Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in--
Which ends my simple story.
Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,
The hopeful are the gladdest;
And doubt and dread, children, believe
Of all things are the saddest.
In morning's light, let youth be bright;
Take in the sunshine tender;
Then, at the close, shall life's decline
Be full of sunset splendor.
And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,
To shun all weak complaining;
And not, like Jo, cry out too soon--
"It always is a-raining!"
WATSEKA.
AN INDIAN LEGEND.
Many years ago there lived in the west a tribe of Indians who
called themselves Illinois. They were not savage and warlike, as
the tribes around them were, but they liked to live in peace,
hunting the deer in the great woods, and taking the fish from the
shallow streams.
On the bank of a pretty little river that flows into the great
Mississippi a small band of these Indians had built their
wigwams. All along the stream were tall oaks and spreading walnut
trees, with here and there a grove of wild plums or a thicket of
hazel bushes.
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