“’Tis not for the servant to reveal what her master hides. No--all will come to you in good time. Tarry the master’s will. But, that silly Pierre! What think you? Is it fifty dollar would be the price of they tame blue herons? Hey?” “No; nor fifty times fifty. Pierre knows that. Love is more than money.” “Sometimes, to some folks. Well, what would you? That son will be havin’ even me, his old mother, in his show--why not? As a cur’osity--the only livin’ human bein’ can make that ingrate mind. Yes--to bed, ma p’tite.” Margot rose and housed her pets. This threat of Pierre’s, that he would eventually carry off the foresters and exhibit their helplessness to staring crowds, always roused her fiercest indignation; and this result was just what Angelique wanted, at present, and she murmured her satisfaction. “Good! That bee will buzz in her ear till she sleeps, and so sound she’ll hear no dip of the paddle, by and by. Here, Pierre, my son, you’re wanted.” “What for, now? Do leave me be. I’m going to bed. I’m just wore out, trot-trottin’ from Pontius to Pilate, luggin’ salt, and--” he finished by yawning most prodigiously. “Firs’-rate sign, that gapin’. Yes--sign you’re healthy and able to do all’s needed. There’s no rest for you this night. Come--here--take this basket to the beach. If your canoe needs pitchin’, pitch it. There’s the lantern. If one goes into the show business he learns right now to work and travel o’ nights. Yes--start--I’ll follow and explain.” [TO BE CONTINUED] * * * * * “Believe not each accusing tongue, As most weak people do; But still believe that story wrong Which ought not to be true.” --_R. B. Sheridan._ THE MONTH OF FLOWER By Julia McNair Wright Neither age, learning, nor fortune are needed to enable one to love and admire these gracious children of beauty--the flowers. When the chill winds of autumn sound a knell for their departure, we have a sense of loneliness and loss. As the winter passes we long for the days when the blossoms shall come again. The first tiny blossom of the star-flower; the first little tasseled bloom on the birch; the first adder’s tongue, or violet, or broad, white salver of the mandrake flower; the snowy banners of the dogwood; the gray-white of the brave little plantain-leaved everlasting, fill all hearts with delight. The life object of the flower is the production of seed. All the parts of the flower are in some way fitted to further that end. What is the story of the flower? The stem and branches having developed a certain amount of leafage, may at length put forth blossoms. These spring, as leaves do, from the tips or axils of the branches. In truth, a flower is a modified branch, and all its parts are modified leaves. We will pass over this distinction of science, and will consider the flower as we popularly think and speak of it, the beautiful producer of seeds.