RAY, where are the little bluebells gone,

That lately bloomed in the wood?
Why, the little fairies have taken each one.
And put it on for a hood.

And where are the pretty grass-stalks gone,
That waved in the summer breeze?
Oh, the fairies have taken them every one
To plant in their gardens, like trees.

And where are the great big blue-bottles gone,
That buzzed in their busy pride?

Oh, the fairies have caught them every one,
And have broken them in, to ride.

And they've taken the glowworms to light their halls,
And the crickets to sing them a song,

And the great red rose-leaves to paper their walls,
And they're feasting the whole night long.

But when spring comes back with its mild, soft ray,
And the ripple of gentle rain,

The fairies bring back what they've taken away,
And give it us all again.

KILLER

I

DARE say you have heard of King Arthur, or, as some call

him, Prince Arthur, and his wife Genevra, who reigned in

NOTE. In the old Teuton sagas the origin of this story is to be sought. "Jack, commonly called the Giant Killer, and Thomas Thumb, landed in England from the very same keels and war, ships which conveyed Hengist and Horsa, and Ebba the Saxon," says Sir Walter Scott. In the Northern collection of the old heroic Scandinavian songs, known as the "Edda," or " Grandmother," the first collected at the close of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth

Britain many hundred years ago-long before the time of the good King Alfred. If not, you must get your friends to tell you something about them, and about the Knights of the Round Table. What I am going to do now is to tell you a wonderful and remarkable story, not about King Arthur, but about a very marvellous person who lived in his time, and who did some very brave actions. His name was Jack.

This Jack was the son of a poor farmer who lived in Cornwall, near the Land's End, where the tin-mines are. Jack was always a bold, fearless boy. He feared neither heat nor cold, could climb a steep mountain, or plunge into a deep stream; and he delighted to hear his father's stories about the brave Knights of the Round Table, and of all their valiant deeds.

From constantly hearing of such things, Jack got to take a great interest in all that related to combats, victories, and battles. And the more he heard, the more anxious did he feel to find some enemy against whom he could fight; for he never doubted that his skill and courage would give him the victory in every encounter. And, do you know, I think that this dependence upon himself and his own powers had a great deal to do with the success that Jack afterwards met with in the wonderful adventures I shall tell you about before this present story is done. If any one firmly makes up his mind to do a certain thing, the chances are that he will succeed in it, unless the thing be very difficult indeed-as in the case of

century by the Icelandic priest, Saemund Sigfusson, called the Wise, and the second about a century later by the historian of Iceland, Snorre Sturleson. The first is in poetry, and the second in prose. The incident of Thor and the giant Skrimner, in Snorre Sturleson's "Edda," is completely paraphrased in that adventure of Jack's, where the undaunted hero placed a log of wood in his bed, on which the giant unwittingly exercised his strength.