"Pat Fagan," she said, with kindly eyes addressing the crestfallen ringleader: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Teasing a poor idiot boy is disgraceful and cruel.”

Pat turned scarlet at the reproof, and promised never to tease Timsy again. He kept his word.

The next day Miss Vesey made Timsy extremely happy by the gift of a canary. Timsy, in return, manufactured a wonderful collar for Mademoiselle, out of some leather he had begged from the cobbler.

Although Timsy could never be taught to read or write, he was a keen observer of Nature in all its moods. On warm, sunny days he would lie full length on the ground, staring up at the turquoise sky. He could tell if rain was approaching by the scent of the grass, or if a frost was about to set in. Miss Vesey would often say to him: "Will it freeze to-night so as to prevent hunting to-morrow?" And Timsy would say: "Aye; there'll be a stiff frost, for I heard the train distinctly." Or he would say: It will be wet to-morrow, the hills are that clear that I can see the linen out, bleaching on their slopes."

When Timsy was about seventeen, a terrible misfortune befell him. His mother died. He took her loss greatly to heart, refusing to eat or drink, and he lay face downwards on the floor, muttering and groaning. At nights he did not sleep, for he seemed to hear the dull thud of the earth falling upon his mother's coffin.

At the time of Widow Burke's death, Miss Vesey had been in London, and on her return home, she missed Timsy from his cottage door. One day, as she was riding by, she pulled up, and giving her horse to the groom to hold, went into the cottage. "Where's Timsy?" she inquired of blind Norah.

Then Norah told her of their sad loss, saying that Timsy was utterly heart-broken, and lay on the floor "mumbling to himself, and talking foolishness. And I haven't a soul," added the blind woman, to do a hand's turn for me. The boy used to be biddable enough, but he's that fierce that I'm afeared to go near him."

Miss Vesey asked to be conducted to where Timsy lay, watering the ground with his tears.

Here's a visitor for you," announced Norah.

she cried. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself-lying there crying like a baby for its mammy?"

"Leave him to me, Norah," said Miss Vesey gently.

Left alone with Timsy, she lightly touched his shoulder, bidding him get up. Timsy pulled himself into a sitting position, and gazed at her from under swollen

"Timsy,” said Miss Vesey," be a man! If your mother was to look down from the happy land to which she has gone, it would pain her very much to see you neglecting your duties and blind Norah."

“She's not in the happy land," said Timsy, sullenly. "She's in the churchyard under the damp earth. They carried her away from me, and shovelled stones on her. I heard the rattling."

Miss Vesey was silent for a moment, wondering what she could say to comfort Timsy. When she spoke, she said very kindly :

"Your mother is no longer in the churchyard; she's gone to a land where poverty and hunger are unknown, and if anything could mar her happiness it would be the thought that you are sad and miserable, and surely you do not wish to pain her."

Timsy passed his hand over his forehead, his poor muddled brain was at work.

"Even if she's gone to the happy land," said Timsy, “I think she'd be knowing that I'm longing for a sight of her."

"You'll meet her some day," said Miss Vesey, soothingly, "if you only set about doing your duty and keeping the house clean and tidy, and helping blind Norah."

"Perhaps," said Timsy, passing his fingers through his thatch of hair, "if I do my best to look after Norah, mebbe some evening, when the moon's shining brightly, me mother will come from the happy land to have a look at her poor boy, and say a kind word to him."

Miss Vesey turned her head away. Her eyes were full of tears, and she had not courage to disillusion Timsy. She merely said again:

"You'll certainly meet her some day."

Timsy was comforted, and, rising, went about his work as usual. He swept and kept his mother's room tidy and neat, and on moonlight nights he would draw up the blind and let the silver radiance flood the room. Then he would light a fire in the grate, and place a kettle upon it; for he said to himself: "Mebbe when she comes from the happy land, she'd be wishful for a cup of tay."

Timsy never went in quest of the fairies any longer, for he feared his mother might come and find him absent.

Timsy and blind Norah looked after each other. Kindhearted neighbours occasionally gave them presents of money and food. Luckily their wants were few, they lived quietly enough, regardless of public events.

Rossderg was an unprogressive, inactive place, which nothing seemed to agitate or harass. Its inhabitants might even have

remained in blissful ignorance of the existence of motor cars, had not the Right Honourable Charles Alderson-an English Member of Parliament with more money than brains-come to Ireland on a special mission.

He had published an article in the New Era, entitled “Out of Evil, Good Comes," which was written to prove that the salvation of Ireland lay in the productiveness of her bogs; and in his article he warmly advocated starting an industry for making topcoats out of bog cotton.

Now Rossderg was surrounded by bogs; they lay in all directions. The Right Honourable Charles Alderson, hearing these bogs were remarkably prolific as regards bog cotton, determined to make a tour of inspection himself, in his new twentyfour horse power motor car.

One fine day, as Timsy the Fairy lay outside his cottage door basking in the warm sunshine, he suddenly heard a strange whizzing sound, and, on looking up, beheld what he thought to be a dragon enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The motor, for motor it was, rapidly came towards him.

Suddenly, about a hundred yards from where Timsy sat, a black object appeared in front of the car. It was Mademoiselle -Miss Vesey's dog. Timsy called loudly to the poodle, but it took no notice of him He dashed forward, and, grasping the dog, stood irresolutely right in the middle of the road.

A splendidly insolent chauffeur sounded a horn, which conveyed nothing to the dull intellect of Timsy. He made one step forward, and then stepped back again. The chauffeur endeavoured to stop the car, but he was too late, and before another minute had elapsed Timsy lay crushed and mangled upon the dusty road, with Mademoiselle in his arms. The dog was unhurt.

He was carried into his cottage, and lingered for some days. Miss Vesey spent her time by his bedside, doing what she could to alleviate his pain.

His mind wandered, and he often talked of his mother. The end came on a beautiful moonlight night-just such a night as he was wont to sit watching for her coming. There was no candle in the room, and the soft light fell aslant on the windows.

Timsy's head stood out upon the pillow, the rays of the moon cast a halo around it; his hands lay upon the patchworkcoverlet, clasping his crucifix. The poor little room was dignified and rendered holy by the coming of death.

Suddenly Timsy's lips moved, and Miss Vesey bent over him to catch his dying accents.

"Do you hear the lovely music?" he inquired.

Miss Vesey answered: "I hear nothing except the trees swaying in the breeze."

"I'm thinking," said Timsy, "she's not far off to-night; and Miss Vesey knew he alluded to his mother.

"No," she said gently, "you are going to join her in Heaven."

A faint smile stole over the idiot's face, his eyelids quivered, but he did not reply; for the soul of Timsy the Fairy had passed away. G. O'BRIEN.

THE FIRST BUTTERFLY

A FAIRY took some gossamer thread,
All on a summer day,

And away over hill and dale he sped,
In a merry fit of play,

To dye it purple in a rainbow gay

Then shape it like a pair of wings
And fret it o'er with gold

And silver frosting and other things,

Ebony black and old,

And the pinkish tinge that comes in a rose's fold.

Then it fluttered its wings and floated away,

And the fairy watched it go,

Up and down by the flowers in play,

Dancing the heel and toe

And a one, two, three, with some thistles that stood

in a row.

HELEN GLADYS EMERY.

FIFTY

UNDER THE YEW TREES

'IFTY years ago! And once again I draw near the place where so many of my youthful days were passed. They told me that long since the house had been levelled to the ground, and that on its site a wealthy city merchant had erected his showy modern mansion, and that the yew trees alone stood faithful to that spot. But how could they, the growth of four hundred years, be uprooted?

Coming up the well-known, and oft-trodden coach-road,"I see the old house, just as it was in times gone by. There it stands under the yew trees, at the cross roads. The large ash is there'; and under it, hat in hand, is the jolly landlord, his ruddy face surmounted by his yellow wig: "Welcome back," he cries, "and won't you step in and see the old place ?"

Gladly I accept this invitation. As I do, I see Betty-she, too, smiling a welcome-carrying a pail of water from the well opposite. I enter by the farmyard, on the left, and find that the duck and geese still swim in the pond. There, to the right, stands the patient donkey saddled and bridled, and by his side a little boy with bare legs, a familiar freckled face, attired in a red frock, and armed with a long stick to stimulate his steed's reluctant feet. Both are awaiting the arrival of a troop of young girls for their daily ride. Yes, here they come. I step into the garden, and once more I look around its jassaminecovered walls. At the porch lie Shot and Batty basking in the

heat. They raise their heads as I pass and lazily wag their tails. When indoors I visit every well remembered room and meet old friends at every turn. The buoyancy of youth seems returned to my step as I pass quickly through the terraced garden with its hedges and arches of laurel. And the bees still busy! How much work they must have done in these fifty years! And I? They seem to ask me this question, and judging from their angry buzzing, as they swarm around my head, my reply does not please them, so, to escape unstung, I move on. Down the incline I go, and again under the yew trees. I look towards the corner for the beech. They told me it had decayed and fallen. No, it is clad in verdure as of old, and stooping, I can trace the letters cut upon its trunk and read many a beloved name.

I linger long beside the sundial, which marked for us the happy hours of childhood, until the chill of evening begins to fall and