"At dawn, stout hearts, we shall sail

Into the eye of the sun,

And turn not aside nor pause,

'Till our goal be won.

And though, on a future tide

We meet our end-we shall laugh,

For we fall beside

A proven friend.

"So, casting our gage to fate, And pulling the beard of death,

Let us strongly strive

As we oceanward drive.

For hark what the sea-wind saith:

'Over the waters

Sailing-as a maid to her lover
Bring your ship out.-

Adorned as a bride,

Guide her

To the arms of her betrothed;-
Lay her

In the bosom of her lord.'

"Aye! Lead your ship over the waters—

A bride to the sea.

Steer her into the smother unafraid,

Leaving behind the land, and the things that be.

Could even so rough a husband

Harm so fair a maid?

"Have you forgotten the singing of wind in the shrouds?

Have you forgotten the sweep of the green, and the challenging clouds,

And the palms, and the promise of beaches where you have been, And the land-breeze, fragrant with odors of gardens unseen?

"Have you forgotten the hope that has led you
Where you knew there was death;

Forgotten the dreams that have fled you
Like scud on the storm-wind's breath-
Those two great visions that hastened
Before you on wingèd feet—
Love by the side of Death,
When you recked not
Which you should meet?

For he that follows a shadow upon the sea,
Shall follow still, though it lead him
Into eternity."

But from the rest of them I drew aside.
The east was greying swiftly, and the tide
Was purling in long rollers to the deeps,
And rushing, silver-splashed to meet the sky.

For I had seen the rats depart,

Like blood-drops from the vessel's heart-
Had watched them pause, and peer, and start,
And ghostlike down the hawser dart.

They shall see visions nevermore
That sail a ship the rats are leaving,
Nor find again their native land.
Upon the shore is no one grieving;
For, of the crew, stayed only I—
(I and the rats upon the sand).

Far on the deep, the ship was winging,
With crescent sails to the gates of day;
And I heard the voice of their navarch singing,
Far away.

Silvery spray their oars were splashing;
Their canvas glowed with a rosy light—
And their bucklers all on the thwarts were flashing,
Clean and bright.

Passed they away to their sought adventure.....
With golden dawn was their vessel crowned;

1

Like a regal cloak, the purpled sea-mist
Wrapped them 'round.

How often again did they watch the sun sink in the ocean,
Or the pendulous planets withdraw to the lands of the sky?....

In the reeds at my feet was a timid motion

A squeak, and a scurry-a hushed commotion.....

We were safe on the land, the rats and I.

Cyril Hume.

TO A CONTEMPORARY.

You drew a mind, God knows it, to His shame
When nine parts of the making of a man
He dealt to you! O, surely when your name
Turned up in heaven, God mused a moment's span
And dreamed an eon on that passionate lame
Young poet-lord, an hour on Kubla Khan,
A week on some Greek runner's heart of flame...
Then made your eyes and that high temple's tan!

What are you, though, in truth? A kind of slave
Across whose mouth, Fear, laying one cold hand,
Once murmured-"Rest! Thou'rt delicate to stand
Outlined in black against some sunset's lave
Alone, wind-raged-at, prophet-limbed and free
Upon a crag's crest rising from the sea?"

Oscar Fulton Davisson.

THE "METECS."

THE

HE first time I heard the word "métec" was in the "Club de Constantinople," an admirable institution where the members of the various embassies and consulates forgather at cocktail time. A bronzed young American artillery captain, fresh from a two months' tour of the eastern vilayets of Anatolia, spoke. He was shaking with malaria and from time to time gulped down more Turkish raki than a prudent fellow should tackle.

"They are all 'métecs," he drawled, “every single damn one of them. 'Métecs.' Dirty damn 'métecs'!"

I asked him what a "métec" was.

His reply was prompt and delivered with great vigor:

“A ‘métec' is a man who never washes. He never changes his underclothes. He never opens his window. He is hairy and greasy. He uses perfume. He "

Another took up the Jeremiad—

"A métec,' my boy," he propounded in the best Johnsonian manner, "is an inhabitant of Southeastern Europe, Asia Minor and all points east. There are large colonies of 'métecs' in southern Italy, Spain and northern Africa. They are neither white men nor are they niggers. They are 'métecs'. Turkey contains vast numbers of 'métecs,' but the great 'métec' prototypes are the Greeks and the Armenians. The Armenian is a-'

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Up to this time his speech had been characterized by a certain scholarly quality. But he now digressed into a rather intimate and authoritative exposition of the paternity, morality, habits and habitat of the minor nationalities of the Near East. This discussion, I regret to say, is not pertinent, though it was admittedly a masterpiece. Therefore I shall not repeat it.

Every American knows all about Turkey.

Every Turk has a large harem. On every street corner are gathered large crowds, cheering the erotic contortions of beauteous hootchi-kootchi dances. Along the narrow picturesque streets wander camels, laden with spices, silks, Damaskene blades,