across the ocean, I cud still hear your low, sweet voice, an' see your dear, sad face. You were wi' me a' the time. I fancied I cud hear the words you uttered. Nicht an' day you prayed for my safe return. But I was ane a' the stubborn sort, an' thochts o' fayther's harshness kept me awa'. Those ten years were a lang, lang time, but they were years o' discipline. I made a mon o' mysel' an' then startit for hame i' answer to your ca'. But mither, dear mither, I'll never leave you again!"

An' the laddie hasna. Later i' life, he wedded as a' laddies should, but he brot his bonnie gude wife to fayther an' me, instead o' gaen awa' wi' her, an' for twenty years we hae bin a united family. Douglas's ain bairns fill the auld hame-nest to owreflowin'.

Frae my safe shelter behind the fence o' Scripture Faith I pray that, ane by ane, we may a' be gathered into the Gude Shepherd's fold aboon.

DER VATER-MILL.*-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

I reads aboudt dot vater mill dot runs der life-long day, Und how der vater don'd coom pack vhen vonce id flows

avay;

Und off der mill shtream dot glides on so beacefully und

shtill,

Budt don'd vas putting in more vork on dot same vater mill.

*The following letter from the author of "Der Vater-Mill," gives our Teu. tonic friend's opinion of some of the points contained in the well-known poem, "The Water-Mill" (which will be found in No. 14, of this Series):

Dear Editor: Dhere vas an oldt adverb dot "Id vas beddher you don'd gry for soom shpilt milk," und ven I read dot boem off "Dot Vater-Mill," de oder day, I dinks to mineselluf, dot boet musd haf peen in der milk peesnis vonce, und don'd go mooch on adverbs. I vasn't von off dhose vellers dot sits down mit foldet hants und grumples because I don'd got soom Tell Bellerone shtock vhen id vas von tollar und a haluf a share, und peen riding around, now, mit mine carritch. I findt out dot der bressent time vas all vot I gan dake gare off, midoudt boddhering mineselluf mit der bast. I dakes more shtock in dot oder boet, who say: "Eef at virsd you don'd sockseed, dry, dry, dry some more!" I don'd vish to find soom faults mit dot vater-mill boet who vants us to draw der gonclusions dot "Losdt obbortunidies nefer return." Dot's all righdt! Vot I say vas dot oder obbordunidies vas comin' along all der dimes, as der two "Sams" doldt us aboudt down to der Funny Veal Hall, in Boston, der oder day, und dhose vas der obbordunidies dot vas now okkubying der addendions off yours, vespecdably. YAWCOB STRAUSS.

Der boet says, 'tvas beddher dot you holdt dis broverb fast, "Der mill id don'd vould grind some more mit vater dot vas past."

Dot boem id vas peautiful to read aboudt; dot's so!

Budt eef dot vater vasn't past how could dot mill vheel go? Und vhy make drouble mit dot mill vhen id vas been inclined

To dake each obbordunidy dot's gifen id to grind?

Und vhen der vater cooms along in qvandidies so vast,
I'd let some oder mill dake oup der vater dot vas past.

Dhen der boet shange der subject, und he dells us vonce

again:

"Der sickle neffer more shall reap der yellow, garnered grain."

Vell; vonce vas blendy, aind't id? Id vouldn't been so nice To haf dot sickle reaping oup der same grain ofer, tvice! Vhy, vot's der use off cutting oup der grass alreaty mown? Id vas pest, mine moder dold me, to let vell enough alone.

"Der summer vinds refife no more, leaves strewn o'er earth und main."

Vell; who vants to refife dhem? Dhere vas blendy more again!

Der summer vinds dhey shtep righdt oup in goot time to

brepare

Dhose blants und trees for oder leaves; dhere soon vas creen vones dhere.

Shust bear dis adverb on your mindts, mine frendts, und holdt id fast:

Der new leaves don'd vas been aroundt undil der oldt vas

past.

Dhen neffer mindt der leaves dot's dead; der grain dot's in

der bin;

Dhey both off dhem haf had dheir day, und shust vas gathered in.

Und neffer mindt der vater vhen id vonce goes droo der

mill;

Ids vork vas done! Dhere's blendy more dot vaits ids blace

to fill.

Let each von dake dis moral, vrom der king down to der

peasant:

Don'd mindt der vater dot vas past, budt der vater dot vas

bresent.

THE HOSTAGE.-HELEN BOOTH.*

Written expressly for this Collection.

Lo! the king's son hath taken prisoner

The mighty chieftain of opposing bands.

"Now must he die," the king saith. "But we hold
Our clemency so high that other lands
Look on and wonder. Prisoner, thus, we give
Heed to thy last request, so that it be

66

Not life thou askest." 'Good, O king," cried he,
The high-born prisoner. "Haply I ask of thee
One boon,-to see the beauteous woman I have wed
A too-short month agone; to see and place

A last kiss on her lips. Then will I come

And meet the death delayed by thy grace."
Whereat the king, "Thou jestest. Sure, is not
This war because that woman chose thee, and
Spurned our prince's love? What hostage hast

To leave behind thee that thy word will stand,
And thou come back to take the death decreed?"
Out stepped the king's son, he whose great love foiled
Had made the war. "Oh, sire," he said, "let me

A man whose happy retrospect is spoiled
By love gone wrong, be this knight's hostage. I
Know well the woman's power,-we who love
Can heed but little save herself. Then let

Me hostage be; that must this knight's truth prove.

For should he come not at appointed time,

The shame be doubly hers who makes him false
She loves, and me true whom she much more hates.
I ask to be his hostage, nothing else."

Therefore the king waxed wroth. "No prince of ours
Should so assoil his kinship unto us

By standing hostage for our enemy

And his worst foe. And yet it shall be thus.
Set ye the prisoner free! In three full days
If he return not, another soul shall wing

Its flight to judgment in the place of his,--
The soul of him whose father is a king."
And so turned on his heel, nor deigned to note

The wistful prince. The prisoner free, soon sped

Author of the romantic old-time drama for amateurs entitled "At the Red Lion," also the charming little comedy, "After Twenty Years," with song, etc., and other plays, to be found in the Dramatic Supplements appended to the first Twenty Numbers of this Series.

Away on swiftest steed; the king's son went
To prison keep, by the grim gaoler led.
The bright day fell, and stilly night had come,

The heavens were lamped by myriad swinging stars; The day dawned, and the sun's fiery hands

Laid on the tented plain long amber scars;

Eve sat within the vestibule of day,

Her misty veil moon-pinned, and night was near, Nay, came, and melted into radiant dawn,

And the third day, the death-day, thus was here. Yet he, the prisoner set free, was free,

Nor had come back redeeming his vowed pledge.
Men shaded eyes, searching the horizon,

To find but vacancy that reached its edge.
The king was black of brow. "The hostage dies,"
He said. "A soldier knows small sentiment,
Though sentiment make the war wherein he moils.
The hostage dies!-a king's word is not spent
So idly as to shield his flesh and blood

When they unworthily deny their worth.
The prisoner comes not; in the arms of love

He lingers laughing. Lead the hostage forth!"

And so the gaoler led the king's son on

To where the crape-masked headsman bared his arm
And grasped his glittering axe, and blew his breath
Upon his nervous hands to make them warm.
The king's son smiled. "My sire," he plead, “but wait
Until the third day to its last hour roves.

I dare not think the woman who hates me
Would have me truer than the man she loves.
If thus she would, 'twere well to die for him
And doubly die for her whose love may not
Command the honor of her wedded lord.

Let, then, the day's last hour compass my lot."
"Until the last hour be it!" the king said. So
They waited silent, watching the bare plain
Where came the gusty breaths of dying day,

And crystal mists that told of coming rain. Then evening fell. The king's son shouted. "Strike! Swerve not thy blade, O headsman! She I love Hath proved her utter lovelessness when she

Deems traitorous falsehood generous trust above!" "Yea, strike!" the king said. "A king's word is given !" The headsman raised the axe. There rose a shout

A palfrey swift as wind flew o'er the plain

And staggered nigh. The prisoner? Nay; but out
From tangled trappings stepped a glorious maid,
White as the lily, proud as the stem it tops;
She bares her throat, a pulsing marble plinth,

And down before the crape-masked headsman drops.
Thy prisoner is here!" she said.
"The man

I wedded came to me and told me all.

His life was sweeter than his pledge. He staid,

I came, no more his wife, but death's true thrall. Divorce me, king, from the rank traitor ere

I

go to heaven, take his name from mine,

Who loves life more than truth!" ""Tis done," the king
Cried. "Maiden, where is sacrifice like thine!
Small wonder one man loves thee unto death,
Another for that love to life would cling.

But great thy praise, thou hatest thy false lord?"

'I love, yet fain would hate," said she. "Strike!" cried the king.

The headsman raised his axe-a cry-it fell!

Whose head lay 'neath the faint first star on high? Not hers who loved a traitor,-his, who for

A love far nobler doomed himself to die.

TIMOTHY GREY.-ALFRED H. MILES.
Timothy Grey,

At school or at play,

Whether at home

Or whether away,

No matter when,

No matter where,

In doors or out of doors,

Here, then or there,

Like a little mouse nibbling, nibbling, nibbling,
Was always scribbling, scribbling, scribbling,
With pencil and slate,
Upstairs and downstairs,
Early and late.

Whenever you saw him,
A copy before him
Held his attention;

As times without mention.