with one accord, make for the hills, and find a safe retreat among the stony haunts of the coney and the rock-dove.

Left helpless by the loss or absence of their male defenders, the five towns can make but a poor resistance, and all that is considered worth taking is appropriated by the successful raiders. Horses and cattle are collected, valuables of various kinds are stowed away on the camels' backs, and by sunset the marauders have left the valley, carrying with them a large body of captives, among whom is a wealthy stranger of the name of Lot, with his family and his substance.

Another hour, and the soft Syrian starlight hangs over the quiet plain. A strange calm has succeeded the stir and conflict of the day. The very air seems hushed. In the distance we can hear the murmur of meeting waters far up the glen, where the Jordan falls into the lake. At intervals, the silence is broken by the hoarse cry of the night-hawk, flitting by on ghostly pinions, and the hooting of the owls in the pine-grove on the hill. Dim lights are moving about the valley. They are the friends of the slain warriors, who have left their hiding-place to search for the dead. Ever and anon there rises a wail of sorrow, telling that some widow has found her husband, some maiden her brother, or one, perhaps, even more dear. Then the rough voices of returning 46 'braves are heard scaring the wolf and the raven from their hideous feast, and showering impotent curses on the fierce horde that has invaded their peaceful home.

Can nothing be done to chastise the authors of the deed, and wreak vengeance for the blood of the fallen? Yes, for the Almighty has decreed that they shall not escape unpunished.

Scarcely had the last of the Assyrians withdrawn from the plain, than a lightly-attired figure might have been seen hurrying up the mountain pass on the north-east extremity of the valley. Already he has scaled the black wall of rocks, and his sandalled feet are carrying him swiftly across the ridge. Away he goes, in the still broad moonlight, while the yelping jackals draw back to see him pass, and stare after the white ghostly figure as it disappears round the shoulder of the hill. And now the rough and crumbling marl grows green beneath his feet, the daisies and red anemones reappear on the dewy turf, and, as the sunrise paints the eastern ridges with amber tints, the crested hill of Hebron rises into

view.

Pitched on the slope, amid a magnificent grove of oaks, are some two hundred goat-skin tents, with one of larger size under the tallest tree. Olivebushes and carefully-tended vineyards clothe the fertile fields, and the lowing of cattle and the bleating of flocks comes up from the quiet valley. It is the settlement of Abram the Hebrew, the stranger, the friend of God; and thither the messenger wends his way, till he stands hot and breathless at the patriarch's tent-door. In brief, hurried terms the dire event is made known, and soon from tent to tent spreads the news that Lot, who dwells in Sodom, has been borne away captive.

The eye of the great chief fires at the words; he has sprung up, and taken down his sword and

buckler, and the men are hastily ordered to arm for the fight. With flowing beard and loose white robes, the old man presents a striking and impressive figure: ninety years have passed over that venerable head, but yet age has not bowed it, nor sickness taken the firm strength from those bronzed and sandalled feet. With activity and resolute will he goes from servant to servant, selecting for the expedition such of them as have been born and bred "in his house." Tried and faithful men they are, and ready at any time to risk life and limb in the service of their master. The stalwart shepherds are summoned from the fields, the ox-goad is exchanged for the spear, and the pruning-hook for the pliant bow. Three neighbouring chiefs have offered their services, and in less than five hours all is ready. Farewells are exchanged, and the dauntless patriarch, at the head of three hundred and eighteen picked men, is away in pursuit of the marauders.

Before dawn the little band is over the Jordan, and pressing northward night and day. In every scattered settlement they pass, information is eagerly sought and gladly supplied as to the route taken by the returning robber-host. Every hour's hurried march brings them nearer to the foe, and every night, as they pause to rest on the heights that overlook the Jordan, and listen to the waters lapping in the bulrush beds below, they feel the distance is shorter and the time more near when they will have to measure their spears against the red lances of the Assyrian. And on they go, swift and resolute, till the river widens into the Galilean Sea, and rude fisher-boats lie rocking on the rippling blue. Bethsaida is left behind them, and at the close of the fifth day, Lake Merom, with its yellow water-lilies and its crimson oleanders, is glittering far away to the southward in the setting sun.

And now it is night on the mountains, and close in front rises the rounded hill of Dan. There lie the Assyrians, tired with the day's march, with their pillage piled around and the stolen beasts herded together close by. All is calm and quiet: the dreaming watchers, if any there are, are probably thinking with satisfaction on their safe withdrawal from the plundered districts. Only the lowing of the captured kine, at intervals, or the hoarse bark of some prowling wolf on the hills beyond, breaks the stillness, now grown almost oppressive. Noiselessly and skilfully the patriarch and his allies steal down into the darkening plain. Still all is quiet. Everyone must be asleep; there is no light burning, no sound of moving feet. The tactics of the Hebrew leader are simple but effective. A large force is sent round to the further side of the encampment with orders to close in on the sleeping host at a given signal: while Abram and the rest of the men prepare to attack in front. The eager listeners, convinced that their antagonists are unprepared, creep forward. The signal is given, and the Babylonish warriors. start to their feet to find the sword of the stranger busy in their midst. They rush to their weapons, but are confronted by a forest of spears, and the shafts from three hundred bows fall like winged hail among the startled throng. The spoils of seven hard battles are at once forsaken. Safety is the one thing thought of, and safety rests only in a rapid flight. Right valiantly are those trained servants of the

terrible are the death-dealing swords of Aner and Eshcol, the warlike chiefs of Hebron.

The enemy now rush to the further side of the camp, but are met by the other half of the attacking force, and driven back with great slaughter.

Grown desperate at last, Chedorlaomer calls on his men to follow him, and with one last effort they burst through the encircling line of their assailants and dash across the plain. With fired hearts and dripping swords the little band pursues them, and not until the Hebrew quivers are empty, and the aliens scattered in headlong flight beyond Damascus, does the patriarch rest from the work of vengeance, and lead back his men, tired but triumphant, to cheer the hearts of the captives they have saved.

HORACE GROSER.

FIFTEEN MINUTES A DAY.

WHY

66

HY is it that we consider things settled when we have left school, and education as rounded and completed a bundle as our graduation-diploma, that has been neatly rolled up and tastily tied with blue and pink or white ribbon? "We do not," one may say, and yet the life may give the lie to the mouth. The studies of school are dropped. We exchange history for the city daily; mineralogy, for hammer and nails; languages, for trade-talk over a counter. We can't help that," is the reply. "We have something else than books to be busy about now, and it is of a very practical nature. To hoe corn for a living-that is and must be my botany." Yes, and to eat corn is about the only physiology some people have anything to do with. But the plea inferred here is that of "no time." Can we not find a bit of time? The busiest have time somewhere. Fifteen minutes a day we plead for, or about two hours a week. We have famous instances of such minute-men in study. Burritt, studying as he stands at the smithy-bellows; Webster, committing to memory Pope's "Essay on Man" while working in a saw-mill one winter; Kirke White, looking into his Greek Grammar on his travels to and from office; Whittier, stealing looks at a pocket-Shakespeare while working in the fields.

There is time certainly for the mastery of a single book each winter and each summer. One book! How its reading may stretch the horizon of one's thinking! We can recall books that have made an epoch in our education. Such men as John Stuart Mill and Carlyle have been large debtors to a single book. When Walter Scott was young, he read Percy's Reliques. It gave him an impulse like the sending of an arrow out of a bow. What person said that we must look out for the people made by one book?

-can anyone

One grand, noble book read, understood, appreciated, turned into life, made over into the thinker and the doer,afford to despise it? And can anyone afford to slight the humble minute-foot-path leading to this result? Fifteen minutes a day! If we take a lower result of study than character, that of happiness, the man whose botany now is to hoe corn, can so continue his botanical studies at odd moments as to turn the dingy old field he cultivates at the back of the barn into a section of Eden! And if we take a lower result than that of any æsthetic pleasure, namely, physical comfort, the corn-eater can easily study far enough into hygiene to save the furnace-touch of dyspepsia coming after dinner, and can make corn-eating "a joy for ever!"

REV. E. A. RAND.

ORD MACAULAY, when a young man, was visiting Rome, and one night went to see the Coliseum by moonlight. While alone under the dark arches, where it is as black as night, all of a sudden a man in a large cloak brushed past him rather rudely, as Macaulay thought, and passed on.

Macaulay's first impulse was to clap his hand to his watch pocket; and, sure enough, his watch was not there. He looked brushed past him, and, peering into the darkness, could just after the man, who he doubted not had stolen his watch as he distinguish the outline of a figure moving away.

He rushed after him, overtook him, and, seizing him by the collar, demanded his watch. Macaulay could speak very little Italian, and understood none when spoken, so he was obliged to limit his attack on the thief to a violent shaking of him by the collar, and an angry repetition of the demand, "Orologio! Orologio!" ("Watch! watch!") The man just attacked poured forth a torrent of rapidly-spoken words, of which Macaulay understood not a syllable; but once again administered a severe shaking, stamping his foot angrily on the ground, and again vociferating, "Orologio! Orologio!" whereupon the detected thief drew forth the watch and handed it to the captor.

Macaulay, satisfied with his prowess in having thus recaptured his property, and not caring for the trouble of pursuing the matter any further, turned on his heel as he pocketed the watch, and saw nothing more of the man. But when he turned to his apartment at night his landlady met him at the door, holding out something in her hand, saying, "Oh, sir, you left your watch on the table, so I thought it better to take care of it; here it is." "Good gracious! what is it then, what is the meaning of it?" stammered Macaulay, drawing from his pocket the watch he had so gallantly recovered in the Coliseum. It was a watch he had never seen before!

He, Macaulay, had been the thief. The poor man he had so violently attacked and apostrophised in the darkness and solitude of the Coliseum arches had been terrified into surrendering his own watch to the ruffian, who, as he conceived, had pursued him to rob him. The next morning, Macaulay, not a little crestfallen, hastened to the office of the questor with the watch, and told his story. "Ah! I see, said the questor; you had better leave the watch. I will make your excuses to the owner of it; he has already been here to denounce you."

66

ALWAYS A RIVER TO CROSS.
THERE'S always a river to cross;

If there's anything good to win,
Any rich prize to take;
Yonder's the fruit we crave;
Yonder the charming scene;

But deep and wide, with a troubled tide,

Is the river that lies between.

For the treasures of precious worth
We must patiently dig and dive;
For the places we long to fill

We must push, and struggle, and drive;
And always and everywhere
We'll find in our onward course,
Thorns for the feet, and trials to meet,
And a difficult river to cross.

The rougher the way we take,
The stouter the heart and the nerve;
The stones in our path we break,
Nor e'er from our impulse swerve;
For the glory we hope to win
Our labours we count no loss;

'Tis folly to pause and murmur because
Of the river we have to cross.
So, ready to do and to dare,
Should we in our places stand,
Fulfilling the Master's will,
Fulfilling the soul's demand;
For though as the mountains high
The billows may rear and toss,

They'll not overwhelm if the Lord's at the helm
When the difficult river we cross!

JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

OUR PRIZE COMPETITION PAPERS.

HOW I SPENT MY WHITSUN HOLIDAYS.

66

(Senior Prize.)

HOLIDAY on the tramp! "A queer sort of holiday," some may say. But when, like my friend and self, some have but a few days' leisure at command and no very substantial "balance of assets over liabilities" at command, I question whether a more reasonable or enjoyable way of spending a holiday can be found. Fully persuaded of the common-sense of our resolution, on the first day of our vacation we started on a short test journey in the direction of that interesting neighbourhood which lies between Liskeard and the far-famed Cheesewring Pile. From the quaint old borough town, through its pleasant suburban retreats, on to Tremor Coombe, by fair up and down hill walking-ground, and from the interesting surroundings of the scattered village, by the rough miners' pathfields, over the brow of the hill, and down again into Crow's Nest Valley, we at length reached the barren moor, dotted with engine-houses and mine-stacks, around which rose vast heaps of rubbish brought from the mole-like workings fathoms deep below. There we were in the midst of the world-renowned Caradon mining district, whose mineral wealth, by dint of the laborious struggles of the hardy miners, and the wonderful gigantic machinery above and below, the outcome of ages of invention, had gone to enrich all the nations, and raise men, by almost incredibly rapid strides, from the deepest poverty to the greatest affluence. A passing inspection of the many wondrously strange and interesting things there to be met with, and then we were away to fresh scenes and pastures new.

Half an hour's sharp walking, and that ancient cromlech, said to be one of the most curious and of the greatest magnitude in the kingdom, yclept Trethevey Stone, came into view "A little house, raysed of mightie stones, on a little hill, within a field." We stopped but to renew an acquaintance of some five years' standing with this fine monument of human labour, to pass our diminutive thumbs through the artificial hole in the roof slab, into which, the weird old legend says, their brother giant thumb was placed when the unwieldy mass was raised to its lofty position, and to hold a moment's imaginary converse with the illustrious dead below, who had lain beneath that primitive, unwrought sarcophagus some two thousand years or so; and were soon threading, in Indian file, our way down the narrow paved lane behind it, and as our footsteps fell upon the stone floor they seemed to re-echo in our thoughts remembrances of the noble old Romans, of whose grand, persevering spirit and industry, and the civilisation which followed in their train, the ancient lane at such times was a speaking witness.

St. Cleer Well-whose cross and well had been restored to a mediæval appearance, and had thereby lost that romantic beauty which its former half-ruined state, overgrown with bushes and ivy, had given it--lay in our road, while the church of St. Clare stood conveniently by.

Twilight was fast approaching ere we ended our inspection of the last of our curiosities, and as we had before us our homeward journey and a far more formidable one on the morrow, it behoved us to be up and away. A brisk hour's march and we were at home, and, following for the nonce the advice contained in that oft-repeated homily, "Early to bed and early to rise," soon nestling between the blankets and far away in dreamland, where crosses, wells, and cromlechs blended together in endless confusion.

Up betimes, we sped away on the wings of the following morning, and were set down by our throbbing, snorting steed amidst the noise and bustle at the Milbay station of "the western metropolis" almost before we were wide awake. Though quite alive to the charming locality which Plymouth justly boasts, intent upon seeing sights possessing the great charm of novelty, we immediately left the "pride of the west at our back, and hastened to the Admiral's Hard at Stonehouse to be ferried across the placid Hamoaze and landed at Cremyll. By our morning's exertions we had already accomplished a remarkable travelling feat. We had

left Cornwall, entered Devon, and were back again in the country of Tre, Pol, and Pen, ere the minute-hands of our watches had twice gone their accustomed rounds.

Buckling to manfully, we put our best feet forward, and commenced our good thirty-mile walk down the Cornish coast to Looe toilsome, up-hill work at the outset, but the glimpse of the splendid lawn and charming surroundings of Mount Edgcumbe enervated us and put to flight all cowardly thoughts. Journeying with us were dark-uniformed, red-striped volunteers, and the crack, crack of rifles ahead told us that our gallant defenders were in the midst of their annual shooting competition. As the road wended round the brow of the hill we came upon the company, and caught sight of the marksmen rifle, the whistle of the bullet through the air, and the rush then prone upon the earth at that range. The crack of the and thud as it struck the target, followed us up the hill until we reached Maker Church, and strolled into the quiet churchyard to see the graves of the Mount Edgcumbe family, and the coloured windows of the sacred edifice. Simplicity marked the monuments raised to the memory of the titled gentry, and bright flowers, emblems of the brighter life entered upon by the departed, were profusely scattered over the graves. inevitably follow such a visit, we gained the highway again, Ruminating over the thoughts that unconsciously but

and struck across the fields to Cawsand and Kingsand. Plymouth Sound, with its varied and numerous inhabitant craft, the Breakwater, and Cawsand Bay alive with fishing smacks, were spread out before us in glorious array of bright sunshine. Carefully picking our way down the precipitous path to these old-world fishing villages, fearing a sudden descent down someone's chimney, and an abrupt introduction to the owners thereof, we made for the shingly beach. Rumours had reached us of the questionable practices of the old inhabitants in the smuggling days, and really it seemed to us as if nature had especially designed the villages for the carrying on therein of those nefarious practices.

After sauntering awhile upon the beach, we entered the military road to the fort. For some five miles or more our way now lay right along the cliffs overlooking Whitsand Bay. "The the sea, sea, the open sea,

The pure, the fresh, the ever free,"

lay stretched out before us to the horizon, one grandly beautiful space of undulating deep blue waves; nothing but bird and sail, sea or sky was visible; and these were our only companions for an hour or more; and how we enjoyed their company! Nearing Tregantle Fort, we bid adieu to the glorious seascape, made a wide detour to the right, and found our course lay now through green lanes and farmyard scenes. We gradually lost the roar of the waves upon the shore and as gradually it came back to us we neared Portwrinkle, and as soon we were looking down upon the quaint picture of the white cottages of the fishermen, the rugged cliffs, and the wash of the sea far below, often sketched con amore by the western artist. Downderry, Seaton Beach, Murrayton, and Plaidy Beach saw us pass them in order, and ere the shades of night had fallen we had reached Looe, and, comfortably ensconced at the fireside, partaking of the evening meal, walked o'er again in imagination the journey of the day.

Next day Looe was gay with banners and bunting-at least so said the papers. It was Regatta Day, and the inhabitants with commendable public spirit had festooned the streets with flags. We were spectators at the various races, and then returned to the town to admire its new Guildhall, its ancient hostelry, "The Jolly Sailors "--to wander up and down the quay watching the discharge of cargoes from the trading vessels, and at last to make our way out to Hannaford Beach. Here we had an uninterrupted view of that life-saving beacon, the Eddystone Lighthouse, whilst in front of us lay Looe Island, with its pretty surroundings. The sun was gradually departing for the purpose of giving a call to our friends at the Antipodes; but, before leaving, it saw fit to throw a brilliant light over the horizon, and the little craft that seemingly lay just where sea and sky met was, by its fairy-like wand, changed to a golden barque, and its steersman to a being of ethereal light and beauty.

To Looe again, and from thence by rail up the pleasant valley to Moorswater, and a few minutes' walk brought us home once more.

The ill-effects of our holiday on the tramp soon passed away, but the pleasing recollection it engendered will ever remain enshrined in our memories. HUGH STRONG (20).

PRIZE BALLAD.

(Intermediate Division.)

THE LOSS OF THE "MAID OF ROCHESTER." AST o'er the broad Atlantic, in the merry month of May, The good ship Maid of Rochester sped on her outward

way,

Right well the sturdy masts were bent before the freshening wind,

But all on board were sad with thoughts of loved ones left behind.

That morn they left their pleasant homes, the friends that they loved best,

Two hundred emigrants they sailed towards the glowing West; The same fresh breeze that wafted them on to the far-off shore, Wafted them memories of those whom they might see no more. The youth was there in all his strength, the old man with his stick,

The widow and the fatherless, the helpless and the sick,

The maiden with her golden locks, the mother worn with care, The poor, the rich, the good and bad, of all estates were there.

Their friends had bade farewell with tears, and watched them with a sigh,

Then turned and silently had prayed to the great God on high; For though the skies were fair around, yet far upon the lee, The stormy clouds were gathering fast over the rolling sea.

The sun went down in darkness and the stars shed forth no light,

The Captain saw the danger, and prepared him for the fight. "Reef the topsails! was the order quickly given and obeyed, Each seaman did his duty well, and not a word was said.

The wind grew strong and stronger, till it blew a hurricane, And fast the ship was driven back to England's shores again; The sea came washing o'er the deck, and all on board grew pale

As they saw the waves run mountains high and heard the stormy gale.

And onward and still onward at a fearful rate they sped,
And none knew in the darkness then what perils were ahead:
And all hearts sank with terror as they felt the sudden shock,
As the good ship struck with awful force upon a sunken rock.
The stalwart masts fell overboard, the boats were washed

At length contented with his spoil, the storm-king took his flight,

The troubled billows ceased to rage at the first approach of light;

The sun shed forth his cheering rays, and England woke to life,

But little knew the night's sad wreck, the peril and the strife.

Four

Death's icy clutch had clasped them, and within its iron hold corpses on the shattered barque lay motionless and cold, They passed away for ever to a better land above, To a home of peace and quietness, to a land of light and love. In a little Cornish village, within the churchyard ground, The buttercup and daisy bloom upon a new-made mound, And round about the grave-stone twine the ivy leaves so green, While between its creeping clusters these sacred words are seen, "Rest in peace!" The last sad token, and these solemn words alone, Roughly carven by the fishers upon the small white stone, Mark the spot where those four sailors rest beneath their native soil, Sleep the sleep that knows no waking, free from every care and toil.

Oh, let us within our homes, whene'er the storm winds howl around,

When the quivering poplars tremble, and the snow is on the
ground,
When we hear the angry tumult of the billows surging free,
Lift a prayer for those in danger, to the Ruler of the sea.
SYDNEY C. LEWIS (16).

E

N the city of Rome there stands a pillar, which, for many long long years, was lying almost buried in the No earth. Princes had tried to raise it, but in vain. workman could do it. In the year 1584 the Pope of that time sent a builder to make one more trial. It was no easy matter to free the great pillar from the deep soil in which it had sunk, and then to drag so huge a size and weight of stone to the place where it was to stand. When this was done, Fontana, the builder, asked the Pope to fix a day for raising it. The Pope did so, and said he would be there with all his court, and that this would bring out all the people of the city.

"That is what I dread," said Fontana; "for if they shout and make a noise it may startle some of the men in the midst of their work, and my voice will not be heard."

"Never fear," said the Pope, "I will take care of that." He wrote an edict, that anyone should be put to death who dared to utter a sound while the work of raising the great pillar went on. This edict was posted up all over the city. On the fixed day Fontana mounted the high scaffold, from which he was to direct the men by means of bells and flags as it seemed to be paved with heads, all still as death, and as if signals. The whole space of a wide square was full of people; spellbound. At last the signal was given, and the pillar began to rise. Cables and ropes strained and creaked. Up slowly Pope leaned forward, the people held their breath-one moment rose the giant block of stone. Fontana waved his flags, the more, and the work would be done! All at once a crack was heard. The heavy mass would not move again, and soon it began to sink, for the ropes did not bear upon it. Fontana was at a loss, with a sense of despair in his soul; but a shout was heard from amidst the crowd, "Water! Water! Wet the ropes!" This was soon done. The slack hempen rope shrunk -once more each man bent down for a back tight to its place last pull with right good will. The pillar was set up for the gaze of the world then and for ages yet to come. He who spoke the word in season was a poor sailor, who had long known the use of ropes made of hemp, and, in spite of his good service, he was taken bound before the Pope, and all men stood in fear for his life, as the law had been broken. Fortunately, the Pope was not then in a cruel mood, and instead of punishing the man he gave him a reward.

OUR YOUNG AUTHOR'S PAGE.

THE STRIFE AND THE REWARD.

N the dusky night, arrayed all in white,
My angel stood at my side,

And he questioned me, and I questioned him,
Of the past, the present, the future dim,
And of what should me betide.

For the future was still before me spread,
A blank, blank page for me to fill:

Ah! how will that page look when I lie dead?
Well filled and fair?-or marred and ill?

And he read all my heart, and the great good plan,
The design of beauty to fill my page,

My yearnings to better the race of man, And help to hasten the golden age,

And he led me away to a quiet place,

And showed me the life that I fain would lead, The life that a great, great man did lead. For the glory of God, the good of his race

And I marked the patience, the courage, the hope,
The one great purpose adhered to through life,
Which raised him above the pitiful strife
That besieges all those who with men would cope.
And the more he did for the good of the world,

The more the world jeered and railed on him ;
The higher he climbed, the more cruel and grim
Were the satires and curses around him hurled.
And then as he mounted the highest stage

Where a loyal servant may take his stand,
Who reveres his sovereign, and loves his land,
More wildly the tempest seemed to rage.
He lay a-dying, and all around

The clamour of tongues rose fierce and high,
Bearing to heaven the awful cry:

"Thou art weighed in the balance, and wanting found!" I could bear it no longer, I turned my eyes,

To banish that sight, and to hide my tears;
And I threw myself down and stopped my ears,
For they maddened me, those atrocious cries!
"Oh, ungrateful land! who shall labour for thee?
"Twere better, 'twere better, to live and die
In quiet, afar from man's callous eye,
That in everything good some evil will see!"
But my angel laid, smiling, his hand on me,
And he pointed me up,-beyond,-above,-
And the veil was rent from the land of love,
And a wondrous sight I was given to see!-
For the man upon whom the earth shouted "Shame!"
I beheld him stand at the gates of gold,
But, before he could knock, the gates unrolled,
And a myriad of angels to meet him came.
And I heard, as the golden gate was won,
That they welcomed him in a glorious strain,
Till the vaults of heaven they rang again-
"Thou faithful servant,-well done!-well done!"
Then I turned to my work with its bitter leaven,
And smiled on my angel with tearless eye-
For the verdict of earth I dare defy,

If I, too, may win the "well done" of heaven!
M. L. TYLER.

INTRODUCTION FOR A PHOTOGRAPHIC

ALBUM.

UST as a child preserves each darling treasure,
And proudly sets them out for infant praise,
See here within my album I have gathered
Loved shadows of the friends of former days,
With pleasing fancies to regale an hour-
To raise sweet mem'ries by their magic power.

ACCOUNT OF A PICNIC.

PRIZE in the SENIOR DIVISION has been gained by CERTIFICATES are awarded to ALICE DENNETT (Sutton)= EMILY C. RUNDLE (Birmingham); ALICE M. AUSTEN (Reading); PATTIE E. VARNAM (Leicester); ALICE BACOT (Clapton).

THUGH W. STRONG (20), Fore-street, Liskeard, Cornwall.

We HONOURABLY MENTION H. CLARA CARLISLE, KATE DODD, HELEN B. DEANE, LUCY E. RATCLIFFE, LIZZIE KING, JOHN BURGESS, MARY NICHOLSON.

In the INTERMEDIATE DIVISION we award the PRIZE to MARSHALL LANG (14), Woodlands-terrace, Glasgow.

Of nearly equal merit was the paper by AUG. H. SCALES, Brompton Cemetery, S.W.

A CERTIFICATE has been awarded to him, as also to ANNIE E. POTTER (Coggeshall); and AMY S. ASLIN (Ripon). We HONOURABLY MENTION KATE WELLINGS, MARY E. SIMPSON, ALICE F. CHANEY, JOHN R. FRYAR, and JANE F. PECK. In the JUNIOR DIVISION the PRIZE has been gained by ALICE WILHELMINA VAN DER MEULEN (12), Sussex House, 121, Graham-road, Dalston.

We award CERTIFICATES to AGNES ARCHIBALD, Alston, Lancashire; ANNIE FRYAR, Knaresboro'; ETHEL M. LEES, Aberfeldy, Perthshire; CLARA W. DENNIS, Russell House School, High Barnet.

We HONOURABLY MENTION ALEIDA VAN DER MEULEN, BEATRICE MACINTOSH, GEO. H. CONGDON, WILLIAM WARNE, and ARTHUR MIDDLEBROOK.

MY FAVOURITE WATERING-PLACE.

IN the SENIOR DIVISION we have awarded the PRIZE to KATE

DODD (19), Harper-road, Willenhall, Staffordshire. CERTIFICATES are gained by HUGH W. STRONG (Liskeard ); AMY E. ALDER (Hatton-garden); EMILY C. RUNDLE (Birmingham). The composition of the Papers sent in by the foregoing competitors was excellent.

We HONOURABLY MENTION JAMES BLOSSOM, HELENA DEANE, and ELIZA A. EDWARDS.

In the INTERMEDIATE DIVISION the Prize has been won by JAMES E. ARCHIBALD (154), College Villas, Alston, near Preston. We award CERTIFICATES to WILLIAM F. TUPMAN (Bristol); KATE WELLINGS (Croydon); and EDITH MILLAR, Uxbridge. We HONOURABLY MENTION SAMUEL T. SHAPCOTT.

In the JUNIOR DIVISION no paper has proved worthy of a Prize.

We HONOURABLY MENTION ETHEL MARIE LEES (Aberfeldy); and ALEIDA VAN DER Meulen (Dalston).