He pulled out his purse and gave the child three or four large gold pieces.  The little hands could not hold them, and they fell on the carpet, rolling in different directions.  Bullion left hastily, with a quick nod and a clipped “Good-bye.”

“Well, I vow!” said Fletcher, with a long breath.  “It’s well he didn’t stay to pick ’em up; they’d ’ave stuck to his fingers like wax.  He couldn’t have let ’em alone.”

“What a good man he is!” said the overjoyed little woman.

“Good man!  He’s crazy.  Old Bullion giving away gold pieces to a baby!  He’s lost his wits, sure.  He never gave away a sixpence before in his life.  Oh, he’s cracked, without a doubt.  I must keep watch of him.  When he grows generous, there’s something wrong.”

[To be continued.]

THE WATERFALL.

  Down across the green and sunny meadow,
    Where the grass hangs thick with glistening dew,—­
  In the birch-wood’s flickering light and shadow,
    Where, between green leaves, the sun shines through,—­

  Plunging deeper in the wood’s dark coolness,
    Where the path grows rougher and more steep,
  Where the trees stand thick in leafy fulness,
    And the moss lies green in shadows deep:—­

  Hark! the wind amid the tree-tops rushing
    In a sudden gust along the hills!—­
  No,—­the leaves are still,—­’tis water gushing
    From some hidden haunt of mountain-rills.

  Upward through the rugged pathway struggling,
    Loud and louder yet the music grows;
  Near and nearer still, the water’s gurgling
    Guides me where o’er moss-grown rocks it flows.

  Breathless, for its welcome coolness thirsting,
    On I haste, led by the rushing sound,
  Till upon my full sight sudden bursting,
    Lo, the forest’s hidden treasure found!

  See the gathered waters madly leaping,
    Plunging from the rocks in headlong chase,
  Boiling, eddying, whirling, downward sweeping
    All that meets them in their foaming race!

  From the broken waters riseth ever,
    Fresh and cool, a soft and cloud-like spray;
  And where through the boughs slant sunbeams quiver,
    On the mist the sudden rainbows play.

  On a branch high o’er the torrent swinging
    Sits a bird, with joyful-swelling throat;—­
  Only to the eye and heart he’s singing;
    Through the roar below I hear no note.

  All the forest seems as if enchanted,
    Seems to lie in wondrous stillness bound;
  Hushed its voices, silenced and supplanted,
    Interwoven with this ceaseless sound.

  Gazing on the whirl of waters meeting,
    Dizzy with its rush, I stand and dream,
  Till it almost seems my own heart’s beating,
    And no more the voice of mountain-stream.

THE WINTER-BIRDS.