Then someone bending over him said, "He came from heaven," Now someone, stooping above him, said, "He has gone to heaven." The blessed, unfaltering faith that welcomed him now bade him godspeed, just as loving and trusting as ever, one unchanging thing in this world of change.

So the baby had walked in a little circle after all, as all men, lost in a great wilderness, are said always to do.

As was written thousands of years ago: "The dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him in the ark."

He felt weary now, as he was tired then. By and by, having then for the first time opened his eyes, now for the last time he closed them. And so, as one who in the gathering darkness retraces his steps by a halfremembered path, much in the same way as he had come into this world he went out of it.

Silence. Light.

R. J. Burdette.

From "Chimes From a Jester's Bells," copyright 1897.
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. I am not bound to succeed, but I am bound to live up to what light I have. I must stand with anybody that stands right; stand with him while he is right, and part with him when he goes wrong.

Abraham Lincoln.

THE BREAKING PLOW

I am the plow that turns the sod
That has lain for a thousand years;
Where the prairie's wind-tossed flowers nod
And the wolf her wild cub rears,
I come, and in my wake, like rain,
Is scattered the golden seed;
I change the leagues of lonely plain
To fruitful gardens and fields of grain
For men and their hungry breed.

I greet the earth in its rosy morn,
I am first to stir the soil,

I bring the glory of wheat and corn
For the crowning of those who toil;
I am civilization's seal and sign

Yea, I am the mighty pen

That writes the sod with a pledge divine,
A promise to pay with bread and wine
For the sweat of honest men.

I am the end of things that were,
And the birth of things to be,
My coming makes the earth to stir
With a new and strange decree;
After its slumbers, deep and long,
I waken the drowsy sod,

And sow my furrow with lifts of song

To gladden the heart of the mighty throng Slow feeling the way to God.

A thousand summers the prairie rose
Has gladdened the hermit bee,
A thousand winters the drifting snows
Have whitened the grassy sea;
Before me curls the wavering smoke
Of the Indian's smoldering fire,
Behind me rise-was it God who spoke?-
At the toil-enchanted hammer's stroke,
The town and the glittering spire.

I give the soil to the one who does,
For the joy of him and his,

I rouse the slumbering world that was
To the diligent world that is;
Oh, seer with vision that looks away
A thousand years from now,

The marvelous nation your eyes survey,
Was born of the purpose that here, today,
Is guiding the breaking plow.

By permission.

Nixon Waterman.

JUDGE NOT

In men whom men condemn as ill,

I find so much of goodness still;
In men whom men pronounce divine,
I find so much of sin and blot,

I hesitate to draw a line

Between the two, where God has not.
Joaquin Miller.

By permission.

CHILDE HAROLD'S ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN

It was in description and meditation that Byron excelled. (Yet). His descriptions, great as was their intrinsic merit, derived their principal interest from the feeling which always mingled with them. He was himself the beginning, the middle and the end of all his own poetry, the hero of every tale, the chief object in every landscape. Harold, Lara, Manfred and a crowd of other characters were universally considered merely as loose incognitos of Byron; and there is every reason to believe that he meant them to be so considered. The wonders of the outer world, the Tagus with the mighty fleets of England riding on its bosom, the towers of Cintra overhanging the shaggy forest of cork trees and willows, the glaring marble of Pentelicus, the banks of the Rhine, the glaciers of Clarens, the sweet lake of Leman, the dell of Egeria, with its summer birds and rustling lizards, the shapeless ruins of Rome overgrown with ivy and wallflowers, the stars, the sea, the mountains, all were mere accessories, the background to one dark and melancholy figure.-Macaulay.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields
Are not a spoil for him-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him to earth again-there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts-not so thou
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.