A little bird had told the whole story of Marie’s woe to the breeze, and he rose and sighed aloud; the trees tossed their arms about, because it was so wicked in a little girl to be ungrateful.  The crickets said, “Tut, tut!” in a very snappy way; and at last the great wind rose, and whipped the poor brook until it grew quite white with foam and fear.

Then Marie knew how naughty she had been, and she made no complaint at her punishment.  In fact, she bore it so meekly that after the wind had quieted down and the stormy flurry was over, she began to sing her quiet little song again, although she was very tired of it by this time, and was so meek and patient that all the meadow whispered: 

“Good little thing now,—­good little thing!” and then they told her how everything in the world, no matter how small it is, has a duty to perform, and should do its task cheerfully and gladly, and not weep and complain when it thinks matters are not going in the right way, but try to keep on with its task and relief will come.

Marie listened like an obedient little brook as she was, and was just going to float another merry little bubble to the little reeds below when she heard a voice say, “Give me my bed; I want it,” and lo! there was the real brook come back.  She pushed Marie aside and hurt her, though she seemed so gentle.

Marie tried to rise, but it was difficult; her limbs were stiff lying all this time in the meadow, her eyes were weary gazing at the sky, and her voice hoarse with the song she had been forced to sing.

She tried again, and this time she succeeded; and behold! there she was on the door-step, and the sun was going down.

NINA’S CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

Hark!  What was that?

Nina stood still in the wintry blast and listened.  The wind rushed upon her wildly, and dragged her tattered skirt this way and that, and fleered at her, and whistled at her; and when she paid not the slightest attention to his cruel treatment of her, fled tumultuously down the street.

It was a wretched, shivering little figure that he left behind him,—­a small girl, with coal-black hair escaping from the folds of a bright kerchief that was tied about it; with immense dark eyes, that seemed to light up her poor, pinched face and make it beautiful; with tattered dress and torn shoes, and with something clutched tightly beneath her arm,—­something that she tried unsuccessfully to shield from the weather beneath her wretched rag of a shawl, that was so insufficient to shield even her.  She was listening intently to the sounds of an organ that came pealing forth into the dusk from within the enormous church before whose doors she was standing.