MONSIEUR MISCHIEF 
Then from a neighboring thicket the wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung over the water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent 
to listen. Longfellow. 
O NCE upon a time, long ago, a quaint 
old house stood in the midst of large 
grounds on the bank of a beautiful river. 
In front of it were lofty elms, whose branches 
interlaced and formed a perfect canopy. At 
the side grew syringa and weigelia bushes full 
of beauty in their season, while over the 
piazza masses of purple wistaria hung in 
graceful profusion. Back of the house an 
old-fashioned apple orchard offered the finest 
of playgrounds, for through it ran a small 
brook where little folks could fish with bent 
pins and never be drowned. 
But dearest of all was the garden with its 
old-fashioned roses ; its walks bordered with 
pansies, mignonette, and sweet alyssum ; its 
207 
