When the old lane is shady in summertime, and golden-rod and daisies crowd the way, and raspberries climb the stonewall, and merry squirrels chatter and mock the red-breasted robins, and bees go humming through the ordorous air, there comes a big white horse that looks like Washington's in the picture; and how carefully he walks and bears himself, for he brings a little princess who has made the old house a home. Such a fairylike little thing, who from her sunshine makes everybody bright and happy, and Silas' grim old face is smiling as he leads the horse, and Maria, with her basket of berries, is helped over the wall by Dexter Brown, who always says he must go but never does, for they love him, and he and Silas work harmoniously together. And grandma's eyes are brighter than ever and her cheeks as red. “What comfortable folks they air gittin' to be,” say the neighbors, “kinder livin', but I dunno but goin' a berryin' a hull arternoon is right down shiftless.” Winter is over and forever gone from that household on the hill; the coming of gracious, smiling spring in a sweet child's presence has made eternal sunshine in those ice-bound hearts. [Illustration: 5359] [Illustration: 0360] CYNTHY'S JOE, By Clara Sprague Ross |I DON'T think he'll be sech a fool as to p'int fer home the fust thing he does.” The speaker, a young man with a dull, coarse face and slouching air, knocked the ashes from a half-smoked cigar with his little finger, which was heavily ornamented with a large seal ring, and adjusted himself to a more comfortable position. “I dun'no which p'int o' the compass he'd more naterally turn to,” observed another; an elderly man with a stoop in his shoulders, and a sharp, thin face that with all its petty shrewdness was not without its compensating feature--a large and kindly mouth. The third man in the little group was slowly walking back and forth on the platform that ran across the station, rolling and unrolling a small red flag which he held in his hands. He turned with a contemptuous “umph” to the young man, remarking as he did so, “'Tain't mostly fools as goes to prison. Joe Atherton prob'ly has as many friends in this section o' the kentry as some who hain't been away so much.” “Joe was a good little boy,” pursued the old station-master; “he wuz allers kind to his mother. I never heard a word ag'in him till that city swell came down here fer the summer and raised blazes with the boy.” “If there ain't the Squire!” exclaimed a hitherto silent member; “he's the last man as I should jedge would come to the deepo to welcome Joe Atherton.”