THE TAILOR'S SISTER'S TOMBSTONE 



The garden was left alone, busy in its quiet way ; 

 growing, dying, perpetuating its kind. The bees were 

 industriously singing as they worked ; lordly butter- 

 flies danced rigadoons and ravanes over the flowers ; 

 a thrush, after a long hearty tug at a fat worm, swallowed 

 it, and then, perching on the tombstone, poured out its 

 joy in full clear notes. And Death was cheated of his 

 sting. 



S3 



