pronounced and certain, that no longer test seemed necessary. Then the tones became purer, firmer, and more powerful. There was in them sweetness, something of the freshness and warbling of birds. The articulation was delicate, but perfect. The style was chaste, free and unhackneyed; the rendition now low as the murmuring of tiny rills, and then bursting into a river of song. But it was lacking in floridness, and what was called the "eminence of the Italian dramatic school," was rather rippling than gushing, and a thought uncertain at times from ventriloquial suggestions, unworn by use and lacking in the perfection of tones that long and constant practice gives to the finished artist, and makes of the musical world enthusiastic slaves.

The song finished, the girl paused, half breathless from exertion, and with her usually pale cheeks somewhat flushed with excitement. Her soft blue eyes turned from one to another of her hearers, as for applause, and her heart beat fitfully in the hope of receiving it.

A painful silence rested upon all. There was not a ripple of excitement, no humming of voices ready to break forth in praise, no raising of hands ready to accent feelings of pleasure. Even the manager stood irresolute and with his eyes fixed upon Rosina Stalz, who had paled and grown red by turns, from the first note to the final one of the song.

She leaned forward and beckoned to the manager. He quickly obeyed the summons. She bent still lower from the box and whispered in his ear. He listened respectfully, but with averted eyes and shrugging shoulders, and seemed to hesitate and remonstrate. She was decided and imperative, and as if yielding to a judg ment greater than his own, returned to the side of the young girl, and with all the suaveness of his nation gave the decision as to her talents and chances of success: "Mademoiselle," he said, avoiding the questioning of her truthful eyes, "your voice is sweet, but lacks power and

I drew beside the ox. I swung the axe
Like any man. I hungered that my Fritz
His fill might eat, and have his schooling, too.
And a good head he had, my Fritz. But then
Just reached fifteen, his sailor uncle came,
Told of America. You stick a spade

Into the ground and turn up gold," he said;
"While farms, 'twas ask, and have." I let my boy
Go, as he wanted. He would have a farm

And send for me, and so I lost my child.
Lo-But then he wrote?
Peasant.-

Yes! yes! I cannot write;
Our pastor wrote, and then I left the place
To serve a cousin. Ach, the work I had;
It made me old,-that and my want of Fritz.
Lady. Your son wrote constantly,—wrote every month.
They sent his letters back, at last, with news
That you were dead.

Peasant.

Dead! No! How could it be!

My cousin, Lina Berger, died, not I.

That is my name, too,- Lina. Do you know

It must be that they took her name for mine?

Fritz was my son. She never had a child. (Looking

around.)

What a fine place!-stone lions at the gate!

Why are you turning in? Must I go on?

Lady.-Your Fritz lives here.

Peasant.

So! so! He's servant here.

I hope they're kind to him. Such a smooth grass;
House fit to be a palace. It must be
Such a good place; good wages. But, I pray,
Take me not up to those fine polished steps.
Let me slip round into the kitcnen door,
For fear I'd anger them and make him lose
This pleasant place.

Lady.

No fear. They'll not be vexed.
You tremble so. Sit down on this low chair
On the piazza. I would tell you first.

More of your Fritz. He grew a tall, strong man,

Gained by his head and hands no little gold,

Bought this nice place, married a wife

Peasant (dismayed).—

Ach! a fine lady. She will never let

Ach! mel

The peasant mother enter to her house.

Lady (bending over and kissing her affectionately).—
'Tis Fritz's wife assures you with this kiss
Her welcome to his mother. Yes, and love,-
A daughter's love for her who made my Fritz
The man he is,-wise, learned, good, and true.
Nay! do not tremble so!

Peasant (stroking the lady's hand).-All is so strange!
My daughter! But I am not good enough;
You are so fine.

Lady (gently).

Oh, if that troubles you,

Although I like the old-time German dress,

We'll get you a black silk, a soft, large shawl,

White, with gray palm leaves. You shall be as fine Peasant (eagerly).-As the good pastor's wife at Heideldorf? Lady. Yes, anything you choose, so you will be

Happy with us. Come in, dear mother, now;
Fritz will be home ere long, and I must send
For my small Margaret to greet and kiss
Her grandmamma.

Peasant (solemnly, with uplifted hands).-

Now may God's blessing rest

Upon this house and all that therein dwell;

And with all good things fill thy home and life
And kind heart, sweetest daughter.

JUNIPERO SERRA.*-RICHARD EDWARD WHITE

Within the ruined church at Carmel's bay,
Beside the altar, with rank weeds o'ergrown,
There is a grave unmarked with slab or stone,
Where lies one who, lost sight of in our day,
Yet bides his time; and when have passed away
Our would-be heroes, he will then be known,
And glory's heritage at last will own,
His title to which no one will gainsay.
When life was nearing to an end, 'twas here,
Seeking repose, the Padre Serra came;

Of our fair land he was the pioneer:

And if the good alone were known to fame,
Within our hearts his memory would be dear,
And on our lips a household word his name.

This and the following selection are taken, by permission, from "The Crom
Monterey, and other Poems," by Richard Edward White, of California.

THE MIDNIGHT MASS.-RICHARD EDWARD WHITL

Of the mission church San Carlos,

Builded by Carmelo's Bay,
There remains an ivied ruin

That is crumbling fast away.

In its tower the owls find shelter,

In its sanctuary grow

Rankest weeds above the earth mounds,

And the dead find rest below.

Still, by peasants at Carmelo,

Tales are told and songs are sung

Of Junipero,* the Padre,

In the sweet Castilian tongue :
Telling how each year he rises
From his grave the mass to say,
In the midnight, mid the ruins,
On the eve of Carlos' day.

And they tell when, aged and feeble,
Feeling that his end was nigh,
To the Mission of San Carlos

Padre Serra came to die;

And he lay upon a litter

That Franciscan friars bore,
And he bade them rest a moment
At the cloister's open door.

Then he gazed upon the landscape
That in beauty lay unrolled,
And he blessed the land as Francis
Blessed Asisi's town of old;
And he spoke: "A hundred masses
I will sing, if still life's guest,
That the blessing I have given

On the land may ever rest."

*The Librarian of the American Catholic Historical Society of Philadelphia, furnishes the following brief account of this noted Missionary:

Padre Junipero Serra was a Franciscan Priest of Italian birth, and the founder of many of the earliest Indian Missions in California. He was with the expedition of Galvez in 1769. He founded the Missions of San Diego, San Antonio, Mt. Carmel, San Luis, San Gabriel, Santa Clara, and San Francisco,—in which city are still to be seen "The Presidio," or small fort for protection against the Indians, and the old church called "The Mission Dolores," the first erected buildings. He died in August, 1784, aged seventy-one years.

Ere a mass was celebrated,

Good Junipero had died,

And they laid him in the chancel,
On the altar's gospel side.
But each year the Padre rises

From his grave the mass to say,
In the midnight, mid the ruins,
On the eve of Carlos' day.

Then the sad souls, long years buried,
From their lowly graves arise,
And, as if doom's trump had sounded,
Each assumes his mortal guise;
And they come from San Juan's Mission,
From St. Francis by the bay,

From the Mission San Diego,

And the Mission San José.

With their gaudy painted banners,
And their flambeaux burning bright,
In a long procession come they

Through the darkness and the night; Singing hymns and swinging censers, Dead folks' ghosts,-they onward pass To the ivy-covered ruins,

To be present at the mass.

And the grandsire, and the grandam,
And their children march along,
And they know not one another
In that weird, unearthly throng.
And the youth and gentle maiden,
They who loved in days of yore,
Walk together now as strangers,
For the dead love nevermore.

In the church now all are gathered,
And not long have they to wait;
From his grave the Padre rises,
Midnight mass to celebrate.
First he blesses all assembled,
Soldiers, Indians, acolytes;
Then he bows before the altar,
And begins the mystic rites.
When the Padre sings the sanctus,
And the Host is raised on high,