H dear!" sighed a Robin, alighting on a small patch of ground, free from snow, which was lying pretty deep all around-"I'm so tired; I can't sing to-day, so it's no use

trying: and yet I ought." "Why, what's the matter?" asked a Christmas Rose, close by, spreading out its lovely white petals a little more fully, and trying hard to catch the attention of a stray sunbeam which flickered for an instant from between the rifts of heavy clouds overhead. "What has come over you? You are the last person who ought to complain. You are always bright and cheery; you can fly where you like, and see the world, aye, and things above the world in the blue sky, while I must stay where I am, always. I have no wings. I cannot move, my root is firm in the ground, and I can only look my best, and be happy where I am put. It might be all very well for me to complain if I were disposed to do so."

"Ah, well," replied Robin, "I am hungry, and can't find anything to eat. That bush which I saw covered with tempting berries before the snow came is gone; the folks at the large house yonder pulled it about and took the best of it to dress up their rooms for Christmas. I peeped in at the window and saw all that happened to it after it was carried away; and hunt for more berries as I may, I can't find any, and the snow covers everything, and what are we to do? It is true we birds have warm coats, but we have also

something under the coat which cries out for food if it can't get any. A voice is all very well in its way, and it is very nice to sing, and I think God likes me to sing for Him to those who want a little cheering, but to-day I am low, and oh, very hungry."

And Robin's little black eyes twinkled with just the suspicion of tears in them, as he hopped uneasily, first on one leg, and then on the other.

"But," said his friend the Rose," why don't you go and sing for Him now? He wouldn't have given you a voice if He hadn't meant you to use it, even if you are hungry. What's the good of only singing when you are comfortable and well fed? Any one can do that easily enough. Perhaps He wants you to sing a song to that poor child in the hospital, of whom you told me last week. Only think how sad she must be; no dear father and mother with her, and all her pain to bear as best she may; and then, who knows but what she would throw you a crumb or a berry. I'd try if I were you. I wish I could!" And the Rose wriggled a leaflet, as though she longed to convert her leaves into wings.

At that moment, up the gravel path close by, came a warmly clad, rosy faced little boy, skipping along by the side of his father and holding his hand. They had just come from church.

"Papa," said the child, "I couldn't help thinking of the birds in church this morning, when the clergyman gave out his text,-let me see, it was a long one, can you say it for me?"

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Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father,'" slowly repeated Freddy's papa.

"Yes, thank you, papa, that was it. How glad the birds would be if they could only understand that. They couldn't doubt then but that they'd get food this bad winter. They must be hungry, I'm sure. By-and-by may I throw some crumbs on the window-sill, papa? I can't think what has become of my dear Robin, I haven't seen him for days."

And they passed on.

Sparrows!" said Robin, "why, I am better than sparrows, and if God cares for sparrows, of course He cares for me. I wonder it doesn't say 'Robins': I wonder if it means Robins too. You are right," added he, speaking to the Rose, "I'm off to give a word of cheer to your friend the sick girl first." And he shook his feathers, and got ready for departure.

"I say," said he in a whisper, "before I go, you needn't say much about the crumbs to the sparrows; I must carry some to the wife up there in the tree; she's hungry too."

The Rose nodded assent, and off he flew, right away, ever so far.

He took a swoop first just to stretch his cramped wings; and as he flew, he warbled a little prelude to the carol which he began a few moments after, perched on the ledge of a window belonging to a large gloomy-looking stone building.

Inside the room were two or three small beds, a few chairs, a table, and a bright fire burning on the hearth.

In one of the beds nearest to the window lay a pale-faced, sickly-looking girl. Her eyes were filled with tears: and a soiled letter, which looked as though it had been often read, was in her thin hands.

Suddenly, as the joyous notes of our Robin rang in her ears, a smile broke over her face, the mournful expression vanished, and she cried :

"Dear little bird! He has come to sing to me about my home, and my getting better, and the warm spring days which will come after the winter, and the good God who loves us, and cares about us, and keeps us in our sad times! My heart sings too; I wonder

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if he knows how much his singing helps me."

On and on Robin sang; he put his whole energy into that song; no one would have dreamt of his ever being hungry. The notes poured forth in quick succession, now loudly, now softly, now eagerly, now gently, till his little throat looked as though it must burst. with the fulness of melody.

His eye took in the delight of the child; and when at length he left off, that odd aching feeling, which he had told the Rose about, was gone-entirely gone. He couldn't quite make it out. Why, he felt ever so much better.

"I can manage another song," quoth he, as he prepared for a start, and another song he gave. Then off he went, down past the church, through the lanes, across the fields, and didn't it snow! large flakes falling and bushes covered thicker than ever. There was no mistake about the winter being a hard

one.

At last Robin reached an old manor house standing in a thicket of trees, and surrounded by a large garden. Even here, he seemed to know his way, and exactly what window-sill would best receive him.

He peeped in. There was a ruddy blaze in the fireplace lighting up the surroundings and showing signs of comfort and luxury on the part of the occupants of the room. A lady sat on one side of the hearth, her face hidden in her hands; a gentleman stood on the rug, his arm on the mantel-piece, and now and then a heavy sigh escaped him.

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'Plenty of work for me here," thought Robin: "just what I said last night to my wife:-'there's something up at the Hall, depend on it, the shutters have been closed for a week, and I heard it said in the village, that news had come from a foreign land of the death of the young master; so sad, and he the only one'—I must do my best here."

And so he began. He sang softly at first, but by degrees clearer and louder. His song told of a life beyond this: of faith, and hope, and trust; of a Father's care, of a Home above, where no more partings are; where praises are loudest, and voices are sweetest; where crying is hushed, and want never comes: and from whence the blessing of

gladness falls on those who mourn in the sad wintry world.

Yes, on he went, and at length he saw the bowed head raised, the eyes brighten.

"Ralph," said the lady, "we haven't trusted enough. If our Father cares for the little birds out in the snow and frost, doesn't He care far more for us, and send what He sends in love? Hark! how this little creature sings, praising Him even when it is winter and food hard to get. It is winter now in our hearts, but let us sing through the winter too. Haven't we each other left to be thank

ful for ?"

Robin had heard enough. His task was done for that day; and back he went to the Rose, and told her what he had done.

"Ah!" said the Rose, "You see now what

it is to have faith. Go and enjoy your crumbs. I saw Freddy with his plate just lately scattering some for you on the sill, and if you don't eat them, the sparrows will. I must shut up for the night. Good-night to you, and don't forget to call me in the morning with your very best song. I can't move, remember, and you can, and my work in the world is small: but I will look my best notwithstanding." And with a kind nod the Rose bade him adieu.

Robin flew towards an invitingly spread meal of crumbs, feeling a little tired, but ob, 80 happy.

"It is the Robins, too," he thought, "as well as the Sparrows. How we ought to thank Him for taking care of everything." M. J. R.

O-OPERATION at its best is to be seen in the characteristic incident so capitally illustrated in Mr. G. H. Boughton's telling picture. The family party is making its way in the early morning to a neighbouring market town: the son and heir trudging along between his two sisters, and sharing with them the burden of heavily laden baskets of farm produce: the sturdy mother, whose firm-set countenance seems to betoken that she is the saleswoman, comes close behind with little Robert by her side: and the father brings up the rear, his thoughts busily occupied with what he will ask, and the lowest he will take, for the fatted calf which he drives before him.

The costume of the Breton peasant is rather grotesque: the women wear two woollen petticoats, a woollen jacket, an apron, and wooden shoes, but no stockings; the men figure in a woollen blouse and trousers, but on Sundays will appear in broad brimmed hats, long flowing hair, and trunk hose of the sixteenth century. In some districts the winter garb consists of undressed goat-skins.

The Christmas market is the time abore all others when sellers confidently reckon upon" making a trifle," and buyers with equal confidence expect to "pick up a decided bargain." We fear that as a rule the "bargain hunters" come off second-best, and when they reach home, find, like "poor Richard." they have "paid too much for the whistle!"

Marketing is pretty much the same all the world over, and in such a transaction we fancy Brittany and Britain will not be found very far apart.

It hardly need be said that our friends mean to do business, if any business is to be done. They have been stirring early on this sharp frosty morning; and the four miles' trudge to market, in the face of the keen biting wind, has put such an edge on their wits, that it will go very hard with any one who tries to beat them down a penny. "Ducks like these!" "eggs like these!" "butter like this!" "a beast like that!" at a figure less than the price which was finally settled round the cosy fireside late last night, when father and mother, Jock, Jean and Marie, and even little Carl, had their say as to how much the stock should fetch, is not to be thought of for a moment! Then the customer will seem quite to abandon the notion of duck-buying, egg