"No, Prince," she said, "I am not dead; I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country; now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always." And she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her. "Orso," she went on half shyly, "you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow," and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it. The Prince was overjoyed but he hesitated. "I fear," he said, "that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart." "Poor little bird," she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. "It is not dead. I will do all I can for it. Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother will be too anxious about me." And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken and her joy was past all words. The little bird spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far, northern land. MIDSUMMER Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. Oh, softly on yon banks of haze, Her rosy face the Summer lays! Becalmed along the azure sky The argosies of cloudland lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. Through all the long midsummer day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. SUMMER SKIES There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand Bearing the wreath of beauty silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows Deserted by herds, through trackless paths Carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher From the Western ocean of rest. RABINDRANATH TAGORE.