. St. Nicholas [serial] . emory ofThomas Jefferson. Soon we emerged from the woods, and there,across a wide lawn, stood Monticello ! A statelycolonial house with pillars, and two stone lionscrouched below. The house was built of gray stone,one story high, with a small attic above. It stood on a terrace, and from here we had afine view. Below stretched orchards as far as theeye could see, bright in the sunshine. In the valleylay Charlottesville, half hidden by trees, while awayin the distance the Blue Ridge Mountains werefaintly distinguishable against the horizon. On one side of the house, ove
. St. Nicholas [serial] . emory ofThomas Jefferson. Soon we emerged from the woods, and there,across a wide lawn, stood Monticello ! A statelycolonial house with pillars, and two stone lionscrouched below. The house was built of gray stone,one story high, with a small attic above. It stood on a terrace, and from here we had afine view. Below stretched orchards as far as theeye could see, bright in the sunshine. In the valleylay Charlottesville, half hidden by trees, while awayin the distance the Blue Ridge Mountains werefaintly distinguishable against the horizon. On one side of the house, overshadowed by theterrace, was a row of whitewashed cabins. Thesewere the slaves quarters. It was as if we werewalking in the past. But all too soon the lengthen-ing shadows told us our happy afternoon was over. Our last glimpse of Monticello was on our wayhomeward. The sunlight had touched the windowsand they sparkled like stars, as if immortalizing thememory of Thomas Jefferson, author of the Decla-ration of a bit of I-IFE. DY FRANCES HERENDEEN, AGE 12. (silver badge.) THE BIRDS RETURN. BY ERNESTINE JEAN DUNAWAY (aGE IS) (Silver Badge)Cheer up! Cheer up! called the red-breastedrobin, As he swung on the bough of the old apple-tree,Tni-al-lec! Tru-al-lee! trilled young Mrs. Blue-bird, And she sang just as sweetly as ever did he. Spring s here! Spring s here! chirped red-breasted not, why these notes from the old apple-tree?All nature is joyful to hear the glad tidings Of the dear birds return—and Cheer up!Tru-al-lee! MY HAPPIEST MEMORY.(Being a Story Michael Angela Might Have Told) BY MARGARET E. LIPPINCOTT (aGE 13) When I was a boy I was very fond of art, and so,even against my fathers will, I took it up as mylife work. First I became a painter, but in time Icould correct my masters pictures. When I wasthirty-five years old I was asked to turn to sculpture and make the tomb in which Julius II was to beburied. But that is not my happiest memory. My happi
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