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leaping high in vain attempt to escape from their narrowing prison. A rude crane lifts great casks of flapping fish aboard the steamer and the dingy hold sparkles with the prismatic colors of dying mackerel. Then the boat speeds homeward in the gathering dusk, leaving its wake of phosphorescent foam, a silver pathway toward the mysterious East. w.D.M.
-The day was perfect, the sky was like an infinite turquoise dome; the noble bay of Naples lay like the polished floor of a vast cathedral, reflecting the dome above.
We had walked about the empty streets of Pompeii all the morning and were now tired. No place seemed more fitting for a rest than one we saw on the old wall by the Herculean Way; it was so very quiet. The far extending ruins of the city with its square red brick houses lay on one hand, like a great chess board, where the Infinite had played a fearful game with man, and man had lost. There is no longer the rumble of chariot wheels over the worn pavements; water no longer trickles from the fountains with its sound, so cool and refreshing to the tired laborers. The Forum no longer teems with life as the Piazza Materi in Naples. The soldier shall never stand at his old accustomed post in the city gate. A little turn of the head, a raising of the eyes, and there is the mighty Vesuvius, the destroyer, casting his huge dark shadow over the plain. So still he lies there, the only sign of life the white column of smoke hanging above him like the warm breath of a treacherous leopard, who looking out from his half shut eyes entices by his feigned slumber his unwary victim.
Who are the victims of Vesuvius ? Men, who in their indifference and carelessness dwell upon the mountain's very base, who inhale its breath and at night see the glow of its half closed eye against a smoky background.
The sun is setting, the shadows lengthening, and the bay is dotted with the white sails of the fishermen homeward bound. Soon the moon shall rise and shine, as it shone of old, into those little narrow streets of Pompeii, it will whiten those marble columns, it will illumine those temples and altars, but on Herculaneum, the sister city, never will it shine again.
W. H. O., JR.
-Winter is at hand. The birds are winging their way southward, and seem like a great migrating people as they go by. Flocks of blackbirds pass swiftly on their way, and longtailed swallows and kingbirds dart to and fro in graceful curves. Now and then a belated crow comes lumbering along, and up among the clouds hawks and eagles soar majestically. There is a commotion among the travelers.
A sparrow, separated from its companions, is making frantic endeavors to escape the clutches of a pursuing hawk. In vain the terrified creature dodges and wheels; the hawk closes in upon his victim at every turn, and at last carries off his screaming prey in triumph. A common event—but high in the heavens, keenly watching the passing flocks, an eagle has seen the chase. Poising himself a moment, and then shooting downward with lightning speed, the eagle strikes the unsuspecting hawk with unerring aim. A scattering of feathers, a sudden cry, and the hawk is off and away, with the eagle in hot pursuit. On they go, dodging and swerving, now here, now there, their strong wings beating the air like flails. Veritable feathered monarchs they seem, coursing through the air in a race for life or death. The chase grows fast and furious, and the end must come soon. One wonders how long such a fierce battle can last, when-a small black object is seen falling through the air, the hawk, crestfallen, flies off, and the eagle, suddenly swooping down, catches the lifeless sparrow in mid air, grasps it firmly in his claws, and in proud contempt soars away and is lost among the clouds.
H. H. C.
-The rays of the noonday sun were falling with greater and greater strength on the long Italian shore, scorching with their heat the masses of débris which the recent storm had tossed up. A small government vessel was lying off the beach a few miles from Via Reggio and a party from aboard were slowly picking their way through the wreckage to a short clear stretch of sand which had been marked by three white wands. Here they stopped, and after receiving their orders from the Englishman who led them, fell to work with their queer Italian implements. The Englishman was soon joined by two friends and all three stood impatiently watching the progress of the work.
An hour passed by and the men continuing in silence as though feeling the responsibility of their sad task, had completed a trench thirty yards long. Suddenly the sound of a spade as it struck some hard substance, and the exclamations of the work men drew the attention of all. A few more shovels full and the naked yellow body of a man was uncov. ered. It was carried quickly and silently to a large iron furnace which had been erected on the shore. A fire was made and wine and frankincense poured over the body after the old Greek custom.
Some hours later when the furnace was approached, one of the gentlemen sprang forward with a cry of surprise and thrusting his hand among the flames drew out the heart of the drowned man. It was all that was left except the ashes which were confided to the care of one of the party.
In the Protestant Cemetery at Rome a tombstone bears this inscription, Percy Bysshe Shelley cor cordium natus The writer of this epitaph was Lord Byron, who, accompanied by Leigh Hunt, had attended the cremation of Shelley. At the request of the Captain Trelawney, who had conducted the ceremony, Byron took charge of the ashes of this “ beautiful but ineffectual angel," as Matthew Arnold so appropriately calls him, but on arriving at Rome he was forced by law to inter them. The cemetery was that of which Shelley spoke so feelingly before his death : "It might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place."
T. M. D.
-Zachariah Spaulding owned a sugar mill at Lahaina. He was a Yankee and Yankee-like was continually bent on improving and cheapening the cost of sugar making which was then in an undeveloped state. Much sugar was wasted in the mill and there was need of improvement in the fields also, where the Hawaiian horses were too small for the heavy plantation work. So “Zach" had a load of California mules shipped to Lahaina. The feed for the mules was expensive and Spaulding conceived the idea of feeding them on the molasses which was running to waste. The plan worked well and they kept fat in spite of the hard work.
After “ Zach” had finished his supper he lit his pipe and strolled down to the Plantation Store to talk over the day's
work with his overseers. They met quite informally, for the lack of society on the Plantation naturally drew manager and men closer together.
“Good evening, boys," said Zach “How did yer find things up the valley to-day?"
“Well," began the head overseer, “that high flume across the gulch needs to-Gracious! What in the devil's the matter with the mules !"
Quickly they crossed the muddy road and hurried to the pen near the mill whence came a pandemonium of squeals and brays. Such a sight greeted them! Every mule was drunk. Some staggered, some pranced, others tried hard to stand still. Even the old gray mule whose knees were sprung, frisked around as his veins felt the thrill of Bacchus. Unfortunately for “Zach” his new Mexican saddle was on the top of the corral fence, where the native who had oiled it had put it up to dry. One of the mules caught sight of the saddle and seized the long cinch in his teeth. He jerked it off the fence and went tearing around the pen, swinging the saddle from side to side, with all the other mules in mad pursuit. No sooner had one mule tired of the play, than another
Thus the fun went on, to the discomfiture of “Zach” who wached the destruction of his pet saddle from the other side of the fence, unable to interfere. This did not put “Zach” in the best of humor, but he was more perplexed as to the cause of the mules' intoxication. An examination of the troughs revealed the fact that through the carelessness of the natives who had the mules in charge, they had been fed on sour molasses which was in a high state of fermentation.
In due time the mules quieted down, but all that remained of the saddle was a broken tree and a mass of chewed leather. Spaulding now uses a mud-press for his molasses and no longer feeds it to his mules.
A. F. J., JR.
took it up.
-A dismantled ruin near Aberdeen marks the home of Byron's Childhood. In the midst of a grove of poplars stand the walls—all that remains of the castle where dwelt the poet's mother. From the rocky floor of the second story rises a rowan tree, the red berries standing forth against the sheen of the ivy. Yet here is no tone of sadness and desolation. Nature has seized upon this abandoned spot as her own. The
old castle basks in the soft flood of afternoon sunshine. Heather and harebell, an occasional foxglove nodding in the midst, carpet the meadow down to the river's brim. Across the stream rises a sharp hill showing against the sky a sierra of pine tops. The plover's whistle answers the squawk of the old cock grouse. An excited and angry dispute of caws and croaks in that cluster of oaks announces the home-coming of the rooks. They are now the Lords of Gight. F. B. H.
-John is one of an army of clerks in a down town office. He never gets through his work until after dusk, when he changes into his old street coat, and trots home, with a penny flower, perhaps, for “Jane," his landlady's daughter, with whom he hopes to pass a pleasant evening.
Watch him as he takes his midday meal. The five cent restaurant nearby is already filled with customers and a bustling waiter nods to him as he comes in. He has been a regular visitor for years.
He dives upon a stool at a long center counter, nodding graciously to two seedy looking gentlemen on either side. He feels at home here as he never does outside. He rubs his thin hands together and chuckles audibly as he surveys the bill of fare. He requests to know if they have veal cutlets to-day. No! nor consommé à L'Anglais ! He affects to be very much surprised and notes with gratification the surreptitious look of awe on the face of a youngster across the counter. He is pleased to hear that the favorite at the aristocratic tables in the corner is roast turkey and smiles hungrily as sirloin steak is mentioned at thirty cents. This he does every day, and the waiters humor him. Then he looks attentively for a very long time at the menu and orders beans and cold roast beef, smacking his lips as if his choice were a very coup of genius. He eats in silence, though he sometimes asks for another cup of tea, if a neighbor happen very friendly, when he exchanges remarks upon the weather, smiling blandly upon the youngster opposite the while, who gulps down his bread in wonder.
Then he pays his modest fifteen cents at the grimy desk and goes back to his work, where he sits beside twenty other clerks, whom he only knows as Bones and Bill and Mr. Sniffles. He trembles at the sight of Mr. Magnate, who does everything for his clerks and who gives him once a twelvemonth a day