spoon âlways lies in the handle; that is to say, when wooden spoons have heärts- but one must bear âll for honor. Yes, hē may ēven put a bit of lead in my heart, if he only makes me so that I shall pass for a real heavy silver spoon.' So the silversmith bōred deep into her heärt, and filled it up with melted lead, which soon härdened within it. But shē suffered all for honor's sake. Then she was silvered ōver again, and brought back to the plate basket. Now, the servant came, and took her up with the rest of the spoons, and saw and felt no difference; sō she was placed with the rest on the great dinnertable, passed for a rēal, beautiful silver spoon, and would have been as happy as possible, if she had not got a lump of lead in her heart. That lump of lead caused a great heaviness there, and made her feel not quite happy in the midst of her honors. Sō tīme went on, and the wooden spoon continued to pass for a silver one, sō well was shē silvered, and sō heavy had she been made. But the meat-mother died. At that, the silvered spoon, instead of sorrowing, as she once would have done, âlmost rejoiced; for every time she had lain shining on the greāt tāble, shē had recollected that the meat-mother was the only person who knew that she really was nothing more than a simple wooden spoon; and so if her mistress took another spoon instead of her, she became quite jealous, and said to herself, That is because she knows all about me; she knows I am a wooden spoon, silvered outside, and with a lump of lead within mē.

But when the mistress was dead, she said to herself, Now I am free, and can enjoy myself perfectly; for no one will ever know now that I am not quite what I seem.' The goods, however, were now to be sōld. The family silver was bought by a gōldsmith, who prepared to melt it up, in order to work it anew. The unhappy wooden spoon was bought with the rest; she saw the furnace ready, and heard with dismay that they should âll be cast therein. Shē was dreadfully alärmed, exclaimed against the cruelty practised towards the friendless orphans who had sō lately lost their good protectress, and began to appeal to her companions in rank and misfortune, who lay calmly within sight of the furnace. They will burn us up!' she cried. They will turn us to ashes! How quietly you take such inhuman conduct!'

"O no!' said an old silver spoon and fork, who lay composedly side by side-they had been cōmrādes from yoûth these two, and had âlready gone through the furnace I know not how often-'O nō! they will do us nō härm. They may willingly melt us: the furnace will do us good räṭher than härm, and wē shall soon appear in a mōre fashionable and handsome

form.'

"The silvered wooden spoon listened, but was not comforted. It did not comfort her to find that silver would not burn, she knew that wood must do sō.

"Ah!' sighed the silly spoon, 'I see it is not by brightness only, nor only by weight, that real silver iş known!' The silver was cast into the furnace;

but when the gōldsmith came and took her up, shē cried in great excitement, and with a trembling voice: 'Dear mäster, I certainly am a silver spoon; that is seen bōth by mỹ appearance and weight; but then I am not of the same sort of silver as the other spoons; I am of a finer sort, which cannot bear fire, but flies away in smōke.'

"Indeed! what are you then? Perhaps tin?' ""Tin! can the dear mäster think sō meanly of me?' "Perhaps even lead.'

lead.'

Lead! äh, the mäster can easily see if I am of

"Well, that will I do,' said the mäster, and began to bend the handle, and snap it went in two, for wood will not bear bending like silver, any mōre than it will bear melting. The wooden handle brōke in two, and out fell the lump of lead. 'Sō!' cried the mäster; 'ōnly a common wooden spoon silvered ōver!'

"Yes,' cried the poor spoon, which, so soon as the lead fell from her heart, grew quite light and happy; Yes, I am only a common wooden spoon. Take away the silvering, dear mäster; cauṣe mē to bẽ mended, and set me in the kitchen again, to serve out mealporridge for the rest of my life. Now, I know how stupid it was for a wooden spoon to want to pass for a silver one!'"

21. THE BRAMBLE'S STORY.

A merry little girl was one day running along as fast as she could with a basket of flowers in her hand. All at once something seized her frock sō roughly behind that she nearly fell down. She pülled at her skîrt, and pülled again, but still it was fast; sō she looked round to see what it could bē; and a great Bramble clōse by the path, had caught fast hold of the tuck of her frock, and wouldn't let

it gō.

"Are you in a hurry?" said the Bramble. "I wish you would sit down a bit bỹ mē; it's very pleaṣant on the grass."

"Please leave loose of my frock," said the child, "or you'll tear the tuck. There, that will do, thank yoû;" and shē smoothed her frock under her, and sat down by the Bramble with her basket in her lap.

"But you must tell mē a stōry, if I am to stay," said the little gîrl, aș shẽ began to twine her flowers into a gärland; and the Bramble, after a flourish of her long ärm, began:—

"When I am at my füll height, I can see ōver that wâll before us, and look at the lake beyond, with its quiet bays and pretty pebbly beach."

The child jumped up, and cried, "Oh, I can see it too; how pretty it is!"

"Well," continued the Bramble, "on that little beach there are hundreds of pebbles, of âll shāpes and sizes; there they lie summer and winter, âll the

year round, and there I suppose they lay ÿears before I was born."

How tiresome it must be!" said the little gîrl; and again shē jumped up from the grass.

"Now do sit down," said the Bramble, and shē pülled her by the pinafore. "Perhaps you think sō, for you don't seem to like sitting still; but I think they have variety enough in the weather and the seasons-the blue sky in summer, with the clouds as white as my blossoms floating overhead, and then the rain, making them shine like jewels in the sun. Autumn, perhaps, is a dull time, when the fog hangs upon the trees and loosens the red leaves; but when Winter sets in the frost is busy, and wherever there is the tiniest blade of grass or little weed growing hē hangs them with crystals of the prettiest forms, and he sings some ōld tune to the lake at night that hushes it to sleep; and so it lies for days, cold and still, not a wave coming ashōre to play; then down come the hailstoneș, claiming cousinship with the pebbles, and a merry dance they lead among them, and over the sleepy lake."

"I like âll that," said the little girl; "but why have you wool hanging about you this wârm weather?"

"Oh!" said the Bramble hastily, "the sheep leave it sometimes. when I've told them a story. But yoû shouldn't interrupt me."

"Well," said the child, "gō on." Sō she did.

"There were once three Pebbles that were friends.