A GIFT she held from the Father; It was pansies fresh with dew; Sweet messengers of Heaven, They bear a blessing true. But her hand too lightly clasped, And could not hold them all, So to the ground unheeded, She let the fairest fall. The uplifted lips of the flower Did not mutely plead in vain; From the dust the blossom I raised, And gave to the owner again. Sweet Pansy's robe is purple, Her crown of the purest gold; All hearts who know, enthrone her, All love her who behold. But I'll away to the forest, And seek my treasures there; 'Tis there Arbutus hideth, Her blossoms I may wear. This is my gift from the Father, Arbutus buds are mine; I'll sing their modest beauty, In them read Heaven's design. And I will bear to the Giver The fragrance and the song That fills my life with blessing-- To Him my blooms belong. ROCKVILLE, MASS. _With love of_ ARBUTUS. [Illustration: SNIPE AND NEST.] _Volume 13, Number 29._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO _May 22, 1886._ THE PANSY. [Illustration: SHEPHERD BOY OF THE ALPS.] ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. BY MARGARET SIDNEY. VII. MEANWHILE what of St. George and his faithful comrade? Speeding on in the railroad train, after the departure of the luckless Thomas, they had ample time to bemoan the annoyance of the boys left to the cold comfort of a night on Sachem Hill, and the distress of all the parents when the condition of things became known. "I'm awfully glad we knew enough to cut and run," exclaimed Phipps Benton, hugging himself in his cosey car-corner, "at least that _you_ knew enough," he corrected himself honestly; "that last skate cost those chaps something. Won't Pa Bangs give it to Wilfred though!" He couldn't help the shrug of delight as this thought seized him. Wilfred, to state it mildly, was not a boy to be loved dearly, and circumstances now seemed likely to make him anything but an object of envy. "For shame!" cried St. George hotly, "we've just been there, and he's treated us well."