On warm summer evenings, when the afterglow of sunset tints the sky, the Dew Mother comes to care for her children of the earth, the trees, grass, and flowers. She is dressed in garments of softest grey, so delicate and so much like the mists of the evening sky that it is very hard, indeed, to see her wander about with her precious refreshing gift. One evening, after a scorching hot day, the Dew Mother had heavy work to perform. She was needed everywhere. The fierce rays of the sun had parched the forest leaves; the fruit in the orchards and vineyards must be bathed in the life-giving dew; the thirsty flowers, hanging their heads, waited patiently for her tender care and they knew she would not forsake them. When the Dew Mother had completed her task she was so weary that she felt she must rest before leaving the earth. It happened that she was in an old-fashioned garden where she found a bed of velvet moss. Here she lay down and slept until sunrise. When she opened her eyes she saw bending over her a beautiful rose bush. "My queen of flowers, thou hast watched me through the night, and sheltered me with tender care from the sun's first rays," said the Dew Mother. "But what new gift can I add to the beauty of the rose whose perfume is the richest I can bestow; whose colour is like the first flush of the morning sky?" Very humbly the queen of flowers replied, "Grant me a gift of the green moss, which made your resting place under my branches." So the Dew Mother gladly added the gift of delicate soft moss to the manifold beauties of the rose, and to-day in many an old-fashioned garden one finds the exquisite moss rose. A YELLOW PANSY To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly, quivering, came; His wings in the somber lichens Played like a yellow flame. He looked at the grey geraniums, And the sleepy four-o'clocks; He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy-growing box. He longed for the peace and the silence, And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wee wild heart was weary Of skimming the endless air. And now in the old green garden,— I know not how it came,— A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again! HELEN GRAY CONE. MIGNONETTE