Winner Stories

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consoling, but at last, finding it impossible to draw forth an
intelligible word from the sobs and tears, she took the little
thing in her arms and carried her to her father. Raeburn was a
great child lover, and had a habit of carrying goodies in his
pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with whom he
was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which
restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.
She must have lost her way, he said, glancing from the lovely
little tearstained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands
of the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently
she volunteered a remark.
Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone.
Dolly ran away.
Where is your home? asked Erica.
Me don't know! Me don't know! cried Dolly, bursting into tears
again, and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. Father! Father,
Dolly wants father.
We will come and look for him, said Erica, but you must stop
crying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look for
you
At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if
expecting to see him close by.
He isn't there, she said, piteously.
Come and let us look for him, said Erica.
Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled up
the steep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused for
a moment, wondering which direction they had better take, when a
voice behind her made her start.
Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!
Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the arms
of a tall, dark, rather foreignlooking man, who caught her up and
held her closely.
He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Erica
thought his face the noblest she had ever seen.
Methought I heard one calling: Child,
And I replied: 'My Lord!'
George Herbert
A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradual
growth of the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acorn
in a glass of water and watch the slow progress during long months.
First one tiny white thread is put forth, then another, until at
length the glass is almost filled with a tangle of white fibers, a
sturdy little stem raises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is to
live, must be at once transplanted into good soil. The process may
be botanically interesting, but there is something a little sickly
about it, too there is a feeling that, after all, the acorn would
have done better in its natural ground hidden away in darkness.

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