demanded Frigga, at last. "Baldur cannot now die."

But Odin asked very gravely, "Is the shadow gone out of our son's heart, or is it still there?" "It cannot be there," said Frigga, turning away her head resolutely, and folding her hands before her.

But Odin looked at Baldur, and saw how it was. The hands pressed to the heavy heart, the beautiful brow grown dim. Then immediately he arose, saddled Sleipnir, his eight-footed steed, mounted him, and, turning to Frigga, said, "I know of a dead prophetess, Frigg, who, when she was alive, could tell what was going to happen; her grave lies on the east side of Helheim, and I am going there to awaken her, and ask whether any terrible grief is really coming upon

us."

So saying Odin shook the bridle in his hand, and the Eight-footed, with a bound, leapt forth, rushed like a whirlwind down the mountain of Asgard, and then dashed into a narrow defile between rocks.

Sleipnir went on through the defile a long way, until he came to a place where the earth opened her mouth. There Odin rode in and down a broad, steep, slanting road which led to the cavern Gnipa, and the mouth of the cavern Gnipa yawned upon Niflheim.

At last he came to the grave of the prophetess and got off his horse, and stood with his face northwards looking through barred enclosures into the city of Helheim itself. The servants of Hela were very busy there making preparations for some new guest-hanging gilded couches with curtains of anguish and splendid misery upon the walls. Then Odin's heart died within him and he began to repeat mournful runes in a low tone to himself.

The dead prophetess turned heavily in her grave at the sound of his voice, and, as he went on, sat bolt upright. "What man is this," she asked, "who dares disturb my sleep?"

Then Odin for the first time in his life, said what was not true; the shadow of Baldur dead fell upon his lips, and he made answer, "My name is Vegtan, the son of Valtam.”

"And what do you want from me?" asked the prophetess.

"I want to know," replied Odin, "for whom Hela is making ready that gilded couch in Helheim ?"

"That is for Baldur the Beloved," answered the dead prophetess. "Now go away, and let me sleep again, for my eyes are heavy."

But Odin said, "Only one word more. Is Baldur going to Helheim?"

"Yes, I have told you that he is," answered the Vala.

"Will he never come back to Asgard again?"

"If everything on earth should weep for him," answered she, "he will go back; if not, he will remain in Helheim."

Then Odin covered his face with his hands, and looked into darkness.

"Do go away," said the Vala, "I'm so sleepy; I cannot keep my eyes open any longer."

But Odin raised his head, and said again, "Only tell me this one thing. Just now, as I looked into darkness, it seemed to me as if I saw one on earth who would not weep for Baldur. Who was it?"

At this the Vala grew very angry and said, "How couldst thou see in darkness? I know of only one who by giving away his eye, gained light. No Vegtam art thou, but Odin, chief of

men."

At her angry words Odin became angry too, and called out as loudly as ever he could, "No Vala art thou, nor wise woman, but rather the mother of three giants."

"Go, go!" answered the Vala, falling back in her grave; "no man shall waken me again until Loki have burst his chains and Ragnarok be come." After this Odin mounted the Eight-footed once more, and rode thoughtfully home.

---Adapted from "The Heroes of Asgard." A. and E. Keary.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

O a wonderful stream is the river of time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the ocean of years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers, like buds between,

And the year in the sheaf, so they come and they go,

On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are straying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;

There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore

By the mirage is lifted in air,

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent

roar

Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

O remembered for aye be the blessed isle,
All the day of our life, until night;
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
Aud our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight!

— B. F. Taylor.