And a bird-like voice sweet questioned, "Wilhelmj, where is he?
I've brought a little tribute for the great mæstro,--see!"

Her looped-up dress she opened, displaying to his view
A mass of brilliant woodland flowers, wet with morning dew;
Placing his finger on his lip, he pointed out the door;
She smiled her thanks, and softly went and strewed them on the floor.

Then like a vision of the morn, with eyes of heaven's own blue,
She slowly oped the outer door and gently glided through.
Hours after, when Wilhelmj woke he gazed in mute surprise
Upon those buds and blossoms fair, with softened, tender eyes.

They took him back long years agone, when, as a happy child,
He wandered, too, amid the woods, on summer mornings mild;
Aye, back to his home and mother; back to his old home nest,
To the blessed scenes of childhood; back into peace and rest.

And when he heard the story,--how the child had come and fled,--
"This is my greatest triumph" (with tears the mæstro said),
"For no gift of king or princes, no praise could please me more.
Than this living mat of flowers a child laid at my door."

* * * * *




THE FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH IN MASSACHUSETTS.