girl in a cottage with her father, and they loved each other very tenderly. One wild night in March, while the father was away in his fisherman's boat, the daughter sat at her spinning-wheel in their cabin, awaiting his return. In vain she looked out on the dark driving clouds, and listened, trembling, to the wind and the sea.

The morning light dawned at last. One boat that should have been riding on the troubled waves was missing her father's boat. It had struck against the "Lonely Rock" and gone down. Half a mile from the cottage her father's body was washed up on the shore.

In her deep sorrow this fisherman's orphan did not think of herself alone. She was scarcely more than a child, humble, poor, and weak; yet she said in her heart that, while she lived, no more boats should be lost upon the "Lonely Rock," if a light shining through her window could guide them safely into the harbor.

And so, after watching by the body of her father, according to the custom of her people, until it was buried, she lay down and slept through the day; but when night fell she arose and lighted a candle, placed it in the window of her cottage, so that it might be seen by any fisherman coming from the sea, and guide him safely into harbor. She sat by the candle all night, and trimmed it, and spun; but when the day dawned she went to bed and slept.

As many hanks as she had spun before for her daily bread, she spun now, and one over, to buy her nightly candle; and from that time on, for fifty years, through youth, maturity, and old age, she

turned night into day; and in the snow-storms of winter, through driving mists, deceptive moonlight, and solemn darkness, that northern harbor was never once without the light of her candle.

How many lives she saved by this candle, and how many meals she won by it for the starving families of the boatmen, it is impossible to say. How many dark nights the fishermen, depending on it, have gone forth, can not now be told.

There it stood, regular as a lighthouse, steady as constant care could make it. Always brighter when daylight waned, the fishermen had only to keep it constantly in view and they were safe; there was but one thing to intercept it, and that was the rock. However far they might have gone out to the sea, they had only to bear down for that lighted window, and they were sure of a safe entrance to the harbor.

What did the boatmen and boatmen's wives think of that unparalleled charitable task? Did they pay the woman? No, they were very poor; but poor or rich, they would know better than to suppose that mere coin could pay her.

Did they thank her? No. Perhaps they thought that thanks of theirs would be inadequate to express their gratitude; or, perhaps, long years had made the lighted casement so familiar that they looked upon it as a matter of course, and forgot for the time the patient watcher within.

Sometimes the fishermen put fish on her threshold and set a child to watch it for her till she waked; sometimes their wives stole into her cottage, when she was getting old, and spun a hank or two of

thread for her while she slumbered; and they taught their children to pass her hut quietly, and not to sing or shout before her door, lest they should disturb her. That was all. Their thanks were not looked for scarcely supposed to be due. Their grateful deeds were more than she expected and as much as she desired. God took care of the rest.

THE YELLOW VIOLET.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the bluebird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mold,
And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk,
Yet midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

But when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

ROBIN TRAITS.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

If every bird has his vocation, as a poetical French writer suggests, that of the American robin must be to inspire cheerfulness and contentment in men. His joyous "Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheery! Be cheery! Be cheery!" poured out in the early morning from the top branch of the highest tree in the neighborhood, is one of the most stimulating sounds of spring.

He must be unfeeling, indeed, who can help deserting his bed and peering through blinds till he discovers the charming philosopher, with head erect and breast glowing in the dawning light, forgetting the cares of life in the ecstasy of song.

Besides admonishing others to cheerfulness, the robin sets the example. Not only is his cheering voice heard the first in the morning and the last at night of the day birds-but no rain is wet enough to dampen his spirits.

In a drizzly, uncomfortable day, when all other birds go about their necessary tasks of food-hunting in dismal silence, the robin is not a whit less happy than when the sun shines; and his cheery voice rings out to comfort not only the inmates of the damp little home in the maple, but the owners of waterproofs and umbrellas who mope in the house.

The most delightful study of one summer, not long ago, was the daily life, the joys and sorrows, of a family of robins, whose pretty castle in the air rested on a stout fork of a maple-tree branch near my window. Day by day I watched their ways till I learned to know them well.

When I first took my seat near the tree containing the nest, I felt like an intruder, which the robin plainly considered me to be. He eyed me with the greatest suspicion, alighting on the ground in a terrible flutter, resolved to brave the ogre, yet on the alert, and ready for instant flight should anything threaten. The moment he touched the ground he would lower his head and run with breathless haste five or six feet; then stop, raise his head as pert as a daisy, and look sharply at the monster to see whether it had moved.

After convincing himself that all was safe, he would turn his eyes downward, and in an instant thrust his bill into the soil where the sod was thin, throwing up a little shower of earth, and doing this