They are of a beautiful form, with long green hair; they swim and balance themselves on the branches of trees, bathe in lakes and rivers, play on the surface of the water, and wring their locks on the green meads at the water's-edge. It is chiefly at Whitsuntide that they appear; and the people then, singing and dancing, weave garlands for them, which they cast into the stream.'

THE RUSALKI AND THE MILLER'S CHILD.

A Tale of Southern Russia.

WAS when we dwelt by the Volga's side—Ah, bless the willows that high and wide Above its waters grew!

I then had counted but twenty years,
And Niga, my child—your mother, my dears—
Had counted barely two.

A pleasant place was my husband's mill, With its merry hopper that never was still, Clacking the livelong day;

The stream went rushing and flashing past, Till up by the wheel it was caught and cast In foam and bells and spray.

A bowshot from the mill or more,

And midway between shore and shore,

A little island lay;

And swift and deep and dark was the tide That around it swept on every side,

Beneath the willows gray.

Such trees they were for size and strength! A very tree in girth and length

Was each far-reaching bough;

For countless years on that shady isle
Their roots had fed in the fertile soil,
Untouched by spade or plough.

And on this isle with willows grown,
A good Rusalki, it was known,

Had twined her secret bower;
But mortal there was none so rude
As pry upon her solitude,

And brave her spirit-power.

But often in the lonely night
The fishermen have seen her light
Shine deep within the stream;
It shone as does an early star
Ere yet its sisters wakened are,
With faint and wavering gleam :

And then their nets and lines they drew, And joy was theirs, and back they threw Them in the stream again;

For she drove to them the scaly flocks From hollow banks and pools and rocks, Like sheep to fold or pen.

And this was why, from year to year,
The neighbours all from far and near,
At pleasant Whitsuntide,

Child and mother and old grand-dame,
With offerings for Rusalki came
Down to the Volga's side.

And so, with flowers of every hue,
In dale or dell or copse that grew,
One Whitsuntide they came,

As custom was in the days gone by-
And 'tis pity to let old customs die
That have a kindly aim.

Sweet-scented blooms and sprigs of may
We twined and tied that merry day
In chaplet and in wreath,

Which in the stream the children cast,
And, singing, watched them floating past
The arching boughs beneath.

When sudden, backward from the stream They running came with shout and scream, And to the stream ran I,

And into it I would have sprung,

But twenty arms were round me flung
As wildly I rushed by.

Away upon the rapid wave

My child was swept, and none to save!
Far, farther from the land;

Swift, swifter she was swept away,-
But fearless still and calm she lay,
A garland in her hand.

On, on beneath the willows gray-
Oh, never till my dying day
Shall I forget the sight!

But then, while disappeared my child,
E'en then was changed my terror wild-
To madness of delight.

A female form, so dreamlike fair,
With neck and arms and bosom bare
And white as lily-flower,

All from the waist down garmented
In vapour, of the colours shed
By sunlight through a shower!-

Emerging from the foliage,

Just paused upon the island's ledge

Above the dewy grass,

Then passed the drooping boughs among To where my child was swept along,

As summer-cloud might pass.