Of its own fellows, when the alien rich
Fear its accusing rags, and in some ditch
Huddle it blindly. I have little bread,-
One loaf for many mouths; but He who fed,
With loaves and fishes few, five thousand men,
Will not leave us to perish in this den."

And with these words he brought the loaf that lay
Alone between them and a slow decay,-

All that might save them, in that desert place,
From gnawing famine that makes white the face,-
And, breaking it, gave half to the old man.
Lo, ere the sharpest eye could difference scan
"Twixt light and dark, the pilgrim standing there
Vanished-and seemed to empty all the air
From earth to heaven. But the bread was left;
And Alfred, of his reason nigh bereft,
Rushed out and stared across the level fen.
No human shape was there, nor trace of men;

But, smooth and void and dark, burdening the eye,
The great blank marsh answered the great blank sky.
The ghostly bittern clanged among the reeds
And stirred, unseen, the ever-drowsy weeds
Of the morass; but all beside was dead,
And a dull stupor fell on Alfred's head.

He stumbled to the house-and sleep was strong
And dark upon his eyelids; but, ere long,
An angel, with a placid face and bright,
Filled all the caverns of his brain with light.
"I am the pilgrim," said this shape. "I came
To try thy heart and found it free from blame:
Wherefore, I'll make thee great above thy foes,
And like a planet that still speeds and glows,
Dancing along the centuries forever-

But thou must aid me with thy best endeavor;
And when thou hast regained thy crown and state,

Make them not objects of a nation's hate.

Let men behold, within thy sheltering bower,

The tranquil aspects of benignant power,

Love armed with strength; and lop thou, with firm hand
That weary-headed hunger in thy land

Which casts its shadows on the golden walls
Of the too-prosperous, feasting in their halls.
Make God thy God-not pleasure lightly flown-
And love thy people rather than thy throne.

So shall all men forget their ravening maws,
Under the even justice of thy laws."

The vision faded, like a subtle bloom,
As the still dawn was lighting up the room;
And Alfred, starting up, with staring eyes,
Saw his friends round him, laden with supplies,
Who told him that the Danes had fallen back
Before the vigor of a firm attack,

And that the people, gathering up their heart,
Called loudly on their king to act his part,
And take his sceptre and his throne again,—
Now doubly his through wisdom born of pain.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. *-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS
If I should die to-night,

My friends would look upon my quiet face,
Before they laid it in its resting place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair,
And laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress,-
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night,

My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped.
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,

And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,

Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully.

The eyes that chill me with averted glance

Would look upon me as of yore, perchance

Would soften in the old familiar way;

For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay?

So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.

The origin of this poem has recently elicited much controversy. We here with give the correct version as furnished by the author, who is a well known Contributor to the "One Hundred Choice Selections" Series.

O friends, I pray to-night

Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow;
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;

My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

THE RIVAL SINGER.

ADAPTED FROM "THE VERDICT OF THE CRITIC AND THE WORLD.

"Let her sing if she will. It can only result in failure. Who dares to dispute possession of the crown or attempt to take it from my brow? What upstart this that comes to soar upon an untried wing?"-and Rosina Stalz, the proud, haughty, imperious queen of song, and queen of the Parisian court and heart, flashed her eyes scornfully, and shrugged her shoulders in both pity and derision.

She, Rosina Stalz, was empress and arbitrator, a jealous guardian of her own renown, with foot ready to crush any aspirant giving premonitions of grand success and daring to climb toward the dizzy height she had reached, and draw one iota of applause that was as the very breath of her being.

So supreme was her power, so madly was she worshiped, that in all the operas of the day there was but one female role of any importance, or that would attract attention. She was the one resplendent star, the one recog nized goddess of song, and another was not permitted near, save as a foil and to be dwarfed and extinguished by the matchless splendor of her light.

Thus but one could occupy the throne. Rivalry was forbidden, and any aspirant was forced to pass through an ordeal few had the strength and nerve to bear, even were their lips touched with melody and their voices trained in all the technique of the art divine.

Many had tried,—to fail. Many a heart had beat high

with anticipation, when treading the stage for the first time, to leave it broken and in tears. Many a fair beginning had been the ending, and many a name brilliant with supposed triumph had been lost to the world forever.

Yet despite all her power and imperious dictation, Rosina Stalz never felt secure in her position. She knew that the public was ever fickle,-the Parisians are so, especially; that as she had stepped into the shoes of another, the day was not far distant when another would do the same by her, become the reigning favorite, and her wreath of flowers be but faded and scentless.

This jealous fear and curiosity made her put aside all other engagements, to attend trial rehearsals, and when it was told her that it was only a young girl, and a stranger, her sneer became even more pronounced, and she repeated: "Yes, let her sing and have the effrontery to come to the very stage I am rightly treading! Tomorrow! Yes, I will be present to laugh at her weak efforts, though I ought to pity"—and her voice sank in musical cadence.

"set"

The hour of the trial came. The stage was with little regard to the proprieties or "properties," was as it had last been used. The light was dim and uncertain. There was nothing of the glamour that usually won the eye, nothing to brighten and to cheer.

Rosina Stalz sat in a proscenium box, grand in her beauty, grand in all the accessories of dress and jewels. Her eyes were brilliant with the pride of position, and her full, ripe lips parted with annoyance sufficiently to show the line of pearl within. She had passed through the same thing so often that it had lost all expectancy and interest.

A girl, young, childish almost, plain in feature, slight in form, with large blue eyes, and remarkable for nothing except it might have been an abundance of light hair, stood at the back of the stage, irresolutely, and as if sum moning up courage.

There was no murmured applause, no welcoming clapping of hands. She was facing, unencouraged, the most terrible of stage ordeals, with nothing to cheer or sustain her. Unknown, unheralded in Paris, lacking in powerful friends to make her cause their own, she had nothing, save it might be the inspiration of genius and the enthusiasm of art, to lift her above the cold surroundings and give her the power to do justice to herself.

Yet there was calmness, composure, even self-reliance in her face and pose, as she stood for a moment to regain her breath and become familiar with the scene, and see if she could not discover a friendly smile. Then, raising her eyes to heaven, as if her trust was there, and to it she looked for guidance and strength, she walked forward to the foot-lights, folded her hands meekly over her breast, and made ready to endure the crucial test and carping criticism.

For an instant her glance rested upon the proud face of the reigning Queen of song, and her warm, girlish heart would have leaped to it gladly, had the icy spell that was numbing it, broken,—had she received a single encouraging smile. But the imperious beauty gave never a token of recognition of the sympathy of her sex, of the esprit de corps of artists. The look she received in return was one of idle curiosity, of almost cruel disdain, with just a trace of astonishment at her daring. A wave of the hand, a parting of the lips, a melting into womanhood, would have been as sunlight bursting from dark. clouds over desert lands.

It came not. Whatever of soul there might have been in the woman was swallowed up in the jealousy of the artiste, and the girl turned away with a sigh to conquer by the strength of her own genius, or be conquered by prejudged conclusions.

The instruments struck up, and the lips of the girl quivering with mental anxiety were opened, and an uncertain sound issued from them. Failure appeared so