At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,— “And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!” The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled, The grown-up trees did toss their heads and shout; And, one and all, they laughed and laughed together, And, one and all, together did they say: “Oh, listen! ugly scrub lays claim to beauty! Who ever heard the like before to-day!” But Mother Nature frowned at their derision, Seeing the humble tree with grief downcast; Her wand she lifted—lo! the slighted claimant In comeliness all other trees surpassed! A downy robe the knotted limbs enveloped, In folds whose fragrance thrilled the wond’ring air— A robe of pale, rose-tinted blossoms woven! Amazed and breathless did the scoffers stare. And, one and all, they turned from jest and laughter, And, one and all, together whispered they: “Behold, behold the garment of our brother! Who ever saw the like before to-day!” Since then, alway, in early dawn of summer, Dame Nature lifts her wand the trees to shame Who envy him that wears the apple blossoms And wish they had not mocked his modest claim. But listen—will you?—to this score of lads and lasses, Bessie’s companions (freed from school, for it is Saturday), who, laden with wild flowers and mosses and ferns, have meanwhile established themselves on the steps, and are chattering like a flock of blackbirds: “Oh, we’ve had lots of fun, and I’m awfully tired. Will you believe it? I ran over a snake! Dear me, how scared I was!” (A girl, of course.) “Sho! you needn’t have been afraid of such a harmless little snake as that; I’d just as soon take it up in my hand as not!” (A boy, of course.) “Why didn’t you, then? Ha, ha! I’d like to have seen you.” “See, Marie, what a pretty toad-stool I found, all scarlet inside; and Fred, he’s got a lot of snail-shells in his pocket.” “If I’d only had a gun along I could have popped over two or three red squirrels.” “Oh—h—h! it would be cruel to kill the dear, sweet, cunning little creatures.” “Don’t be alarmed, puss; he couldn’t fire off a gun to save his life.” “Oh, the quantities of Bobolinks we saw in the meadows! If you could only have heard them sing—” _Ting-a-ling,_ _Ting-a-ling, ling._ Everybody stares at the apparition. He has stolen a march upon them—that little tawny Italian, down there in the street, gazing up at the merry group, with a weary sort of smile, as his slender fingers toy with the strings of his instrument, bringing forth many a plaintive air. Soon the music ceases, and the tattered hat is passed around. But he may not go yet; his audience is clamoring for a song. “An Italian song,” cries Marie. And so, to the accompaniment of his guitar, he sings in his native tongue a little ballad which runs something after this fashion: