FERN-SEED.

By Celia THAXTER.

  She filled her shoes with fern-seed,
    This foolish little Nell,
  And in the summer sunshine
    Went dancing down the dell. 
  For whoso treads on fern-seed,—­
    So fairy stories tell,—­
  Becomes invisible at once,
    So potent is its spell. 
  A frog mused by the brook-side: 
    “Can you see me!” she cried;
  He leaped across the water,
    A flying leap and wide. 
  “Oh, that’s because I asked him! 
    I must not speak,” she thought,
  And skipping o’er the meadow
    The shady wood she sought. 
  The squirrel chattered on the bough,
    Nor noticed her at all,
  The birds sang high, the birds sang low,
    With many a cry and call. 
  The rabbit nibbled in the grass,
    The snake basked in the sun,
  The butterflies, like floating flowers,
    Wavered and gleamed and shone. 
  The spider in his hammock swung,
    The gay grasshoppers danced;
  And now and then a cricket sung,
    And shining beetles glanced. 
  ’Twas all because the pretty child
    So softly, softly trod,—­
  You could not hear a foot-fall
    Upon the yielding sod. 
  But she was filled with such delight—­
    This foolish little Nell! 
  And with her fern-seed laden shoes,
    Danced back across the dell. 
  “I’ll find my mother now,” she thought,
    “What fun ’t will be to call
  ‘Mamma! mamma!’ while she can see
    No little girl at all!”
  She peeped in through the window,
    Mamma sat in a dream: 
  About the quiet, sun-steeped house
    All things asleep did seem. 
  She stept across the threshold;
    So lightly had she crept,
  The dog upon the mat lay still,
    And still the kitty slept. 
  Patient beside her mother’s knee
    To try her wondrous spell
  Waiting she stood, till all at once,
    Waking, mamma cried “Nell! 
  Where have you been?  Why do you gaze
    At me with such strange eyes?”
  “But can you see me, mother dear?”
    Poor Nelly faltering cries. 
  “See you?  Why not, my little girl? 
    Why should mamma be blind?”
  And little Nell unties her shoes,
    With fairy fern-seed lined,
  And tosses up into the air
    A little powdery cloud,
  And frowns upon it as it falls,
    And murmurs half aloud,
  “It wasn’t true, a word of it,
    About the magic spell! 
  I never will believe again
    What fairy stories tell!”

MACKEREL-FISHING.

By Robert Arnold.