fragrance of the forest lured him on, the vernal solitudes invited him. Seated beneath an aged tree, he pondered again the solemn words: "A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night." The sunshine flooded the crowns of the mighty trees, and dripped like yellow rain upon the woodland paths. The brooks rang their flitting bells in hidden pools. The soft winds passed through the leaves like the whispers of invisible beings. But Abbot Erro saw not, heard not. His soul still wrestled with the angel as did Jacob of old, and would not let him go without the blessing. Presently came the song of a bird from the depth of the wood. Erro listened. It came soft and low, like the gurgle of a liquid flute. What the flower is to the plant, that is song to the bird; and such a song was this that Erro arose and followed the beckoning sound. Fresh and clear came the wondrous notes; but no bird did the good monk see, for the fluttering leaves hid it from his longing eyes. It filed before him, and he followed. The burden of his soul was forgotten. He did not even hear the bell of the monastery tolling to prayers. But he followed the gurgling notes as one might follow the song of the brook beside which he walks -on through the woodland paths, on through the tangled undergrowth and the evergreen thicket, until the elusive song grew faint in the green distance of leaves, and lost itself in the drone of the early bees. Sorrowfully Erro retraced his steps. He felt that something sweet had eluded him for ever. At the gate of the monastery the porter refused him entrance. "Am I not the abbot?" he asked, mildly. "And yet my brethren refuse me that which they grant to the stranger and the wayfarer." "The abbot is within at matins." "Within! Am I not the Abbot Erro? and is not this my charge?" "Farther down by the wood thou shalt find the ruins of old Erro's monastery; there they have lain for more than a hundred years, and it must be near two centuries ago that Erro himself wandered into the woods and was heard of no more." Abbot Erro gazed into the faces that surrounded him. They were strange and full of pity. His eyes wandered to the towers of the monastery at whose gates he stood; the tooth of time had not yet gnawed upon them. Then the old man smote his breast and wept aloud. Two centuries had been measured out to him in the song of a bird. He bowed his gray head upon his staff. "Father, oh Father," he murmured, "I thank Thee for the blessed revelation. A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.' "Master," cried Franz, "to-morrow I will follow the birds." True to his determination, Franz was ready with the sun. In his hand was his staff, and his bread-wallet was at his belt. He passed along the village street, singing in his old, happy way. No one heard him; he was too early even for the housewives. How sweet is the early morning. The eyes of the world are pleasant to look into before they are quite awake. He was The village was soon behind him. out on the cool, brown road, whose grassy borders still glittered with the persistent drops of a midnight shower. The trees shook their tresses at him in the morning breeze. Where are ye, oh birds?" cried Franz. "Come and sing me your songs, and tell me how I may fashion them in gold." He threw himself down by the brook that came sliding and gurgling through the long grass of the fertile meadow, and bathed his forehead in its coolness. "Sing me your song, oh brook!" he cried. But the laughing waters only blew their bubbles in his face, and danced away, clicking their liquid castanets. The little silver-sided fishes came up, and pouted at him with their great solemn mouths, and seemed to be mumbling to themselves their discontent. Franz crumbled a bit of bread for them, then rose to his feet and grasped his staff. "Give me your songs, O insects in the summer grass, and in the nodding sedges!" he cried. Only a gold-belted bee buzzed at his ear, then dropped, and hid itself in the horn of a meadow flower. "Pshaw! ye still-mouthed things," said Franz, "what care ye for the sorrows of a wandering goldsmith, who has come to steal your music?" Just then he caught sight of a little brown bird that was enjoying a morning swing among the long sedges, and drying its feathers in the early sun. 'Whichever way you go, little fellow, I shall follow," muttered Franz, "be it up the blue hills, or on through the notch, and into the smoky valleys beyond." The bird rose from the spray, fluttered for a moment in the air, as a humming-bird does before a flower, then slid and dropped, slid and dropped, as little brown birds are wont to do, whistling with every slide, as if the vocal and muscular efforts were the results of the same impulse. On through the fresh green grass went Franz, his wallet a lunch which the birds shared with him-he stretched himself in the thick brown shade of a hemlock clump and slept. Of what should he have dreamed? Men have dreamed music in their sleep. Rousseau dreamed that he stood by the gates of Paradise and heard the angelic voices singing that tune which the church psalmodies have individual guess what Franz dreamed. It is hard to prophesy what will fly into that gossamer web which the spider Sleep spins across the brain. here pausing to pluck a meadow flower for his hat, there to contemplate the inversion of blue sky and sedges in some still pool, wherein the rushes and the lush grasses buried their roots. Then over the fences and into the broad, sepia road, and beneath the overhanging trees; along the deep-flowing brook, which ran by the old inill, with moss-crusted leaves, and rotten, silent wheel; apast the broad, glassy, shadow-ized by the dreamer's name. I could not even haunted pond, wherein the great creamy waterlilies rode at green anchor; apast the low farm-houses, whose wet Vandyck-brown shingles are a feast of colour to the eye, and from whose chimneys the cheery breakfast smoke was just beginning to rise-the air full of birds and sunshine, the brooks of sound and motion, the grasses swarming with insect life, and over the flower-knots the butterflies flapping their drowsy wings, or sailing slowly the air, with black, feathery wings set like the lateens which stud the purple seas of Zante. Franz felt his soul refreshed and elated; the warm, pure air, washed and purified by the showers of the nights, was wine to his senses. He swung his staff, and shouted to the great sun, whose glory was in the heavens and upon the beautiful earth. At such a time all the sensations of being are pleasures; physical life exists in the midst of its most perfect conditions; the muscles, the nerves, the tissues, the blood, rejoice together, and through them the soul enjoys and exults. Meanwhile the little brown bird, now fluttering through the matted thicket, now diving into the cool recesses of the nodding trees, now in the sheer caprice of joyous life darting into the blue air and chirping to the sun, was nearing the great hills. It was hard to tell whether man or bird was the happier. Franz did not regard the road which led circuitously up to the kilns of the charcoalburners. He planted his staff firmly in the tough, moist sod, and commenced mounting right on the precipitous side among the cedars, which stretched their low, rigid branches as if to intercept him. I need not here recite the history of his upward scramble; how he startled the birds from their nests in the evergreens, or roused the moping hawk which, poised high in the sunshine upon the stark dead limb of some decaying tree, watched the misty landscape with glittering eyes; how he came upon the hot, gray rocks whereon the prickly cactus grows, and where the emerald stag-beetles were sunning themselves. It was quite noon before he reached the bald summit of the highest hill, for he had loitered rather than walked, and now, after a lunch upon the contents of Franz was awakened by the noisy clamour of a flight of crows who were out birds-egging. There they were, floating in the blue heavens like so many black crosses. Then they sank slowly behind the trees. Franz turned over and lay with his elbows buried in the dry crinkly mosses and his chin in his hands. It was a splendid position in which to receive an inspiration, and inspiration, you will remember, was what he was in search of. None came from the crows, however, though a painter might find inspiration in a flight of crows against a saffron sky quite as well as in a group of red-brown cows standing hoof-deep in the moist grasses which rim the meadow pools Then Franz turned to the robins that were hopping and strutting in their red lapels, like so many martinets. "Ah! if you would only be good enough to give me a lift with an idea.” hethought. But they wouldn't. Franz yawned, and drummed a tattoo with his toes. Presently an antiphonal chirping and singing over the slope of the hill, and towards the charcoalburners' huts, attracted his attention. "Here comes my inspiration," yawned Franz He rose to his knees and peered over the intervening bushes. Midnight found him bending over his work in Master Karl's shop! Like the good old Abbot Erro, Franz had lost nothing by following the birds. It soon became noised throughout the village that Franz, the goldsmith's apprentice, had caught an inspiration up in the summits of the blue hills, and was fixing it in gold. All that the good villagers knew about the hills and the woods was, that they were there; that the former were hard to climb, that the latter were worth so much the cord for cutting and hauling. They wondered what sort of an idea it was, and, indeed, tried hard to find out. But Franz had moved his bench up-stairs into the room which had its windows buried in the leaves of the fragrant trees. There he could work unseen and unmolested. But you could hear his merry voice all day as he sang over "That is a vulgar genius which substitutes his work. The months rolled on. Autumn came, and the dolphin woods showed their dying colours to the receding sun. Winter came, and wrestled like an athlete with the leafless trees and laid the meadows in snow. Spring came, and the sun returned, and in its trail rolled the great wave of verdure, the coming in of the full, strong tide of the life of the flowers and the green things. Again the waste places sang; again the brooks went gliding and gurgling through the grass of the meadows. Franz had finished his labours, and when the appointed day arrived he took his staff in hand, and with his wondrous work beneath his arm started upon his journey. His patron met him at the door and embraced him. "If the work prove not a success," he said, gravely, "you may expect nothing better tonight than a bed in the stable.' Trust the birds for that," laughed Franz. In the evening he was ushered into the long drawing-room where were many guests assembled. To his astonishment he beheld his wondrous Lorelay candelabrum set up in the centre of the room, and shedding a mellow light from its blazing branches. Before it, and well in its rays, he set the rose-wood case which contained his golden message from the woods. "Gentlemen," said the patron, advancing, "you have all admired the elegant genius which has found expression in the Lorelay candelabrum." cranks and springs for soul." "One moment, friends," pleaded the patron, with an encouraging smile at Franz. Let the workman's work speak for itself." Franz threw open the case. The guests gathered round. The patron's brow fell. His friends looked at the work, then at each other. Wrought with wondrous delicacy, there stood in Etruscan gold a five-railed country-fence; its posts rooted in the high grass. Near it there were thick bushes, their foliage enamelled, their blossoms fretted, and set here and there with rain-drops of crystal. Upon the fence, and just by the first post, a single delicate vine twined itself fantastically among the bars into the sign of the treble clef. The patron shook his head. "It is a fine bit of workmanship," he said, slowly, and with evident disappointment. "Your country fence, with its five rails, corresponds, of course, to the bars and spaces of written music, and the curling vine indicates the treble clef. I suppose that a vivid imagination might infer the song." But there was in his tone which seemed to add, "As I have to supply the vivid imagination, however, I don't propose to pay you any thousand pieces of gold for the affair. The guests shook their heads. The thing was pretty, in its way; but what of that? Had they been called together for the purpose of viewing a mere bit of delicate goldsmith-craft? Had the critical Recru, the profound Borrascoso, who had composed a mass in G, and the "Divine," cried M. Recru, from the Conser- bird-throated Vogelkehle, who could reach vatory of Paris. "Crystallized thought," interjected Professor Vogelkehle, who could reach the high C without catching his breath or winking. "Enchanting," cried Señor Borrascoso, the eminent Spanish basso. My friends," continued the patron, "you see that the Lorelay sings. But who can translate to me the song which lies poised behind her golden lips? No one? Then I have called upon the artist whose handiwork she is, to help me in my dilemma. He has promised me a song in gold." "Impossible!" cried the critics. "Yet here it is, in this case, if I mistake not. All eyes were turned upon it. An accordeon-a vile instrument," ejaculated Professor Vogelkehle. "Excuse me, my host, I have an engagement right away.' "A music-box," groaned M. Recru. "And I hate music-boxes.' the high C without shutting his eyes, been summoned for this? Each felt like a star that had obeyed an attraction and rushed toward the new centre, expecting it to be a sun, and finding it only to be a cheap magnet, such as they sell in the shops for tenpence. The wise Vogelkehle was the only one whose face did not fall. He held his chin and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then smiled and cleared his throat. Franz dropped a hidden spring, when lo! from the golden bushes, and from the high grass, flew the birds. Some perched upon the rails; others fluttered, with open bills, between them or above them. A murmur of delight broke from the assembled throng. Their souls were enlightened. Such are nature's notations of the silent, the unsung music of the sunny fields-the music which can be felt, but is not heard. But the wise Vogelkehle saw that the birds in this wondrous mechanism, each in its place, represented a sound, and so, reading them as notes, until "Or a hand-organ," sneered Borrascoso. the music trippled and rippled from his lips like the limpid waters of a mountain stream. The little golden birds leaped and fluttered into new positions at the regular beat of time, and when at length their rhythmical sport was over, they flew back into the yellow bushes and the long burnished grass. Tears stood in Vogelkehle's eyes. He caught the hand of the young gold-worker, and pressed it with fervour. "It is an inspiration," he cried, "for here is a song that none but the birds could have made." And so indeed it was, for I swear to you that I have heard it in the antiphonal songs of the thrushes throughout the long summer afternoons when I have lain beneath the hemlocks, even as Franz lay, waiting for some of nature's pleasant inspirations. Others, too, have heard it, and love it; for well I know that this self-same song which Franz wrought in yellow gold, after the birds had taught it to him up in the blue hills, and which Vogelkehle sang so sweetly that night, is none other than the song which Reichard has set to the words, "Du bist mir nah und doch so fern" ("Thou art so near, and yet so far from me"). And this is what Franz found in following the birds. W. S. NEWELL. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. It is the funeral march. I did not think They follow silently, their earnest brows This universal language, to the heart But such better thoughts O THOU OF LITTLE FAITH: Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; But spring is floating up the southern skies, And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. Let me persuade: in dull December's day We scarce believe there is a month of June; But up the stairs of April and of May The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest. O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou. He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-And in his heart thy prayer is resting now. GEORGE MACDONALD, writing the various tales which made his reputation. In 1838 he joined the Christian Brotherhood (Roman Catholic) of Cork, and two years afterward died of fever. His works are: The Collegians-popular at present as the Colleen Bawn; Card-drawing: The Half Sir; SuilDhuv: The Rivals; Tracy's Ambition; Holland-Tide, or comfort to you in your old days, as I once thought he would be to me in mine." Here her husband renewed his promises, in a tone of deep affliction. "An now for yourself, Phadrig. Remember the charge that's upon you, and don't be goen out venturen your life in a little canvas canoe, on the bad autumn days, at Ballybunion; nor Wit foolish boys at the Glin and Tarbert fairs; -an don't be so wake-minded as to be trusten to card-drawers, an fairy doctors, an the like; for it's the last word the priest said to me was, that you were too superstitious, and that's a Munster Popular Tales; The Duke of Monmouth; Tales great shame an a heavy sin. But tee you!1 of the Jury-Room; and a volume of poems ] "There's no use in talken about it, Phadrig. I know an I feel that all's over wit me. My pains are all gone, to be sure-but in place o' that, there's a weight like a quern stone down upon my heart, an I feel it blackenen within me. All I have to say is think o' your own Mauria when she's gone, an be kind to poor Patey." "Ah, darlen, don't talk that way-there's hopes yet-what'll I do-what'll the child do witout you?" "Phadrig, there's noan. I'm goen fast, an if you have any regard for me, you wont say anythin that'll bring the thoughts o' you an him between me an the thoughts o' heaven, for that's what I must think of now. An if you marry again"Oh, Mauria, honey, will you kill me entirely? Is it I'll marry again?" "" "If it be a thing you should marry again," Mauria resumed, without taking any notice of her husband's interruption, "you'll bear in mind, that the best mother that ever walked the ground will love her own above another's. It stands with raisin an natur. The gander abroad will pull a strange goslen out of his own flock; and you know yourself, we could never get the bracket hen to sit upon Nelly O'Leary's chickens, do what we could. Everything loves its own. Then, Phadrig, if you see the floury potaties—an the top o' the milk-an the warm seat be the hob-an the biggest bit o' meat on a Sunday goen away from Patey-you'll think o' your poor Mauria, an do her part by him; just quietly, and softly, an without blamen the woman-for it is only what's nait'rel, an what many a stepmother does without thinking o' themselves. An above all things, Phadrig, take care to make him mind his books and his religion, to keep out o' bad company, an study his readin-made-aisy, and that's the way he'll be a blessing an a Phadrig, dear, there's that rogue of a pig at the potaties over Phadrig turned out the grunting intruder, bolted the hurdle-door, and returned to the bedside of his expiring helpmate. That tidy housekeeper, however, exhausted by the exertion which she had made to preserve, from the mastication of the swinish tusk, the fair produce of her husband's conacre of white-eyes, had fallen back on the pillow and breathed her last. Great was the grief of the widowed Phadrig for her loss-great were the lamentations of her female friends at the evening wake-and great was the jug of whisky-punch which the mourners imbibed at the mouth, in order to supply the loss of fluid which was expended from the eyes. According to the usual cottage etiquette, the mother of the deceased, who acted as mistress of the ceremonies, occupied a capacious hay-bottomed chair near the fireplace-from which she only rose when courtesy called on her to join each of her female acquaintances as they arrived, in the death-wail which (as in politeness bound) they poured forth over the pale piece of earth that lay coffined in the centre of the room. This mark of attention, however, the old lady was observed to omit with regard to one of the fair guests—a roundfaced, middle-aged woman, called Milly Rueor Red Milly, probably because her head might have furnished a solution of the popular conundrum, "Why is a red-haired lady like a sentinel on his post?" The fair Milly, however, did not appear to resent this slight, which was occasioned (so the whisper went among the guests) by the fact, that she had been an old and neglected love of the new widower. All the fiery ingredients in Milly's constitution appeared to be comprehended in her glowing ringlets-and those, report says, were as ardent in hue as their owner was calm and regulated in her temper. 1 To you! Beware! |