When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,

And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields, still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle, golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,

And count like misers hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.

O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.

THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT

BY BULWER LYTTON

I

My father was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw hat over his eyes, and his book on his lap. Suddenly a beautiful delft blue-andwhite flower-pot, which had been set on the window-sill of an upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the fragments flew up round my father's feet. But my father continued to read,—being much interested in his book.

"Dear, dear!" cried my mother, who was at work in the porch; "my poor flower-pot, that I prized so much! who could have done this? Primmins, Primmins!” Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the window, nodded, and came down, pale and breathless.

"Oh!" said my mother mournfully, "I would rather have lost all the plants in the greenhouse in the great blight last May. I would rather the best tea-set were broken! The poor geranium

I reared myself, and the dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton brought for me my last birthday! That naughty child must have done this!" Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid of my father; why, I know not, except that very talkative, social persons are usually afraid of very silent, shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her master, who was beginning to show signs of attention, and cried promptly: "No, ma'am, it was not the dear boy; it was I!"

"You? How could you be so careless? and you knew how I prized them both. O, Primmins!"

Primmins began to sob. "Don't tell fibs, nursey," said a small shrill voice; and I, coming out of the house as bold as brass, continued rapidly: "Don't scold Primmins, mother: it was I who pushed out the flower-pot."

"Hush!" said nurse, more frightened than ever, while gazing at my father, who had very slowly taken off his hat, and was looking on with serious eyes, wide-awake. "Hush! And if he did break it, ma'am, it was quite an accident. He was standing so, and he never meant it. Did

you? Speak!" this in a whisper, "or father will be so very angry."

66

'Well," said mother, "I suppose it was an accident; take care in the future, my

are sorry, I see, to have grieved me. kiss; don't fret."

child. You

There is a

"No, mother, you must not kiss me; I don't deserve it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose."

"Ah! and why?" said my father, walking up. Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf. She did not know what might happen.

"For fun!" said I, hanging my head; "just to see how you'd look, father; and that's the truth of it. Now beat me-do beat me!"

My father threw his book fifty feet off, stooped down, and caught me to his breast. "Boy," he said, "you have done wrong; you shall repair it by remembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him a son who spoke truth in spite of fear."

From that time I first date the hour when I felt that I loved my father and knew that he loved me.