are not altogether surprised at this fact. In the vegetable world leaf and bloom often exist in a kind of competition with each other. More than this, it appears that the trailing arbutus is not invariably a plant of annual bloom. On a certain bed of vines, in one spring, we have gathered May-flowers in abundance, though in after years there was scarcely a blossom to be seen in the locality, notwithstanding the vines lived and flourished with a luxuriance that was quite marked, if not

also unusual.

To the average rural resident it is hardly necessary to describe the flower of the trailing arbutus. May-flowers grow in axillary clusters, each one a delicate tube, about half an inch in length, expanding into five petals or points. The flowers are white, though often with a delicately pink blush. It is hardly necessary to remark that the blossoms bearing the pink blush are the most eagerly sought. But the statement evolves a doubtful reflection. We are at a loss to fully comprehend the natural cause of this beautiful and attractive blush in the faces of some of the May-flowers. We notice, however, that it appears more frequently in places less exposed to the sunlight. In gathering the blossoms of the trailing arbutus, look on the northern slopes and inclinations for the blushing pink ones. Those that gaze more directly into the face of the sun are more apt to be pale and colorless.

As we went out to-day, we were induced to take the paths that lead to the haunts of the May-flowers. We should be insensible to the impressions of the beautiful if we did not bear homeward a few specimens of

the lovely blooming vine that has suggested the reflections of this ramble.

RAMBLE XVII.

A HOT WAVE.

This is a hot day. It is the hottest day of the warm season thus far. There is no opportunity for adverse discussion of the assertion. The altitude of the mercury settles the point. A glance at the thermometer shows the atmospheric temperature to range close up to and among the nineties in the shade. We shall hardly have much hotter weather during the coming summer. If we do, such intense weather will be properly considered phenomenal.

The experience of a hot wave at this season of the year is in no special sense exceptional. Nearly or quite every year, in the earlier spring, we have one, two, or three days of extremely warm temperature. The advent of the hot wave is sudden. Its departure is equally prompt. In a word, the quick, brief, hot wave of the inceptive warm season is expected as a matter of fact by the oldest inhabitant of this region of central New Hampshire.

As we go out for a ramble to-day, we do so with somewhat contradictory feelings and impressions. Our emotions are both pleasant and unpleasant. It is pleasant to walk out and think of the immanence of summer heat after the prolonged cold of winter. It is pleasant to see the leaves expanding, the grass growing, and the flowers blooming. It is pleasant to see the birds flitting from bough to bough and to listen to their cheerful notes of song. It is pleas

ant to hear the frogs and toads piping in the meadows and pools. It is pleasant to see and hear the rippling, babbling brooks. These forms and things are all involved in the charms of returning spring. Yet there are reverse conceptions and reflections. This extreme heat is peculiarly oppressive. There is so little shade under the trees that the sun seems to shine with a peculiarly scorching effect. Then the transition of the climatic condition is so sudden that its physiological results are unmistakable. As we try to walk we are, in a measure, overcome by an irresistible feeling of lassitude and weariness. In strolling, we reach an evergreen tree, sit down under its spreading branches, and wipe the perspiration from our brow. We feel like lapsing forever into the arms of listless ennui. We would fain abandon all ambition for senseless rest. What is the matter with us? A very slight thing. For months our physical system has been subjected to the tonic effects of prevalent cold. Now it is suddenly exposed to the atonic influence of abounding heat. Our nerves suddenly relax, and an oppressive lassitude and weakness are the result. In the experience of continuous, moderate warmth, the system will eventually become restored to a consistent adaptation to the season.

Why this hot wave at this time? The season of spring has only advanced to the beginning of the last half of April. No intelligent resident of this locality anticipates that continuous summer warmth can possibly be an experience during this month. We shall yet, most likely, have morning frosts, days of cold, and, perhaps, light snows before

summer comes to be our constant climatic enjoyment. The reliability of our foreboding conception of lingering cold is attested by the facts of astronomy. The sun has, as yet, accomplished only about one third of the 'twenty-three and one half degrees of its northerly excursion that popularly mark the termination of its septentrion course. Why then this present intense heat? We will try and see if we can explain the phe

nomenon.

Its rays

Perhaps this sudden heat is not so. chronologically phenomenal as it seems. When the sun begins its northern course, having crossed the equator, it daily asserts its influence in a more direct manner. infringe upon the earth with a less and less inclination from the perpendicular. The sun grows daily warmer, as we say, and it may at any time happen that its heat will become more experimentally potent in consequence of the absence of causes that incidentally tend to abate its force. Even in the depths of our northern winter, the heat of the sun may any day be an exceptionally noticeable fact through the absence of adverse climatic conditions. Today the direct fact is evident. The breezes are local and soft. The air is almost motionless. Observe the most supple twigs on the top of the tallest tree. They hardly sway for any breath of air that blows. The year round, the wind is a great tamer of the sun's heat. Why is the air so still to-day?

We know but a little about the laws that govern the phenomena of the weather. We comprehend but a little of the causes that on one day give motion to the winds and on

T was a large church in the city, with a popular young preacher, so the evening service was well attended. Dora Andrews, the new assistant in the Adams High school, was there. She was alone this evening and had been shown into a pew with an elderly lady whose sweet face and beautiful gray hair reminded her of the dear mother at home. They had looked on the same book, and together they had sung those dear old hymns, "Love Divine, all Love Excelling," "Blest be the Tie That Binds," and "One Sweetly Solemn Thought."

As they came out, the older lady spoke to the younger one, and, learning her name, exclaimed, "Why you must be the new teacher of whom my granddaughter, Marion Tilton, is so fond! She could n't come to-night, so I ventured out alone. I enjoy Mr. Johnson's sermons so much. I believe this one on Ministering Angels' is the best one that he has given us yet."

6

"May I walk home with you?" asked the little teacher, and together the two went slowly along the brightly lighted streets.

"Since my husband went home, two years ago, I have lived in the family of my son, Marion's father," explained the old lady.

"Oh, yes, I have little Ruth," was the reply. She went to heaven when she was only nine years old. She has her father there now, and perhaps she will not have to wait much longer for me. Do you remember what the minister said to-night about our friends over there being even

nearer to us than they ever could be here on earth?"

"I remember, and I believe it, too," softly answered Dora. "I wish you would tell me about little Ruth."

"She had rheumatic fever," said the mother, "and the doctor told us that she could not live. We thought she ought to know it, but I could n't tell her, so her father said, 'Do you know, little Ruth, that God is almost ready to take you home?' She felt so bad about it, though, and said she could n't die, that it nearly broke our hearts. It seemed as if she had made up her mind that she wouldn't die, and for three long months how the poor little thing did suffer. Then, gradually, she became reconciled to death, and finally she longed to go, and talked so beautifully about it all the time. The lovely place where she was going seemed so real to her. She felt sorry to leave us, but, she said, 'I'll come and be with you just as often as God can spare me."

"It was a beautiful morning in June when she went, and she was so

she had left this, and when she could no longer speak, she smiled and pointed at the things she saw. I shall never forget the expression on her little thin face as she went 'sweep ing through the gates.' She seems nearer and nearer as the years go by, and sometimes I can almost clasp her little hand. She comes and smiles at me, and goes about with me, and I feel the touch of her angel wings as she broods over me with a love that fills my heart. She has seemed so near all day."

They had reached the door now. "Won't you come in, dear?" said the sweet voice.

"It is late," answered Dora, "but sometime I'll come," then yielding to a sudden impulse she kissed little Ruth's mother, and turning away

walked rapidly back to her boarding place.

At school the next day Marion Tilton's place was vacant. "Her grandmother is dead," sorrowfully responded one of the girls when the class roll was called.

Dora stopped at the Tilton home on her way from school that night, remembering her recent promise, "sometime I'll come." She learned that the dear old lady had gone to sleep in her bed, and waked up in heaven. On the still face was the same sweet smile that had rested like a benediction on the new friend who had given her the good-night kiss. "Little Ruth," she thought, "must have come again in the night and borne the mother's soul away to the eternal home."