don!" and they threw him to the ground. But all at once two strong arms set him on his feet again, and a stern voice said:

"No, gentlemen!" It was our principal, who had seen it all. "Since he has had the courage to give

himself up," he added, "no one has the right to hu

miliate him.” All stood silent.

"Ask his forgive

Garoffi burst into

ness," said the principal to Garoffi. tears and embraced the knees of the old man, who put his hand on the boy's head, and caressed his hair. Then all said: "Go home, child, go home."

My father drew me away from the crowd, and said to me as we passed along the street, "Enrico, would you have had the courage to do your duty as Garoffi did, to go and confess your guilt?"

I answered that I would.

And he said, "Then give me your word, as a boy of heart and of honor, that you would do so." "I give you my word, father."

V. THE WOUNDED MAN

The little nephew of the old man who was struck by Garoffi's snowball belongs to the upper third grade. We visited him to-day at the home of his uncle who treats him like a son.

I had just finished writing out the story for the

coming week, which the teacher had given me to copy, when my father said to me:

"We will go up to the fourth floor and see how the old gentleman's eye is."

We entered a room which was almost dark. The old man was sitting up in bed. By his bedside sat his wife, and in one corner of the room the little nephew was playing with toys. The old man's right eye was bandaged. He was much pleased to see my father; he told us that his eye was not ruined, and that in two or three days it would be quite well again.

"It was an accident," he added. "I am sorry for the fright which it must have caused that poor boy." Just then the door-bell rang.

"There is the doctor," said his wife.

The door opened - and whom did I see? Garoffi, standing on the threshold, with bowed head, afraid to enter the room.

"Who is it?" asked the sick man.

"It is the boy who threw the snowball," answered my father. And then the old man said:—

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Oh, my poor boy! come in; you have come to inquire after the wounded man, have you not?

not?

he is better; he is almost well. Come here."

But

Garoffi, who did not see us in his confusion, came toward the bed, trying not to cry. The old man caressed him, but the boy could not speak.

"Thank you," said the old man; "go and tell your father and mother that all is well with me; let them not worry any more on my account."

But Garoffi did not move. He seemed to have something to say which he dared not utter.

"What have you to tell me? What do you wish?"

"Well, farewell my boy, until we meet again. Go with your heart at peace."

Garoffi went as far as the door; but there he stopped and turned to look at the little nephew who was following him. All at once he pulled some object from beneath his cloak, put it in the little boy's hand, saying, hastily, to him, "This is for you," and away he went like a flash.

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The boy carried the object to his uncle. They saw written upon it, "I give you this as a present.' They looked inside, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was the famous album, containing his collection of postage stamps, which poor Garoffi had brought, the collection about which he was always talking and which had cost him so much labor. It was his treasure, poor lad! It was a part of his very life, which he had given the wounded man, in exchange for his pardon.

From "Cuore."

EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

A SONG OF AUTUMN

Ho for the bending leaves,
Ho for the crimson leaves,
Flaming in splendor!
Season of ripened gold,
Plenty in crib and fold,

Skies with depth untold,
Liquid and tender.

Far, like the smile of God,
See how the golden-rod
Ripples and tosses!

Yonder, a crimson vine
Trails from a bearded pine,
Thin as a thread of wine

Staining the mosses.

Autumn is here again-
Banners on hill and plain
Blazing and flying.

Hail to the amber morn,
Hail to the heaped-up corn,
Hail to the hunter's horn,

Swelling and dying!

-JAMES BUCKHAM,

THE WINDMILL

BEHOLD! a giant am I

Aloft here in my tower,

With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails

Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,

With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow

I meet it face to face,

As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;