he swallowed spoon and all, and was very ill afterward.  But he grew up at last, and just as Juno had made up her mind not to take care of other people’s families any more, the keeper came to her with two young giraffes, and told her she really must be a mother to the poor little scraps of misery, for their mother was gone, and they would die if they weren’t cared for immediately.  These were a dreadful trouble, and besides, they would keep trotting after her everywhere, till the pelican, and the adjutant, and the cranes nearly killed themselves laughing at her.  Poor Juno felt worse and worse, till when one day she heard the keeper say she certainly would have to take care of the young elephant, she felt that she could stand it no longer, and made up her mind to run away.  So she said good-bye to all her friends, and ran to the wall of the park.  There she gave a great jump, and,—­waked up, and found herself in the sunshiny grass near the elephant’s house.

“Oh, how glad I am!” said Juno.

“What in the world has been the matter?” asked the elephant.  “You’ve been kicking and growling in your sleep at a great rate.  I’ve been watching you this long time.”

“Such dreadful dreams!” said Juno.  “Lion-puppies are all very well, but when it comes to hippopotamus, and giraffes, and elephant——­”

“What are you talking about?” said the elephant.  “I guess you’d better go to your supper; I heard the keeper call you long ago.”

So Juno went to her supper very glad to find she had only dreamed her troubles; but she made up her mind that if the old hippopotamus should die, she would run away that very night.

WISHES

BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.

  I wish that the grasses would learn to sprout,
  That the lilac and rose-bush would both leaf out;
  That the crocus would put on her gay green frill,
  And robins begin to whistle and trill!

  I wish that the wind-flower would grope its way
  Out of the darkness into the day;
  That the rain would fall and the sun would shine,
  And the rainbow hang in the sky for a sign.

  I wish that the silent brooks would shout,
  And the apple-blossoms begin to pout;
  And if I wish long enough, no doubt
  The fairy Spring will bring it about!

HOW MATCHES ARE MADE.

BY F.H.C.

[Illustration]

A match is a small thing.  We seldom pause to think, after it has performed its mission, and we have carelessly thrown it away, that it has a history of its own, and that, like some more pretentious things, its journey from the forest to the match-safe is full of changes.  This little bit of white pine lying before me came from far north, in the Hudson Bay Territory, or perhaps from the great silent forests about Lake Superior, and has been rushed and jammed and tossed in its long course through rivers, over cataracts and rapids, and across the great lakes.