passed she left this rainbow-path of many tints shimmering in the heavens. When her errand was done, the path of colors disappeared.

The Indians' belief about the rainbow is also beautiful. The many-colored flowers of earth blossom on hill and valley, filling the air with their beauty and fragrance. At last they fade away, and the earth knows them no longer; but they are not dead. The tender blossoms have been gathered by the angels, and planted in the fields of heaven; and when the rainbow appears, you may see them in all their beautiful hues. The violet, iris, daffodil, buttercup, rose, and moss all flash in that brilliant bow that embraces the earth like a scarf.

So the Indians believe that the flowers which are so sweet and so beautiful here on earth, and which they love so much, are not lost, but only transplanted to the gardens of Paradise.

Longfellow, the children's poet, in his

famous poem,

66

The Song of Hiawatha,"

tells us that the little Hiawatha —

"Saw the rainbow in the heavens,
In the eastern sky, the rainbow,
Whispered, 'What is that, Nokomis?"
And the good Nokomis answered,
All the wild flowers of the forest,
All the lilies of the prairie,

When on earth they fade and perish,

Blossom in that heaven above us."

You are made to be kind, boys, generous, magnanimous. If there is a boy in school who has a club-foot, don't let him know you ever saw it. If there is a boy with ragged clothes, don't talk about rags in his hearing. If there is a lame boy, give him. some part of the game which does not require running. If there is a hungry one, give him part of your dinner. If there is a dull one, help him to get his lesson. If there is a bright one, be not envious of him.

- HORACE MANN.

Our to-days and yesterdays are the blocks with which we build.

TREASURE TROVE

THROUGH

Goethe

HROUGH the forest idly,
As my steps I bent,

With a free and happy heart,
Singing as I went,

Cowering in the shade I
Did a floweret spy,

Bright as any star in heaven,

Sweet as any eye.

Down to pluck it, stooping,
Thus to me it said,

“Wherefore pluck me only

To wither and to fade?"

Up with roots I dug it,
I bore it as it grew,

And in my garden plot at home

I planted it anew,

All in a still and shady place,

Beside my home so dear,

And now it thanks me for my pains, And blossoms all the year.