon over, and the blessing said, She bows, as “mother” does, her golden head, And thinks of little sister who is dead. She knows that now she dwells above the sky, Where holy children enter when they die, And prays God take her there too, by and by. Pet, may He keep you in the faith alway, And bring you to that home for which you pray, Where all shall have their child hearts back one day! —_Selected._ AN IDEA THAT GREW. IT was Nancy and the book together which put the idea into Clara’s mind. They were slipping along in the shadows of the quiet river, she and Wallace. It was the Fourth of July, and most of the boys and girls of the region were busy with what firecrackers they could get—those of them who had not taken a five-mile tramp to the village to attend the celebration. But Clara was too old to care for firecrackers, and Wallace had had enough of them before he came; he was only here for a few days, and preferred a visit with his sister to all the Fourth of July celebrations that could be planned. She was reading aloud to him bits from a new book which he had brought her as a birthday present; for the Fourth of July was not only the birthday of freedom, it was also Clara’s birthday.