square happened to notice that the rope from the big bell could no longer be reached from the ground, so he climbed up the tower and, half in fun, mended it with a long vine whose leaves and tendrils made the rope look very pretty and almost as though it were growing from the ground.

That afternoon, just as on every other afternoon in dreamy Italy, the people all went into their houses, closed their doors and blinds and laid themselves down in their cool rooms for a quiet sleep. They had hardly lost themselves, however, before there came suddenly on the air the loud notes of the big bell in the marketplace.

Everybody started from his sleep, for it had been a long time since a person had claimed justice through the bell. Now it rang out, louder and louder each moment: "Someone-hath done a wrong, a wrong; someone-hath done -a wrong!"

The judge was one of the first to hear the alarm and springing quickly from his dreamy couch he put on his robes of justice and hurried, as fast as his portly body would permit him, up to the marketplace. It was hard to be disturbed in the midst of the afternoon's sleep, but so strange a circumstance brought the people out from all the houses around, and by the time the judge had reached the public square, there were scores of villagers at his heels. They looked about everywhere, but not a person could be seen. You can imagine how disgusted was the judge and how noisy were the people as they scolded about the

trick that some scurvy youngster had played upon them. While they were still wrangling about it and filling the square with their noisy cries, the bell began again: "Someone hath done-a wrong!"

Everybody looked, and there, at the end of the rope, stood the old horse, tearing off the leaves from the vine and with every mouthful jangling the bell. Some of the people laughed at the sight, and everybody was more or less amused, but the judge saw the justice of the old horse's plaint and ordered his servants to run and bring to him the miserly old knight.

When the knight arrived, he was inclined to treat the whole thing as a joke, until the judge told him that the good old King John had hung the bell there that wrongs might be redressed, and that so faithful a horse had as good a claim on justice as any man in the village.

"I fear you do not understand," said the judge. "You can not do what you please with your own. Your renown and your pride and your honor are as nothing now when you come to starve this poor brute. An animal that serves its master well and speaks not, merits more than those men who clamor and shout the loudest over what they have done.

"Therefore I decide that as this horse served you well in your youth, you must now, in its old age, provide it shelter in a stall and food enough to keep it well, besides a pasture in which it may wander about in the open air, enjoying rest for its weary body."

If you want to see how beautifully this incident can be told by a poet, you may read Longfellow's version in his poem, The Bell of Atri.

The Fairies of the Caldon Low

HE difference between poetry and prose may be shown in rather a startling manner with such a selection as The Fairies of the Caldon Low, (Volume II, page 435). Children like Mary Howitt's little narrative, but what does it really say? Let us put it in plain prose and see!

"Where have you been, Mary."

"I've been to the top of Caldon Low to see the midsummer night."

"What did you see?"

"I saw the sunshine come down and the winds blow."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard the water-drops made and the ears of corn fill."

"Tell me everything, Mary, for you must have seen the fairies.

"Then take me on your knee, mother, and listen. Last night a hundred fairies danced on lively feet to the merry music of nine harpers, but the merriest thing was the sound of the fairy talk."

"What did hear them say."

you

"I'll tell you, but let me do it in my own way.

Some rolled water down the hill and said, 'this will turn the poor old miller's wheel, and a busy man he will be by morning. There has been no rain since the first of May, and how the jolly old miller will laugh till the tears fill his eyes when he sees the water rise in the milldam.' And some seized the winds and put horns to their mouths and blew sharply. 'And there!' said they shrilly 'the merry winds go from every horn to clear the damp mildew from the blind old widow's corn. Though she has been blind for a long time she'll be merry enough when the corn stands up stiff and strong without any mildew!' Then some brought flax seed and flung it down, saying, 'by sunrise this will be growing in the weaver's field, and how the poor lame fellow will laugh when he sees his vacant field filled with blue flax flowers in a single day.' Then a brownie with a long beard spoke, 'I have spun all the tow and I want more. I have spun a linen sheet for Mary's bed and an apron for her mother.' I couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then I was alone. On the top of Caldon Low, the mists were cold and gray and I could see nothing but mossy stones lying about me. But as I came down I heard the jolly miller laughing and his wheel going merrily. I peeped into the widow's cornfield and, sure enough, the golden corn was free from mildew, and at the gate of the croft stood the weaver, whose eye told the good news about his flax field. Now that's all I heard and all I saw, so please make my bed, mother, for I'm as tired as I can be."

Rather a pretty story, even in plain prose, is it not? Just about as it would be told to a little child for the first time, a child interested in the good fairies who do good things for the poor and the suffering. Then a little later, when the child reads for himself he can see how much better Mary Howitt tells the story in verse. Nevertheless, some children will prefer it in prose and often may ask to have other poems "told in prose." There is no reason for refusing. Story first, poem afterward, is a good rule to follow if you want to create a taste for poetry. Sometimes just a remark, "Let us see how this sounds in poetry," will create enough interest to enable the parent to begin reading aloud to an attentive audience. Most children will not learn to like poetry if left to their own devices. It must be read aloud to them and its beauties pointed out occasionally to create a love for so artificial a thing as metrical composition.

Little Giffin of Tennessee

HIS little narrative poem (Volume V, page 155) is intensely dramatic. Too abrupt in style for easy reading and filled with words the children may not understand, it is not well adapted to the very young. But there's a story in it of courage and deep patriotism that will be an inspiration to every child who can hear it. What better subject can a parent find for the