In Catholic countries there are a great many beautiful legends about trees, and birds, and flowers, which show very simply and sweetly how easy it is for child

like souls to connect all things with the love and sufferings of our dear Lord.

Throughout Germany, France, and Italy, these pretty stories may be gathered like blossoms from every roadside; little boys and girls know them by heart; and old grandmothers, sitting in the sunlight, smile when they hear once more the forgotten fancies of their youth.

The robin's breast is red, they say, because the tender bird fluttered pitifully over our dying Saviour on on the cross, until its dark feathers were stained with the sacred blood; and from that day to this, the crimson glow has never faded away.

The cross-bill, a bright little songster which lives in the pine forests of Europe, and flies southward every winter, is believed to have bent its tiny beak in a vain effort to draw the heavy nails out of our Lord's hands and feet.

And though its feeble strength was powerless to relieve its suffering God, the bill remains forever crossed to show mankind the good it tried to do.

The weeping willow was once tall and erect, the proudest and stateliest of trees. When our first parents were driven from Paradise, all things that grew on that happy soil bent their heads in sorrow and pity, save only the willow, that would not deign to stoop.

But when the day of our Saviour's passion was at hand, the soldiers cut down its fairest branches, and made of them the whips with which they scourged their God.

And from that dreadful hour, the tree, bowed down with shame and anguish, droops mournfully to the ground. The wind whispers through its boughs, "Canst thou forget?" And the thin leaves rustle and sigh, "Alas! never, never, never!"

The hazel tree had a happier fate, for once, when the Blessed Virgin was journeying over a high mountain, she took refuge from a storm beneath its friendly branches.

And our Lord, pleased with the shelter that it had given to his Mother,

promised that the lightning should never strike it, and that whoever rested under its shade should be safe in the wildest storm.

The tamarind tree is said to have been tall, strong, and beautiful, until the traitor Judas, in his terrible despair, hung himself upon its boughs.

Then, withering with fear and horror, it refused to look up into the sky, but shrank into the twisted, tangled bush that we now see.

In Italy, many people will not tread upon a spider, because they say that, when the Blessed Virgin and Saint Joseph were flying with the holy Child into Egypt, they hid from their pursuers in a cavern.

And immediately a spider spun its web over the mouth of the cave, so that the soldiers, when they came along, did not enter, but hurried by, saying to each other, "No one can be within, for, behold! the little insect's web is stretched unbroken in the sun!"

AGNES REPPLIER.

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.

It was very, very cold. The snow was falling, and it was growing dark. It was the last evening of the year.

In the cold and darkness, a poor little bareheaded and barefooted girl girl went along the street.

When she left home she had slippers on; but they had done her little good. They were very large old slippers which her mother had worn.

So large were they, that the little girl had lost both of them as she was running across the street to get out of the way of two carriages which rolled swiftly by. One of the slippers could not be found, and a bad boy had run off with the other.

So the little girl went on, with bare feet, while the snow fell thicker and faster.