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He went on reading-to himself now. "What is a stile, exactly?"

A kind of passage over barriers in the fields, with a step. They have none here." She occupied herself with her own thoughts while her companion read.

"In the infinite spirit is room
For the pulse of an infinite pain,"

she murmured as he closed the book.
"What were you saying?"

Arduina repeated the two little lines, and as she said them very slowly, for him to understand, there was a musical drag on the second infinite that made them impressive.

"It is true, that," said Prospero, as he adjusted his beard. "Shall I find it here, too?" "Yes, in a poem called Satia te Sanguine. It

is marked by a turned-down leaf."

He put the book down on the tea-table behind him.

"Will it annoy you if I smoke?"

Oh, no! Give me a cigarette, too. I got into the bad habit of smoking when I was almost a child, and I can't break myself of it all at once."

"Why should you? Few things are prettier than the sight of a pretty woman who smokes gracefully.'

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He passed her a Melachrino.

The Fairest Island of the Tropics. From Richard Harding Davis' "Cuba in War Time." (Russell.)

IN the days of peace Cuba was one of the most beautiful islands in the tropics, perhaps in the world. Its skies hang low and are brilliantly beautiful, with great expanses of blue, and in the early morning and before sunset they are lighted with wonderful clouds of pink and saffron, as brilliant and as unreal as the fairy's grotto in a pantomime. There are great wind-swept prairies of high grass or tall sugar-cane, and on the sea-coast mountains of a light green, like the green of corroded copper, changing to a darker shade near the base, where they are covered with forests of palms.

Throughout the extent of the island run many little streams, sometimes between high banks of rock, covered with moss and magnificent

fern, with great pools of clear, deep water at the base of high waterfalls, and in those places where the stream cuts its way through the level plains double rows of the royal palm mark its course. The royal palm is the characteristic feature of the landscape in Cuba. It is the most beautiful of all palms, and possibly the most beautiful of all trees. The cocoanut palm, as one sees it in Egypt, picturesque as it is, has a pathetic resemblance to a shabby feather duster, and its trunk bends and twists as though it had not the strength to push its way through the air and to hold itself erect. But the royal palm shoots up boldly from the earth with the grace and symmetry of a marble pillar or the white mast of a great ship. Its again at the top, where it is hidden by great trunk swells in the centre and grows smaller bunches of green plumes, like monstrous ostrich feathers that wave and bow and bend in the breeze as do the plumes on the head of a beautiful woman. Standing isolated in an open plain or in ranks in a forest of palms, this tree is always beautiful, noble, and full of meaning. It makes you forget the ugly iron chimneys of the centrals, and it is the first and the last feature that appeals to the visitor in Cuba. The physical appearance of the country since the war began has changed greatly. As it is today it will take ten years or more to bring it back to a condition of productiveness.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

From "Songs of Two Peoples." (Estes & Lauriat.) THAT Ocean-guarded flag of light, forever may it fly! It flashed o'er Monmouth's bloody field, and lit McHenry's sky;

It bears upon its folds of flame to earth's remotest wave The names of men whose deeds of fame shall e'er inspire the brave.

Timbers have crashed and guns have pealed beneath its radiant glow,

But never did that ensign yield its honor to the foe! Its fame shall march with martial tread down ages yet to be,

To guard those stars that never paled in fight on land or

sea.

Its stripes of red eternal dyed with heart-streams of all lands; Its white, the snow-capped hills that hide in storm their upraised hands;

Its blue, the ocean waves that beat round Freedom's circle shore;

Its stars, the print of angels' feet that shine for evermore!

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I AM the owner of seven goats. I own them just as I own the Parthenon, the Areopagus, Lycabettus, or Pentelicus. They are mine because I have appropriated them-not their milk, their hair, or their skins, but the whole goat, horns, beard, hoof, and all. I do not mean gastronomically, but optically. Cows in Athens are rare, but goats and donkeys are numerous. I will not say that the goat's milk flows like water, for that would be to cast doubts upon the honesty of the milkman; but it flows in sufficient quantity to return a good revenue of coppers to the herdsman. One of the commonest sights in Athens is that of six or eight sober-looking goats marching through the streets, driven by a goatherd, who carries the milk measure in his hand. He has a regular route morning and afternoon. When he comes to the house of a customer he milks one of the goats, receives the milk in his measure, and pours it into the servant's pitcher. There are a few cow-stables; but goat's milk is the fashion in Athens, and, in fact, all over Greece. It is no new fashion, but, like many other customs of this people, goes back through centuries.

On the opposite side of the street from my room was a small garden, with a wall about four feet high, made of nicely fitted slabs of stone surmounted by an iron railing. Twice a day the goats solemnly came down the broad street, crossed to the other side, and ranged themselves along this garden wall. During the winter they served as a semi-diurnal clock, and also as a zoological thermometer. When I looked out of my window of a morning and found the goats there, I knew it was seven

o'clock. If they hugged the wall closely, I knew it was windy; if one of them wore a blanket, I knew it was cold. In milder weather, one or two of them might venture into the middle of the sidewalk; but they were seldom more than a foot or two from the wall, and most of them stood against it as closely as if they were posing for a Parthenon frieze. One of their peculiarities was that they never faced all the same way.

It was most natural for them to halt with their heads in the direction toward which they were going, which was always toward Lycabettus, but two and sometimes more of them always turned round and faced the Acropolis. Whether this was for artistic or archæological reasons, or whether it was because goats are often more adversative than conjunctive, I did not discover; but I never found more than six heads facing the same way, and usually but three or four.

There are some advantages in driving the herd of goats to the customers. The milk is fresh. There is no danger of getting yesterday's draft instead of to-day's, or of getting a skimmed chalky fluid instead of milk with a roof of cream on it. The milkman is not obliged to carry cans. Each goat transports her own supply. No horse or wagon is needed, and no such thing as a milkman's wagon is found on the thoroughfares.

From what humble origins are great words sometimes derived! The goat has given his name to tragedy, the grandest form of dramatic art, while a galaxy of stars preserves in other languages the memory of the Greek word for milk-a word still in common use. There is little connection between a goat and a tragedy to-day; but, strangely enough, my frieze of goats will always be associated with a tragic event which startled Athens.

THERE'S A SPOT IN THE MOUNTAINS. From F. E. Coates' "Poems." (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) THERE'S a spot in the mountains, where the dew, dear, Is laden with the odors of the pine, Where the heavens seem unbounded, and their blue, dear,

Is deepest where it mirrored seems to shine.

There, at morn and eve, with rapture old and new, dear,
The thrushes sing their double song divine,
And the melody their voices breathe, of you, dear,
Speaks ever to this happy heart of mine.

There's a cabin in the mountains, where the fare, dear,
Is frugal as the cheer of Arden blest;
But contentment sweet and fellowship are there, dear,
And Love, that makes the feast he honors-best!
There's a lake upon the mountains, where our boat, dear,
Moves gayly up the stream or down the tide,
Where, amidst the scented lily-buds, afloat, dear,
We dream the dream of Eden as we glide!

My Aunt Gainor.

From "Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker." (Century Co.) NEITHER Aunt Gainor's creed, dress, house, nor society pleased my father. She had early made clear, in her decisive way, that I was to be her heir, and she was, I may add, a woman of large estate. I was allowed to visit her as I pleased. Indeed, I did so often. I liked no one better, always excepting my mother. Why, with my father's knowledge of her views, I was thus left free I cannot say. He was the last man to sacrifice his beliefs to motives of gain.

When I knocked at the door of her house on

Arch Street, opposite the Friends' Meetinghouse, a black boy, dressed as a page, let me in. He was clad in gray armozine, a sort of corded stuff, with red buttons, and he wore a red turban. As my aunt was gone to drive, on a visit to that Madam Penn who was once Miss Allen, I was in no hurry, and was glad to look about me. The parlor, a great room with three windows on the street. afforded a strange contrast to my sombre home. There were Smyrna rugs on a polished floor, a thing almost unheard of. Indeed, people came to see them. The furniture was all of red walnut, and carved in shells and flower reliefs. As to tables, there were so many, little and large, with claw-feet or spindle-legs, that one had to be careful not to overturn their loads of Chinese dragons, ivory carvings, grotesque Delft beasts, and fans, French or Spanish or of the Orient. There was also a spinet, and a corner closet of books, of which every packet brought her a variety. Upstairs was a fair room full of volumes, big and little, as I found to my joy rather later, and these were of all kinds : some good, and some of them queer, or naughty. Over the wide white fireplace was a portrait of herself by the elder Peale, but I prefer the one now in my library. This latter hung, at the time I speak of, between the windows. It was significant of my aunt's idea of her own importance that she should have wished to possess two portraits of herself. The latter was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds when she was in England, in 1750, and represents her as a fine, large woman, with features which were too big for loveliness in youth, but in after years went well with her abundant gray hair and unusual stature; for, like the rest of us, she was tall, of vigorous and wholesome build and color, with large, well-shaped hands, and the strength of a man-I might add, too, with the independence

of a man. She went her own way, conducted the business of her estate, which was ample, with skill and ability, and asked advice from no one. Like my father, she had a liking to control those about her, was restlessly busy, and was never so pleased as when engaged in arranging other people's lives or meddling with the making of matches.

To this ample and luxurious house came the better class of British officers, and ombre and quadrille were often, I fear, played late into the long nights of winter Single women, after a certain or uncertain age, were given a brevet title of Mistress." Mistress Gainor Wynne lost or won with the coolness of an old gambler, and this habit, perhaps more than aught besides, troubled my father. Sincere and consistent in his views, I can hardly think that my father was, after all, unable to resist the worldly advantages which my aunt declared should be mine. It was, in fact, difficult to keep me out of the obvious risks this house and company provided for a young person like myself. He must have trusted to the influence of my home to keep me in the ways of Friends. It is also to be remembered, as regards my father's motives, hat my Aunt Gainor was my only relative, since of the Owens none were left.

masterful lady. She loved nothing better than My mother was a prime favorite with this to give her fine silk petticoats or a pearl-colored satin gown; and if this should nowadays amaze Friends, let them but look in the "Observer" in 1778 as stolen from our friend, Sara Fisher, and see what manner of finery was advertised sometime Sara Logan, a much-respected member of meeting. In this, as in all else, my mother had her way, and like some of the upper class of Quakers, wore at times such raiment as about a visit from a committee of overseers. fifty years later would have surely brought

Arctic Scenery for Arctic Animals. From "The Art of Taxidermy." (Appleton.) To build up a snow scene the following is recommended:

Take cotton batting and dip it in benzine containing a little Prussian blue-tube color. Squeeze out the benzine and allow the cotton to dry. The cotton will be found to contain a delicate tinge of the blue color all through it. With hot paraffin and a brush, fasten the cotton to the upper surfaces of the woodwork, twigs. etc., varying the depth of the cotton according to circumstances. Heat clean paraffin in a water-bath, and when melted dip out a cupful. For small groups a tooth-brush may be used; for larger groups a stiff hair-brush is better adapted. Dip the brush in a cup of hot paraffin and with a piece of stiff wire or stick of wood

spatter" the hot paraffin over the group, directing the resulting flakes so that they settle in their proper places on the upper surfaces of the cotton, twigs, etc. The snow-storm may be made as fierce or as mild as the operator chooses. If wet snow is desired, hold the brush close to the surface to be covered. The hotter the paraffin the closer it sticks and the smaller the flakes, and vice versa.

To give glitter, when all completed sprinkle on a very little glass frosting, to be procured of dealers in taxidermists' supplies or of a glassblower.

A City of Roof-Gardens.

From De Windt's "Through the Gold-Fields of Alaska." (Harper.)

FORTY MILE is a city of roof-gardens, not of the fashionable kind usually associated with female beauty, electric light, and Hungarian bands, but gardens of a more practical, if less ornamental, nature. The Yukon roof-garden was invented to keep out the cold, and effectually does so. Moss is generally used for calking the sides of a Forty Mile residence, and a thin layer of it is laid over the flat roof. About a foot of loose dirt is placed over this, which when the dwelling is more than a year old is covered with a rank growth of weeds.

A facetious American newspaper man whom I met at Forty Mile prophesied that in the

prosperous days to come the mowing of the roof will be one of a householder's regular duties.

Forty Mile was long the chief town of the Upper Yukon in the palmy days of the Hudson Bay Company, when furs rather than gold attracted the white man to these desolate regions. A fort was erected in 1895, and is occupied by twenty-five men of the Canadian mounted police, under command of a captain, who acts as governor of the district. All nationalities are represented at Forty MileAmericans, French, Germans, Russians, and Swedes. I saw only one Englishman, who had given up mining and taken to photography, and the illustration depicting an Arctic summer is from a photograph taken near Forty Mile by this gentleman.

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I Think No More; I Pedal. From Pène Du Bois' “Love in Friendship." (Meyer.) Ан, my dear Gitana, you change at every turn of the road. With what marvellous emotions of the mind you agitate your life and the lives of others! But do not cultivate the emotion that overcomes you-I am afraid of it for you; my dear Extreme, mistrust yourself, fear to feed a false dream of happiness. Do not say proudly, "Sempre piu" that frightens me. Take rather the sage device of the Luzys: "More I wish not." I would share it with you willingly.

You pout? Your teacher bothers you? Let us talk of other things.

Therefore, to return to my first subject-my anxiety is a pardonable digression-I want to think that silence of a week was due to the absorbing labor of the revision of your melodies; in that case I forgive you.

What are you doing with them? I like to think that you have received the manuscript, although you have not thought it worth while to let me know. Is it in the publisher's hands? What does he say of it? These are questions in which I am interested and on which I should have liked to be informed.

Your old teacher has a passion, and that passion is his bicycle. If you saw me working on the hills that abound in the country you would laugh. I laugh myself going downhill!

You cannot imagine how that sport absorbs me. Everything is sacrificed to it; I have be

fore me four volumes of Renan which are not even cut. Even flirting is almost absolutely abandoned. I think no longer, I pedal. I am angry with myself for being diverted by the agitated life which I lead. I desire absolutely

to make an annual retreat; I need silence and reflection, solitary promenades in the woods, although they do not induce me, as they do you, to become sylvan; I feel very far from your poetic exaltation.

I have a great need of seeing you, it is so long since we have talked! Why are you not near here? We would go to the Mont-SaintMichel. I had a very pleasant excursion to it the other day. There were on the beach little bluish reflections which I will never forget. They would have transported you, my saintly

artist.

(Appleton.)

A Good Time During a Revolution. From Felix Gras' "The Terror." "THAT isn't the way in Avignon. We manage things better down there. We all know where we are, and we all have a good time. You're White, say, and I'm Red. You're from the streets of the Fustarié, I'm from the Carmelite quarter of the town. Well, when the Reds are on top and are running things we dance rounds and farandoles in all the streets, and we light bonfires, and we're as jolly as we can be. We have our rows, to be sure. The Reds and the Whites fight, of course. That's human nature. But it's all in broad daylight and everybody knows what's going on. Now suppose the Whites get on top. Do things change? Not a bit of it. The farandoles keep on, and we keep on dancing rounds. There are illuminations and the bells ring out Te Deums-and the Reds and the Whites have their fights in broad daylight, just the same.

But we don't have secret murders and we don't killed. Only a few wounded, that's all. have fires. It's mighty seldom that anybody's

"And after a while a peace is patched up between the two parties, and then we do have a good time! Then there's a National Festival on the square in front of the Palace of the Popes; then there is high mass with all the music in the Eglise des Doms; then you'll see people hugging and kissing in the street instead of firing pistols at each other, and then everybody goes off to drink together in the same drinking shop.

"Of course, before long, things get tangled up again, and off they go at their fighting. But no matter what happens, everybody is out in the streets having a jolly time of it, and the air is ringing with White songs or Red songs, and along with both of them we always have the jingle of our bells! Oh, how good it will be to find ourselves once more in our dear Avignon!"

"All the same," said William the Patriot, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe into the fireplace-"all the same, you had some pretty bad days down there."

44

But it

You mean the killing of La Glacière? Yes, that was bad-as bad as it could be. lasted for just one night, and that was the end of it. In a single night we got rid of all our bad blood, and then the next day everybody was sorry for it. Reds and Whites joined together in a solemn service to show that they really were sorry, and then everything was all right again. It was because a few brutes got to the front-monsters like Surto and La Jacarasse and Calisto-that it happened at all. And nothing like it ever has happened again. Squabbles and rows in plenty there have been since, but always in broad daylight—and to tell

the truth, there has been more noise than harm.

"Now, I shall never forget that tenth of June, when the Whites, led by the ci-devant Monsieur de Rochegude, tried to get back the Hôtel de Ville and set up again the Vice Leggate. There were five or six hundred Aristos on the Place de l'Horloge, and they were armed with guns and had a cannon. They were packed thick in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and they were determined that the Reds from the Carmelite quarter should not come to help the City Council penned up inside. Well, a Municipal Guard-one of the reddest of the Redscame right into the thick of them on his way to join his battalion over in the Rue des GrandsCarmes. The Whites pounced on him in no time, and dragged him across the Place de l'Horloge, shouting 'Death to him! Death to him!' and they stood him up to shoot him in front of the Hôtel de Ville. But one of the Whites got in front of him and said that shooting him would be a black crime, and it shouldn't be done. And that happened three or four times.

"Each time they tried to shoot him somebody stopped it that way. But they did think that they ought to scare him, so they tied him to the mouth of the cannon and said that they meant to blow him to bits. They kept him tied that way for two hours, and the flies bothered him dreadfully. Every now and then the cannoneer would flourish his linstock under the poor man's nose and singe his whiskers, and would tell him that the time had come and that he'd better make his peace with God. And some of them pricked him with their bayonets,

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