Oh, would to God that I had also died
And now lay buried by some hero's side!
But to be living, conquered and depressed,

While France, our France, is every where oppressed→
Nay, nay, my friends, for them we must not weep,
They sleep in honor-honored let them sleep!
Far better mourn for those who captive stand
In silence waiting for the king's command,
But not in fear. What! trembling? well ye may,
For death awaits them ere another day

If we to his demand do not comply.
This is his message: All my captives die
To-day at noon, unless without delay
Six of the noblest men of all Calais
With halters round their necks be led to me,
To ransom these I have in custody.'”

A silence fell-that direful feelings gave,

And touched with awe the bosoms of the brave.
Then St. Pierre, his voice grown hoarse with pain,
Raised his bowed head and proudly spoke again.
"I will be first to offer up my life

For those who suffered in the dreadful strife.
Plebeians though they are, they fought and bled,
And laurel bloom should crown each hero's head
To tell of noble deeds that they have done;
For many battles have they fought and won,
Though now they stand as captives chained and bowed
Heroes of whom a nation may be proud.

My life to ransom theirs I freely give―
Who will be next to die that they may live

Who would have died for France?" A voice replied "I-I, your son!" and quickly to his side

A youth stepped forth, who had until that hour
Seemed but a modest boy-now man's full power
Shone on his brow, and his dark kindling eye
Mirrored a martyr's soul to do, or die

If need be. On his son brave St. Pierre
Cast one fond, lingering look, then turned away.
"Twice am I sacrificed," he said, "thy years
Are few, but full, my son. Who next appears?
This is the hour for heroes." From the throng
A voice rang out, "Your kinsman!" clear and strong,
And stalwart manhood forward stepped apace
While swiftly o'er one tender flower-like face

แ

A waxen pallor spread; a piteous moan

Was lost beneath the next exultant tone,

"Your kinsman!" ay, "Your kinsman!" cried a third

Sir Walter Manney marveled as he heard.

Why was not I a native of Calais?"

He said, with misty eyes, and turned away.

While the sixth victim from the eager throng
Was chosen now by lot -for to belong

To that brave band for such a noble cause

All now were emulous-the grand applause

Rang loud and clear, and then the parting came,-
The tears, the fond embrace, love's whispered name.
As through the English camp the victims went
With loud applause the heavy air was rent,
And soldiers sallied forth on every side
To see the band of patriots; far and wide
The clamor rose until the very ground
Seemed to re-echo forth the martial sound.
The English monarch slowly asked each name
As they into his royal presence came.
Then turned around in his cold haughty way:
"Are these the noblest men of all Calais?"
"They are," said Manney, leaning on his lance,
"They are, my lord, the noblest of all France."
"And were they peacefully delivered? Were
There no uprisings from without, no stir?"
"Not in the least, my lord, the people would
All - all have gladly perished if they could
But save your captives; self-delivered? Ay!"
"Take them away," said Edward, "let them die.”
The echo of that fiat scarce had died
Before a murmur rose on every side,-
A thrill of triumph 'twas, and far and near
Arose the joyful cry, "The Queen is here!"
With powerful re-enforcements she had come;
But soldiers were not needed. Pale and dumb
Lay conquered France; Sir Walter Manney flew
To her and told her all, for well he knew
The tender heart of Philippa. When she
Her welcome had received from royalty,
She asked a private audience with the king.
My noble lord” she said, “to thee I bring
My heart's petition." Edward as he heard
Her gentle voice, smiled kindly, "Speak the word."

"My king, my husband, noble, brave and true,
The boon I ask will honor bring to you,——
Yea, honor bring to England and my lord,
For well is known the power of Edward's sword!
My noble husband, hear me, heed my prayer,
And grant full pardon to the captives there.

For they themselves condemn themselves,-not thou.
Then stay the axe, and show all nations how
Generous is England. Thus you conquer more
Than you have conquered in this land before."

Her noble words touched even Edward's heart.
"I yield to thee," he said, "'tis true. Thou art
Right now as ever. Bring in haste to me
The captives then. The Queen will set them free."
When they were brought Queen Philippa arose
And thus addressed her country's strongest foes:
"Natives of France-inhabitants of Calais-
A worthy lesson do you teach this day
When you to us do show as you have shown,
That excellence is not of blood alone.
Ye now are free-we spare the fatal blow.
Rivals for fame, but friends to virtue, go

Back to your homes, your wives and children dear."
"Oh, now my France, 'tis now for thee I fear!"

Said St. Pierre, "for Edward only wins

Our towns and cities; but to-day begins

A richer conquest; though we now depart
Queen Philippa has conquered every heart."

THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.*-A. W. HAWKS.

Not a fine work of art; the keen critic would have pronounced it a daub. It did not cost much money and the frame was of plain, uncarved wood. But the picture told a story and told it well.

For the background a rough stone wall, above it a leaden sky; in the foreground a pale, sad-eyed, weary looking girl had fallen on a stone bench and in her arms she held a sick boy, a white band around his forehead just above the sunken, faded eyes. And just in

*Used by permission of Professor Hawks, Public Reader and Lecturer.

front of them the Christ stood, the patient, ever-suffer. ing, ever-loving Christ, and His hand, not yet pierced, rested upon the head of the sick boy, and His eyes, so tender, so loving, so true, caught the upturned eyes of the lad and in the faded eyes of the boy the light was beginning to come back.

The picture hung in a hospital on the dead, bare whitewashed walls. And on a bed right opposite the picture, tossing in fever, wild with delirium, was a wolfreared boy of the slums. Born of rum-cursed parents, nursed at a rum-scented breast and tossed in the nervous arms of a drunken mother, the boy was born to the heritage of woe. He knew nothing of what the word father meant, he knew the "old man" well enough to keep out of his way, he carried marks of his brutal beatings on his face, and when the fever came, the bluecoated policeman found him alone in the straw on the damp floor of his cellar.

They brought him here and hands soft and delicate ministered to him, while the white-souled nurse trembled with fear at his fearful oaths.

He grew better; the doctor said he would pull through. One morning the nurse came, and pulling up the blind let the light fall upon his face. She said: "Shall

I read to you?"

"No," said the boy, and his eyes sought the picture. "No, tell me about that picter; who is he?"

"He is the Christ," she said, and then with a prayer in her heart she told the story of His life to the boy, and as she closed she said, "Do you believe in him?" "I believe in you," said the boy, and the next morning he said to the nurse, "Tell me more about Him."

How glad the sad-eyed nurse was to tell him. Her life had been one of trial, but now she was anchored in a haven of rest, and the Christ's voice had brought a calm to the troubled waters of her life.

As she told the old, old story the boy said: "You know Him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, "thank God, I do."

"And He loves boys?"

"He loves everybody."

"Rough boys like me?"

"Everybody."

And so, day by day, she talked of Him, and at last there came a time when she said again: "Do you believe in Him?"

And he said "I believe."

And two faces bathed in tears were lifted up to the picture.

The boy went from the hospital carrying next his heart a small Bible, and in his heart the Christ.

As the years rolled on the nurse thought often of the boy, but she was shut out from the world and her hours were all long hours, so she heard nothing of him, but when, gray-haired and bent with age, she finally feli in the harness, they brought her, at her request, and placed her on the bed opposite the picture of the Christ and the child. She was fading away as a cloud at sunset is kissed by the dying sun into the glory of heaven. Her eyes often rested upon the picture and her pale hands were lifted toward it.

So many came to see her; old men and women she had nursed back to life, children who loved her because her love had stood between them and death, and whitecapped nurses crowded around her, for her life had blessed them.

The gray light of a new-born day stole through the window; all was still in that quiet ward; around the bed, dewy-eyed, stood the nurses, for she was dying. A young clergyman from the next ward had been called in; he looked upon the face on the pillow, then his eyes sought the picture, then as he fell upon his knees he said: K Thank God."

The eyes of the dying sought his. Who are you?"

she said.