The Birthday Party | Page 7

pocket, paid for the apple, and went
his way," continued the old man. "Now, there is one thing more I can
do. I want to run a race with these boys."
"Pooh! You run a race!" sneered Charley.
"I can beat you."
"Try it, and see."
The old man and Charley took places, and were to start at the word
from Henry. But when it was given, the fiddler hobbled off, leaving
Charley to follow at his leisure.
When the old man had got half way round the lawn, Charley started,
sure he could catch him long before he reached the goal. But just as the
boy was coming up with the man, the latter began to run, and poor
Charley found, much to his surprise, that he ran very fast. He was
unable to overtake him, and consequently lost the race.
The children were much astonished when they saw the old man run so
fast. He appeared to have grown young all at once. But he offered to
race with any of the boys again; and half a dozen of them agreed to run
with him.

"I guess I will take my coat off this time," said the fiddler.
As he threw away the coat, he slipped off the wig and false beard he
wore; and the children found, to their surprise, that the old man was Mr.
Lee, who had dressed himself up in this disguise to please them.
The supper was now ready, and all the children were invited to the tent.
They had played so hard that all of them had excellent appetites, and
the supper was just as nice as a supper could be.
It was now nearly dark, and the children had to go home; but all of
them declared the birthday party of Flora was the best they ever
attended.
"Only to think," said Flora, when she went to bed that night, "the old
fiddler was my father!"

LIZZIE.
Mother, what ails our Lizzie dear, So cold and still she lies? She does
not speak a word to-day, And closed her soft blue eyes. Why won't she
look at me again, And laugh and play once more? I cannot make her
look at me As she used to look before.
Her face and neck as marble white, And, O, so very cold! Why don't
you warm her, mother dear, Your cloak around her fold? Her little hand
is cold as ice, Upon her waveless breast,-- So pure, I thought I could
see through The little hand I pressed.
Your darling sister's dead, my child; She cannot see you now; The
damps of death are gath'ring there Upon her marble brow. She cannot
speak to you again, Her lips are sealed in death; That little hand will
never move, Nor come that fleeting breath.
All robed in white, and decked with flowers, We'll lay her in the tomb;
The flower that bloomed so sweetly here, No more on earth will bloom;
But in our hearts we'll lay her up, And love her all the more, Because

she died in life's spring time, Ere earth had won her o'er.
Nay, nay, my child, she is not dead, Although she slumbers there, And
cold and still her marble brow, And free from pain and care. She slept,
and passed from earth to heaven, And won her early crown: An angel
now she dwells above, And looks in triumph down.
She is not dead, for Jesus died That she might live again. "Forbid them
not," the Saviour said, And blessed dear sister then. Her little lamp this
morn went out On earth's time-bounded shore; But angels bright in
heaven this morn Relighted it once more.
Some time we, too, shall fall asleep, To wake in heaven above, And
meet our angel Lizzie there In realms of endless love. We'll bear sweet
sister in our hearts, And then there'll ever be An angel there to keep our
souls From sin and sorrow free.

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Optic
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