from the beds, snatched little Crissy up in her arms, and bidding Gertie hold on to her frock, hurried again to the well. To drop the blankets to the bottom, place the children, one at a time, in the bucket and lower them down, was the work of a few moments. Then letting the bucket remain below, she grasped the rope, slid down hand over hand, and joined the terrified children in their strange place of refuge.

The descent was not made a moment too soon. The flames were already rushing over the dry grass and stubble. and stubble. In another minute the rest of

the woodpile was

ablaze, and a sheet of flame swept over the well. The rope, catching fire at the top, quickly burnt through, and fell plump upon the heads of the children.

For hours they cowered in terror, watching the whirling smoke, and listening to the roaring flames above. By and by the noise grew less, the smoke cleared; and, quite worn out, Mabel and her little charges fell asleep.

At last Mabel was awakened by Crissy's plaintive cry," I want my breakfast!" and found that the sun had risen upon another day. It was impossible to get out of the well. Mabel, though her heart was full of fear, did her best to comfort the little ones, hoping that at last some one would rescue them.

Several hours passed away. The sun had risen high in the heavens, when at last hurried footsteps were heard approaching. The anxious mother had reached her home, to find nothing but charred and glowing embers. A cry of despair broke from her when she could find no trace of her children.

But what is that? Her cry is answered by a faint shout! She stands eagerly listening. Again the shout is repeated — it sounds like a voice from the ground. A sudden thought strikes her. She rushes to the well, leans over the charred curb, and from the depths the cheering words reach her ears: "It's I, Mabel Howard. Gertrude and Crissy are with me."

Kneeling down by the brink, and peering into the darkness, Mrs. Moore caught a faint glimpse of the children, and uttered a glad cry of thankfulness. Then, opening a little parcel of cloth she had bought in the town, she tore the cloth into strips, and tied a number of them together. Fastening a stone to one end of the line she lowered it to Mabel, who quickly tied the rope to it. Then Mrs. Moore drew up the rope and fastened it to the windlass.

"Send the baby up first!" she cried joyfully. In a few moments the delighted little one appeared in the bucket at the mouth of the well, and was clasped in her mother's arms. Gertrude came next, and

now, Mabel? You are such a heavy lump of goodness that I'm afraid I can't wind you up."

'Never mind me," laughed Mabel, cheerily. "Just lower the bucket again and let me send up the blankets, and then I will make my own way out."

Up came the blankets; the bucket made another descent, and Mabel, grasping the rope with both hands, and leaning far back, planted her feet firmly against the rough wall, and walked up to daylight as cleverly as any boy could have done.

Imagine the words of heartfelt thankfulness with which she was greeted by the fond mother. Imagine, too, Mabel's joy when, on reaching home, she found that the little Lennox boys whom she had left at the lake had also escaped unhurt. Mr. Moore's house was soon rebuilt, and in his best room hangs the portrait of the brave girl to whose courage and quick wit he owed the safety of his children, the sunshine of his home.

ad join'ing, touching each other. trudge, to walk or march wearily.

de lay', to stop for a time; to put off. dis may', fear: alarm.

plac'id, calm.

wind'lass, the part of the well which draws up the bucket.

drum, the round part of the windlass,

about which the rope winds.

cow'er, to sink in fear.

un con'scious, fallen into a faint; not plain'tive, sad; complaining.

knowing.

he ro'ic, brave.

em'bers, the hot remains of a fire.

des pair', loss of hope.

THE FIRST SNOWFALL.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE Snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"

And I told of the good All-Father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snowfall,

And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

gloam'ing, twilight; dusk.

sweet Au'burn, a cemetery.

er'mine, the fur of a small white ani- Car ra'ra, a town in Italy where the mal with a black tail. whitest marble is found.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) was a friend of Longfellow, Emerson, Holmes, and Whittier. As a poet he ranks with them. He is also famous as one of the greater American critics. Like Longfellow and Holmes, he was for many years a professor in Harvard University.