[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER] VOL. VIII.—NO. 377. MARCH 19, 1887. PRICE ONE PENNY. THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING. BY SYDNEY GREY. [Illustration] _All rights reserved._] Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus), But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us. For if of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will, He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrow still. This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun, Ere with small pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run, The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is here!” And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near. I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along, A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among, In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch, And all my soul with rapture filled; yet when I said as much, The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!” To them, perhaps, it might be so; but ah! if folks are blind, They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark— The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden voice to mark. Therefore when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay, Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day, Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mould, Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold; Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing shade, Nor the great sun’s far reaching rays which crown the day with light, Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night; She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and plain, Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again. And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we go, The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow; Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet, And through the lengthening meadow grass run murmurs soft and sweet. Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me, For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see. MERLE’S CRUSADE. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc. CHAPTER XXII. UNCLE KEITH. I had been obliged to defer my visit to Aunt Agatha for more than a fortnight, and it was not until an early day in October that I could find a leisure afternoon. I believe that only very busy and hard worked people really enjoy a holiday—listless and half occupied lives know nothing of the real holiday feeling and the joyousness of putting one’s work aside for a few hours of complete idleness.