The story of Proserpina has been used as a subject for many paintings. One of the best-known of these is Rosetti's "Persephone," which shows her as she stands, sad-eyed, with the bitten fruit in her hand.

A

ORIGIN OF THE OPAL

DEWDROP came, with a spark of flame He had caught from the sun's last ray, To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;
But she smiled all at once, to view

Her own bright form, with its coloring warm,
Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look
At the sky, so soft and blue;
And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen,
Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north wind, as he thus reclined,
Of a sudden raged around;

And a maiden fair, who was walking there,
Next morning, an opal found.

F

IN TIME'S SWING

By LUCY LARCOM

ATHER TIME, your footsteps go
Lightly as the falling snow.
In your swing I'm sitting, see!
Push me softly; one, two, three,
Twelve times only. Like a sheet,
Spread the snow beneath my feet.
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring.

Swing me out, and swing me in!
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves,
On the bough beneath the eaves
Wait, one lilac bud I saw.
Icy hillsides feel the thaw;
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.

Oh, the smell of sprouting grass!
In a blur the violets pass.
Whispering from the wildwood come
Mayflower's breath and insect's hum.
Roses carpeting the ground;

Thrushes, orioles, warbling sound:
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July.

Slower now, for at my side
White pond lilies open wide.
Underneath the pine's tall spire
Cardinal blossoms burn like fire.

They are gone; the golden-rod
Flashes from the dark green sod.
Crickets in the grass I hear;
Asters light the fading year.

Slower still! October weaves

Rainbows of the forest leaves.
Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue,
Glimmer out of sleety dew.
Meadow-green I sadly miss:
Winds through withered sedges hiss.
Oh, 'tis snowing, swing me fast,
While December shivers past!

Frosty-bearded Father Time,
Stop your footfall on the rime!
Hard you push, your hand is rough;
You have swung me long enough.
"Nay, no stopping," say you? Well,
Some of your best stories tell,
While you swing me-gently, do!—
From the Old Year to the New.

The title tells you that this poem is not about a real swing, under an apple tree. Why is Time asked to push "twelve times only"? What month is it when the swinging begins? How many times does the swing move in the first stanza? How many times in the second? Do the birds begin to twitter while the trees are still bare? Should we expect to see lilac buds in February or March?

Do you know the "smell of sprouting grass"? Do the violets pass in May? Does it seem to you that the author has chosen the right flowers and birds to represent each month? Do the pond lilies, the cardinal blossoms, the golden-rod, the asters, and the gentians follow each other in that order?

If you are familiar with the flowers mentioned, you will know that they almost all grow in damp, marshy places. Where do sedges grow? Does it not seem to you that the illustrations are particularly well chosen?

There is a series of beautiful little pictures in the words, "underneath the pine's tall spire cardinal blossoms burn like fire"; "the golden-rod flashes from the dark green sod"; "asters light the fading year"; "gentians fringed... glimmer out of sleety dew."

WHY THE SEA IS SALT

By MARY HOWITT

HERE were, in very ancient times, two brothers, one of whom was rich, and the other poor. Christmas was approaching, but the poor man had nothing in the house for a Christmas dinner; so he went to his brother and asked him for a trifling gift.

The rich man was ill-natured, and when he heard his brother's request he looked very surly. But as Christmas is a time when even the worst people give gifts, he took a fine ham down from the chimney, where it was hanging to smoke, threw it at his brother, and bade him be gone and never show his face again.

The poor man thanked his brother for the ham, put it under his arm, and went his way. He had to pass through a great forest on his way home, and when he reached the thickest part of it, he saw an old man, with a long, white beard, hewing timber. "Good evening," said the poor man.

"Good evening," returned the old man, raising himself from his work, and looking at him. "That is a fine ham you are carrying."

On hearing this, the poor man told him all about the ham and how it was obtained.

"It is lucky for you," says the old man, "that you have met with me. If you will take that ham into the land of the dwarfs, the entrance to which