Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe

me, there's a way!

Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this Formidable clear,

Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor, past Greve,

And there lay them safe and sound;

And if one ship misbehave—

Keel so much as grate the ground

Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head!” cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.

"Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron !"

cried its chief.

Captains give the sailor place!

He is Admiral, in brief.

Still the north-wind, by God's grace.

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock.

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the

And just as Hervé Riel halloos "Anchor!"-sure as fate, Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm;

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Greve:

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each captain's counte

nance!

Outburst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel,"

As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard;
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not

Damfreville.

Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but

a run?

Since 'tis ask and have I may

Since the others go ashore

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Bello Aurore!"

That he asked and that he got-nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost;

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing smack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England

bore the bell.

Go to Paris; rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank;

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé

So, for better and for worse,

Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle

Aurore.

JAMIE.

ROBERT BROWNING.

I

HARDLY know how to begin what I've started out to tell,

Without saying many things that have nothing at all to do

With the thing I ought to say-for, friends, as you know well,

A woman can't say right out what she means, and I'm all a woman, you know.

I'm not very good at dates, and it was-let me see, let

me see

It was let me think how long! Ah, well, 'twas

years ago,

When I was only forty and John was forty-three,

And the winter was in, and for many years there had not been such a snow.

You see the evening had come; I put a log on the fire, The flames danced up and shone on the tins, hanging

all scoured bright,

While the room in the corners was dusky, like a day in the woods when higher

Than shadows reach the tall trees spread their hands to keep out the light,

I took up my knitting, a warm blue sock for John, and rounded the heel,

As I sat in the pleasant firelight, my needles busy and stout,

Shining like thoughts of young days when we're old— for I love to feel

That the heart has room forever for the days the world wore out.

John he was resting before me, his face turned opposite mine,

And every once in a while I'd look and find him deep in thought,

Till I grew thoughtful too-you know a thought on one soul can't shine

Unless it reflects on another the light its memory's caught.

I looked and looked, and saw him frown; and what did I do instead?

Why a big tear rolled down my cheek and hid away in the soft blue yarn;

For I knew that I thought as he did, of Jamie, our boy, who fled

Five years ago from father and me, and took that box from the barn,

And ran away with a wild, wild set of cronies from

the town

Ah, when John knew it he cursed him deep,

Saying, "Martha, hear!

He is no son of mine, and if I meet him I'll strike him down!"