And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry

When they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very

-was very

Swift-footed,

She spoke and was gone; and when

Oliver cried,

"Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry-the ferry!"

By the still water's side she was heard far and vide― she replied,

And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, man of the ferry,

You man of-you man of the ferry !"

"You

"Hie over!" he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;

Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on;

it surpassed

All measure her doubling-so close, then so far away falling,

Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once

unaware,

And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there),

Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance

fair.

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in

her stead;

In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked

overhead;

By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deepnested, in brown;

Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.

The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over

wall.

Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy

mound

And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her

round

Might have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak

carven seat

Was empty. We saw the great Bible-old, old, very old.

And the parson's great prayer book beside it; we heard the slow beat

Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold

Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver

and play

On the low chancel step and the railing; and Olive" said,

“Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice camere to be wed

She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;

And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her." Then quoth small Seven:

"Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?"

All doubtful: "It takes a long time to grow up," quoth

Eleven ;

"You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it

can never

Last on till you're tall." And in whispers-because it was old

And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,

Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.

Neither heard or beheld, but about us--in whispers we spoke.

Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,

While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land.

And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, "O Katie!" "O Katie!" " Come on, then!" "Come on then!" "For see,

The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree "-" by the

་་

tree."

"By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry;

"Hie over!" "Hie over!" "You man of the ferry""the ferry."

"You man of the ferry-"

“You man of—you man of-the ferry."

Ay, here it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;

All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my

white

To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me

anon?

Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed overpassed on?

Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing light

I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry,

Now she mocks the man's tone with "Hie over! Hie over the ferry!"

"And, Katie." "And, Katie." glow-worms to-night,

My Katie?" "My Katie!" into laughter

And tears.

years;

"Art out with the

For gladness I break

Then it all comes again as from far-away

Again, some one else-oh, how softly!-with laughter

comes after,

Comes after with laughter comes after.

JEAN INGELOW.

THE FINDING OF THE CROSS.

[For Missionary Meetings.]

LISTEN! I will tell a legend of a land beyond the sea; Listen! I will tell a legend, strange, and strangely sweet

to me,

Of the days of superstition, when the hearts of men were led

From the Saviour's dying sorrow to the cross whereon He bled;

When they worshiped less the Saviour than the cross on which He died;

When they held aloft a symbol till the type was glorified. But the cross they counted sacred-so the weird tradi tions go

Vanished from the sight of mortals, how or wherefore none could know.

So they journeyed late and early, hoping they might find again,

Raise, and hold it up forever, in the sight of doubting

men.

Watchers waited on each summit, on each towering mountain height,

For the signal which should tell them that the cross was brought to light.

Long and far the pilgrims journeyed, long they sought in patient trust,

Till at last they found their object, rudely trampled in the dust.

Lo! a sudden cry of gladness over plain and valley

rung,

And a chorus of thanksgiving for the sacred cross was

sung;

On the nearest mountain summit soon a fire was all aglow Blazing forth the joyful tidings to the waiting hearts

below.

Watchers on another mountain saw the fire that burned afar,

Shining through the dark and distant like a glory-giving star.

So they quickly gathered fagots, lit them up, and sent the word

To another group of watchers, till the hearts of men were stirred.

And from summit unto summit thus the signals passed along

Till the mountains all were lighted, and the valley rang with song;

And the nations seemed to tremble with the echoes of the sound:

"Hallelujah! hallelujah! for the Holy Cross is found!”

This is but an idle legend of another land and time; This is but an idle legend, woven through an idle rhyme. But I turn the fabric over; on the other side are wrought Lessons of a better meaning than the ancient dreamers thought;

66

For tonight the cry is ringing in a clear, exultant voice: Hallelujah Hallelujah! we have found the crossrejoice!"

This is not the wooden symbol, but the story, grand and

true.

Buried deep in men's traditions, it was nearly lost to

view;

Crusted thick with mold'ring doctrines, trampled under marching feet;

Yet at last the cross is lifted; "God be praised," our lips repeat.

Will you help us light our signal? Come and pile the fagots high;

Come and join our hallelujahs, for the precious cross is

nigh!

For the story of the Saviour and His love for human kind,

Lifted from the dust that hid it in the ages just behind, Rises on the sight of mortals, and we send the tidings

out,

Lighting up the gloomy valleys where are souls in sin and doubt.

Waiting nations, long in darkness, rise and turn their eager eyes