Tossing her hair out of her eyes, she 
seizes the hammers, and really plays sev¬ 
eral piecies very well, but with energy 
enough to snap the strings, if they were 
not of the strongest silver-steel wire. She 
biings the hammers down as if she were 
cracking walnuts. One of her papa’s fa 
vorites is “Katie Lee and Willie Gray. ” At 
the third verse she always turns up her 
nose at Willie’s words: 
“Boys are strong and girls are weak, 
And I’ll carry, so I will, 
Katie’s basket up the hill.” 
At the next verse her face brightens, 
and she sings with all the expression she 
can put in her voice: 
, “Katie answered with a laugh, 
You shall carry only half; 
Then tossing back her curls, 
Boys are weak as well as girls.” 
How this natural phenomenon will turn 
out it is hard to say, as she is yet but nine 
years old. She doesn’t seem to spend any 
time reading, yet she can tell every story 
that has been published in Our Little Ones 
for the last two years, and she knows the 
contents of her childish Bible histories so 
"well that she can tell you something of 
nearly every character named prominently 
therein. Perhaps in this way lies her salva - 
tion. Her eyes take in the printed page 
by sentences instead of words, it seems, 
yet she remembers them and grasps the 
whole situation. 
Mamma, said she, and her face looked 
sweetly solemn, “do you know the nicest 
thing I have read to-day? It was about 
the baptism of Jesus. There were the dis¬ 
tant hills and the sparkling river, then that 
lovely man, with his kind face. But oh, 
that lovely white dove, with the sun shin- 
ing on his white feathers and the voice 
from Heaven. Do you know what the 
voice said, mamma ? It said, ‘This is my 
beloved Son.’ I guess if all those wicked 
men had heard that voice, Jesus would 
not have had such a hard time as he did. 
Oh, mamma, I promised Tom to water the 
horses at six, and the clock is just striking.” 
It is only about two hours since T attempt¬ 
ed to get her into some of her ptvitv tog¬ 
gery—I am so proud of her looks when I 
get her “fixed up.” 
Her complexion is waterproof. It never 
tans or freckles and is of that dainty fair¬ 
ness that is seldom seen in the families of 
hard-working people. Her hands are 
plump, with dimpled knuckles, and long, 
taper fingers. With perfect health, she is 
as erect and graceful as a young Venus. 
After bathing her and kissing the sweet, 
white neck and shoulders, I managed to 
keep her quiet while I combed the long 
golden hair which hangs in wavy masses 
to her waist. But, while catching part of 
it back in braids and arranging the dainty 
fringe which curls naturally over her fore¬ 
head, she began to get impatient. “Hur¬ 
ry up, mother,” said she, “I can hear that 
new lamb bleating; 1 fear its mother is not 
going to own it and I must get out there 
before it gets chilled.” “I am nearly done 
now, darling,” and I hurried up stairs to 
get a fresh ruff for her neck. When I came 
down she was nowhere in sight. I went to 
the window that looked toward the barn 
and then I caught a glimpse of the heels of 
her rubber boots as they disappeared through 
a hole in the fence, on a short cut to the 
sheep-shed. Suggestions are now in order. 
Is it a hopeless case? Need Isay that I 
get no sympathy from John in this peculiar 
state of affairs. While he owns that she 
out-boys all the male children on the farm, 
he says she is worth her weight in gold 
every year, from a financial standpoint.— 
Farmers' Rdview. 
ORPHANED. 
BY MRS. M. J. SMITH. 
Bright roses around the window ledee 
Lilies beside the door; 6 ’ 
And the grass is soft in its velvet green 
As it was in the days of yore. 
But never a face looks out for me, 
ti And never a voice I hear, 
“Come in, come in, for the sun is low 
And the grass is damp, I fear.” 
•There are whisperings soft in the arching trees. 
The rustle of dancing leaves, 
r? tb 0 twitter of swallows that build their nests 
Close under the bending eaves* 
th .? c ^ ir ? of nestlings who cuddle close 
Neath the bosom that keeps them warm 
But there are no loved ones to fold me in, 
Ur shelter my shivering form. 
home is no longer mine, 
The grass is not mine to tread. 
The joy of my life, like the loved ones lost, 
Is lying where rest the dead. 
Bnght^simbeams peep through the bending 
With a warm and tender smile, 
" mL never a smi l e of love makes bright 
The weariness of life’s mile. 
