ward as fast as their weapons let them, toward the Dover shore. And not with them alone. From many a mile inland come down women and children, and aged folk in wagons, to join their feeble shouts, and prayers which are not feeble, to that great cry of mingled faith and fear which ascends to the throne of God from the spectators of Britain's Salamis.

A solemn day that Sabbath must have been in country and in town. Many a light hearted coward, doubtless, who had scoffed (as many did) at the notion of the Armada's coming, because he dare not face the thought, gave himself up to abject fear, as he now plainly saw and heard that of which before he would not be persuaded. Many a brave man, too, as he knelt beside his wife and daughters, felt his heart sink at the thought of what those beloved ones might be enduring a few short days hence, from a profligate and fanatical soldiery, or from the more deliberate fiendishness of the Inquisition. The massacre of St. Bartholomew, the fires of Smithfield, the immolation of the Moors, the extermination of the West Indians, the fantastic horrors of the Piedmontese persecution, these were the spectres that flitted before the eyes of every English

man.

So there, the livelong Sabbath day before the little high walled town and the long range of yellow sandhills, lie those two mighty armaments, scowling at each other, hardly out of gunshot.

to

When Monday's sun rises on the quaint old castle and muddy dykes of Gravelines town, the thunder of the cannon recommences, and is not hushed till night. Drake can hang coolly enough in the rear plunder when he thinks fit; but when the battle needs it, none can fight more fiercely, among the foremost; and there is need now, if ever. That Armada must never be allowed to reform. If it does, its left wing may yet keep the English at bay, while its right drives off the blockading Hollanders from Dunkirk port, and sets Parma and his flotilla free to join them and to sail in doubled strength across to the mouth of Thames. So Drake has weighed anchor, and is away up Channel with all his squadron, the moment that he saw the Spanish fleet come up, and ere the ships under Fenton, Beeston, Cross, Ryman, and Lord Southwell can join them, has been worrying the Spaniards for two full hours into confusion worse confounded.

Soon, on the southwest horizon, loom up, larger and larger, two mighty ships, and behind them sail on sail. As they near, a shout greets the Lord High Admiral, as his ship glides stately into the thickest of the fight.

Now, or never, must the mighty struggle be ended. They were worried before, they must be rended in pieces now. In rushes ship after ship, to smash her broadsides through and through the wooden castles, sometimes not a pike's length asunder, and then out again to reload, and give place meanwhile to another. The smaller are fighting with all sails set; the few larger,

on.

who, once in, are careless about coming out again, fight with topsails loose, and their main and foreyards close down on deck, to prevent being boarded. The duke, Oquenda, and Recalde, having with much ado got clear of the shallows, bear the brunt of the fight to seaward; but in vain. The day goes against them more and more as it runs The great San Philip is battered into a wreck; her masts are gone by the board. The San Matthew comes up to take the mastiffs off the fainting bull, and finds them fastened on him instead; but the Evangelist, though smaller, is stouter than the Deacon, and of all the shot poured into him, not twenty "lackt him thorough." His masts are tottering; but sink or strike he will not.

Half an hour has passed of wild noise and fury. Three times has the Vengeance, as a dolphin might, sailed clean round and round the Sta. Catharina, pouring in broadside after broadside, till the guns are leaping to the deck-beams with their own heat, and the Spaniard's sides are slit and spotted in a hundred places. Yet so high has been his fire in return, and so strong the deck defences of the Vengeance, that a few spars broken, and two or three men wounded by musketry, are all the loss. But still the Spaniard endures, magnificent as ever; it is the battle of the thresher and the whale, the end is certain, but the work is long.

A puff of wind clears away the sulphurous veil for a moment. The sea is clear of ships toward the land; the Spanish fleet are moving again up Channel, Medina bringing up the rear; only some two miles to their right hand, the vast hull of the San Philip is drifting up the shore with the tide, and somewhat nearer, the San Mat thew is hard at work at her pumps. But long ere the sun had set, comes down the darkness of a thunder-storm, attracted to that vast mass of sulphur-smoke which cloaks the sea for many a mile; and heaven's artillery above makes answer to man's below.

Next morning the sun rises on a clear sky, with a strong west-northwest breeze, and all hearts are asking what the day will bring forth. They are long past Dunkirk now; the German Ocean is opening before them. The Spaniards, sorely battered and lessened in numbers, have, during the night, regained some sort of order. The English hang on their skirts a mile or two behind. They have no ammunition, and must wait for more.

Suddenly there is a stir in the Spanish fleet. Medina and the rearmost ships turn upon the English. What can it mean? Will they offer battle once more? If so, it were best to get out of their way, for we have nothing wherewith to fight them. So the English lie close to the wind. They will let them pass, and return to their old tactic of following and harassing.

There was silence for a few minutes throughout the English fleet; and then cheer upon cheer of triumph rent the skies. It was over! The Spaniard had refused

And bow to this ruler of high degree.

He has a smile, oh, like the sun,

And his face is crowned and bland; His bright eyes twinkle and glow with fun,

As the children kiss his hand;
And everything toothsome, melting sweet,
He scatters freely before their feet.

But woe! for the children who follow him,
With loving praise and laughter,
For he is a monster, ugly and grim,

That they go running after;

And when they get well into the chase,
He lifts his mask and shows his face.

Quoth she: "Oh, how I hate this hat! I hate this gown and cape!

I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape!

The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair;

The little girl next door wears blue. O dear, if I could dare,

I know what I should like to do!" (The words were whispered low,

Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below.)

Calmly reading in the parlor sat the good aunts, Faith and Peace,

Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece.

All their prudent, humble teaching wilfully she cast aside,

And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride,

She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down,

And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown!

"Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth-day meeting time has come:

Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home." 'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little maidGliding down the dark old stairway-hoped their notice to evade,

Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door.

Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!

Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy; And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly. But "tuck-tuck!" chirped the sparrows at the little maiden's side;

And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn door opened wide, Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck,

Was to her affrighted fancy like "a tuck!" "a tuck! "a tuck!"

In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity,

While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see.

How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air,

And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care.

Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended,

Behind her two good aunties her homeward way she wended!

The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms.

And deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring charms

Yes, to the dregs bad drained them, and only this to find:

All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the

PERE

VIII.

HER THOUGHTS.

BY SADIE BAttershall.

ERHAPS 'twas the sound of the music That thrilled through the scented air; Perhaps 'twas the spell of the moonlight That fell o'er my lady fair;

But somehow the moon or the music
Or the mem'ry of our waltz
Made me feel-as we stood together-
Like a villain deep and false.
For Madge had a way of believing
That all men were good and true;
And a pair of eyes like sunlit skies,

That could look a fellow through.

Her face had grown pensive and thoughtful,
Her eyes took a deeper hue
As the dear little head bent lower.
Pray, what was there left to do

But place my arm round the slender waist,
And say, with the voice of love:

Now, tell me, sweet, while I hold you close,

Just what you are thinking of?"

She raised her beautiful eyes to mine,
This winsome, lovable girl,
And said: "I was only wondering
If my hair was out of curl."

A

IX.

THE FIDDLER OF KE-BO.

BY BRUMMELL JONES.

NEW order of things had come about in Ke-bo. From the day the evangelist with his Sankey and organ had descended upon that godless neighborhood dances and frolics had been on the wane. Sim Serles, Ke-bo's old fiddler, whose music had been for so many years its inspiration, had gradually gone out of fashion. He who had been greeted with cries of delight was now looked at askance and passed by in silence. Instead of jigs and reels, Ke-bo now had hymns and prayers. The organ, the meeting house, and the school now took the place of Sim's fiddle, the Saturday night revel, and the Sunday carouse at the crossroads. Even his standby, Bob Bradley, had gone over, and was now known as Brother Bradley.

When the innovation of the evangelist was well under way in Ke-bo proper, the old fiddler placed himself at the head of the down-the-creekers," for the fellows down the creek were the last to yield. But, one by one, they fell under the new influence and he was left alone. The fiddle hung in silence over the fireplace.

One Sunday evening he was passing by the meeting-house. It was dark; no one could see him; he would just peep in at the window. He not only had never been inside the school or meeting house, but he had not even looked inside of them. The preacher was sitting in the pulpit, a young

woman was playing on the organ, and the congregation-his old friends and comrades, dressed in their Sunday clotheswere singing. For a long time he was lost in what he saw, but at length he turned away with a scowl on his face. He was not scowling at the preacher or the congregation, but at the organ. Walking slowly

home to his cabin in the woods, he sat down before the fire and gazed long and earnestly into the glowing coals.

Sim Serles had been a weak, trifling, reckless man. There was within him an innate sense of vice, and he expressed it through his fiddle. He threw into his jigs and reels that which crazed men and women. When on his way to a dance he would place his fiddle to his mouth, whisper to it, leer out into the darkness, and chuckle. When a cotillon had ended he chuckled again.

But to-night the expression upon his face was grave. The stolen look into the meeting-house had affected him. In the glowing coals before him he saw a circle of low mountains with their scrub foliage and barren rocks, bordering a green valley. In an old house, moss-covered and wind-shaken, sat a sad-faced woman spinning flax at a jenny. Across the threshold lay an idle boy basking in the rays of sunshine that filtered through the branches of a broad locust. As the woman spun she sang. He saw, a few yards away from the house, the mill with its big wheel pouring and dipping, dipping and pouring, great sluices of water. A man comes to the door of the mill, smiles, and nods to the woman, glances up at the sun, and disappears. The boy turns lazily, and looks at the woman, who smiles and nods in return. She drops ber head-the foot upon the treadle is still for a moment-then the jenny and the song go on.

The fiddler's eyes are moist. He hums, stops, listens, hums again. He bears the splashing of the water, the rumble of the millstones and the whirr of the jenny, but the song, the song-it is like a far-off dream. Now he catches a note, listens, goes to the door, looks out into the wood, closes it gently. Tiptoeing back to the fireplace. he takes down his fiddle. Pressing it tenderly under his chin-soft and low

Have all lost their sweetness to me, His name yields the richest——”

There was silence at the Golden Gates. Sandalphon's hands let the flowers fall. Ariel, the swift-winged, stood pulsating and throbbing at his side, like a human heart, ready for the arrow flight. But the angel who stood at the outposts to signal when tear-drops of repentance fell gave no sign, for back to the sensitive ears of the fiddler came the puffing and blowing of the organ.

The spell was over and the scowl came upon his face again. The fiddle was jealous of the organ.

There are fashions even in religion, and revolutions against crime and wrong

doing always sweep back something that ought to be rescued. Of all the good that was wrought, and it was much; of all the souls that were saved, and they were many; in the redemption of Ke bo, old Sim's was lost. The organ, which had been the entering wedge into so many hearts, seared and embittered his forever.

X.

FAIR HELEN.

WISH I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Oh, that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea!

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,

And cursed the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms loved Helen dropt,
And died to succor me!

O think na that my heart was sair

When she dropped down and spak nae

mair!

I laid her down wi' mickle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare,
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair

Until the day I die!

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, "Haste and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my love died for me.

The boy looked in the old man's face, and all looked at the two.

"I'm glad, grandpa," the boy exclaimed, that both of us got through-We'll always fight together in the ranks of Company G,

And I'll look after you, grandpa, and you'll take care of me.

And so it was the man and boy fought in the ranks of blue,

A spectacle to nerve the weak and make the faithless true;

But Sixty Years, one mad day, fell and died without a moan

And Sixteen Years, bereft, but brave, fought through the war alone.

There at the column's head he rides, a colonel now, you know;

His years are fifty and his locks will not much whiter grow.

Yet by admiring comrades and by all who stand to see

He's best known as "the baby of vet'ran Company G."

The graves they go to decorate are all beloved, but who

Shall make complaint that he who was the youngest boy in blue

Kneels longest where the patriot bones of Sixty Years lie-

Him who was not too old to fight while young enough to die!

(Burying his face between his hands.)
Why, man." I quick replied, "I hope
You're not-" "A coward, general,
Would you say of me? For God's sake,
No! You know I am no coward
To fear a ball, or shrapnel shell;
But if it's cowardice to feel
Another's suffering and pain,–
Altho' that other be my foe-

Then, general, brand me Coward John.
I stood in mute surprise the while
He spoke with eagerness and force.
No one of all my men so brave
Had shown more courage on the field.
In all the thickest of the fray

John Kirklan stood and fought that day.
I could but wonder at his grief,
And ask'd, what lay beyond his strength,
Too terrible for him to bear?
“This, general, this: Permission give
For me to take some water there,'
Motioning with his battered thumb
To where the wounded Federals lay
Outside our breastwork, just in front-
"I can not bear their groans and cries
For water, water-just a sip
Of water!'-perishing, dying
For water, here within my reach.
Say quickly, general, Yes; ' and bid
Me go. I beg you grant me leave;
Their cries are more than I can bear."
He almost wept, so tremulous
His voice with sympathy and grief.
With quickening breath—which I controlled
In speech-I calmly said: "Kirklan,
You must know such recklessness would
Be almost sure of certain death,-
I doubt the right to grant your 'quest."
"'Tis but humane! I fear no risk!
O General Kershaw, speak the word

Heroic man! Have care! Look out!
There comes a shot and there's another,
And now a volley follows others—
Ah, John Kirklan! You've cast your die.
What, unhurt! He turns-his courage
Fails! He's coming back! I smile, Ah!"
(Perhaps with just a curl of scorn,
Expressive of the thought). "You're back!"
"General, may I my 'kerchief raise?

I fear the wounded boys they'll hurt!"
Oh, heaven! Could I the thought recall!
How insignificant I felt.

With shame I turn my head aside,
And with an air of nonchalance,
In tones I meant should be most gruff:
“No, Kirklan, no! No flag of truce
For this occasion must be used!"
Again, and still again, the parapet
He climbed, and to the sick and wounded
Lying there in death's embrace, with
Parched throats and quivering breath,
Like good Samaritan of old,

To each sick, suffering Unionist,
He water gave, and slacked their thirst.
With grateful hearts they recognized
His tender care; in trembling tones
And tearful eyes expressed their thanks.
And still John Kirklan went and came,
Till every wounded man had drunk
Enough his burning thirst to quench.