"Needn't be disturbed, darling, so long as Farmer Smith _guesses_ he'll do it _next week_. That does not mean anything." At supper on the following evening, Fred said: "Farmer Smith said to-day, 'Boys, I want you to cut down the elm.' It's all up with us now." "Never fear a man who only _wants_ a thing done. Thousands of people _want_ this and that, but don't _do_ it. You may rest another day, children. Eat, drink and be merry till we get back." Mother Wren had barely entered the door with a delicious dinner when Kittie, Fred and Deb all put in at once: "You had scarcely gone, when Farmer Smith came out alone and walked around 'old elm' muttering something. Then he said, 'I will go now and get my axe and cut it down this very day.' He is grinding his axe now; don't you hear the grindstone?" "He said, 'I _will_?' Are you sure it was not guess or _think_ I will?" "We are positive," all said. "Then pack up this very minute. We must move before he strikes the first blow." And away they went. Did you ever hear of folks who say they _ought_ to sign the Temperance Pledge; who _guess_ they will seek religion; who _think_ they will begin to pray some day, _but_ not _now_? A few _will_, like the Prodigal Son, and they are--saved! Do you _but_ or _guess_ or _think_ or _will_? REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON. - - - - - - - Do thy little; God has made Million leaves for forest shade; Smallest stars their glory bring, God employeth everything. WHY SOME ROSES ARE RED. _A Flower Legend._ ALL roses were white, in the long ago, According to flower lore; But one day an angel passed by that way As a message of love he bore To a sorrowful soul bowed down by woe, And weary with ceaseless pain, And as he noticed the fragrant white flowers, He poised on the wing amain, And quickly approaching those roses sweet, A beautiful bud to pick, He whispered, "I'll take it with word of love I bear to the lonely sick." But as he plucked the beauteous flower, Whose soft cheek was pale as death, He said, "As my errand this time brings life-- I will warm it with my breath." So he kissed the cheek of the fair white rose, Which 'neath his thrilling touch blushed, And with message of love, and pink rose of hope, The sighs of the sick one he hushed. And ever since then, when a rose is red, Or blushes with delicate tint, A kiss, from some angel of love and life, On its cheek has left its imprint. LYDIA HOYT FARMER. A MOTHER'S LOVE.