MR.

LAMMIE'S FARM.
One of the first warm mornings in the beginning of summer, the boy woke early, and lay awake, as was his custom, thinking.

The sun, in all the indescribable purity of its morning light, had kindled a spot of brilliance just about where his grannie's head must be lying asleep in its sad thoughts, on the opposite side of the partition.
He lay looking at the light.

There came a gentle tapping at his window.
A long streamer of honeysuckle, not yet in blossom, but alive with the life of the summer, was blown by the air of the morning against his window-pane, as if calling him to get up and look out.

He did get up and look out.
But he started back in such haste that he fell against the side of his bed.