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If you your firing will withhold
Till daybreak,” cried the Frenchman bold,

We will the fort release
Into your hands, on promise sure
Our garrison shall pass secure

With all their arms."
The Austrian herald bowed assent;
Each party passed the night content,

Without alarms.

At dawn the Austrian rank and file
Drew up along the close aeiiie,

To see their brave foes pass.
How still the fort! No noise within;
No hurrying feet; no parting din;

All quiet as at mass. Slow the rusty hinges turn;

Slow the massive gates unfold; Then with aspect calm and stern, Bearing weight of arms untold,

Comes a single grenadier! As he marches past the van,

Wondering eyes are on him cast. “ Where is the garrison, my man?”

Cries the Austrian chief at last. Proudly rose the soldier's head, “I am the garrison,” he said. “Your name, your name?” the Austrians cry. “La Tour d'Auvergne,” comes in reply. “La Tour, La Tour," with three times three, “Hurrah! hurrah! we honor thee!"

Cheer on cheer
Burst from every Austrian heart;

And again,

Down the glen,
The ringing echoes start.
While the Colonel, bowing low,

Said in accents grave:
“I salute my gallant foe,
The bravest of the brave!”


Who was it, when he formed this Temple of Creation, that first introduced into it sculpture, painting, poetry, music, those marvelous missionaries of the beautiful, that, like the angels in the vision of sleeping Israel, bring earth and heaven into sweet union? Who was the first sculptor that struck with his chisel the marble rocks, and fashioned them as He would ? Who was the first painter that touched with his brush the flowers of the valley and tinged with deep azure the ocean.--that mystic baptismal font in whose waters He purified the universe, and decreed that by its waters and His spirit man should become regenerate? Who was the first decorator that studded with gems the Milky Way and spread this arch of splendor across the concave of this, IIis temple? Who first told the strong sons of God to "shout with joy,” and bade "the morning star sing together," when all creation was ringing with the not s of Him, the first composer; when earth and air and heaven celebrated His praisesuntil the intruder Sin broke the universal chorus, jarred against nature's chime, and tore the harp strings of His angels; and who, by conquering sin and death, brings back the lost melody? Who has sanctified this art of music, not to oppress the intellect, not to cloud it, not to silence it, not to lull it into a sleep fatal to its powers ? No, but to beautify, to elevate and to influence even the intellect itself, by purifying the imagination and the heart. He it was who; having inspired this glorious art, declared that music should become in heaven itself eternal; that when all the others should, as it were, faint at the gates of heaven ; when the chisel should fall from the sculptor's hand on seeing the magnificent ideals that he thought to represent; when the painter should cast away the brush in view of the glorious coloring beyond the stars ; when the poet should breathe no more the song of hope, but should enjoy eternal fruition ; when the architect


need no more to build a house with hands in view of the eternal temple of Almighty God; when the sacred mission of all the other arts shall have been fulfilled, that then glorious music shall survive them all, and, flying in, as it were, through the gates of light, give her lessons to the angels, and the architect and the sculptor and the painter and the poet should all become for eternity the

children of song.

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SO WAS 1.-Joseph Bert SMILEY.*

By permission of the Author.
My name is Tommy, an' I hates
That feller of my sister Kate's.
He's bigger'n I am an' you see
He's sorter lookin' down on me,
An' I resents it with a vim ;
I think I'm just as good as him.
He's older, an' he's mighty fly
But he's a kid, an’so am I.
One time he came,-down by the gate,
I guess it must been awful late,-
An' Katie, she was there, an' they
Was feelin' very nice and gay,
An' he was talkin' all the while,
About her sweet an' lovin'smile,
An' everythin' was nice as pie,
An' they was there, an’so was I.
They didn't see me, 'cause I slid
Down underneath a bush, an'hid,
An' he was sayin' that his love
Was greater'n all the stars above
Up in the glorious heavens placed ;
An' then his arm got round her waist,
An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,
An' they was there, an' so was I.
I didn't hear just all they said,

But by an' by my sister's head
*Author of " Presto Changu " "A Chinese Version of Maud Muller,'!
in No. 30, of this Series.

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Was droopin' on his shoulder, an'
I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,
An' then he hugged her closer, some,
An' then I heered a kiss-yum yum !
An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,
An' sorter coughed,-an' so did I.
An' then that feller looked around
An' seed me there, down on the ground,
An'- was be mad ?-well, betcher boots
I gets right outer there an' scoots.
An' he just left my sister Kate
A-standin' right there by the gate;
An' I seen blood was in his eye,
An' he runned fast-an' so did J.

I runned the very best I could But he cotched up, I's 'fraid he would, An' then he said he'd teach me how To know my manners, he'd allow; An' then he shaked me awful. Gee! He jest—he frashed the ground with me An' then he stopped it by and by, 'Cause he was tired-an' so was I. An' then he went back to the gate An' couldn't find my sister Kate 'Cause she went in to bed, while he Was runnin' round an' thumpin' me. I got round in a shadder dim, An' made a face, an' guffed at him; An' then the moon larfed, in the sky, 'Cause he was there, an' so was I.

HIS MOTHER'S SONGS. Beneath the hot midsummer sun

The men bad marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream

Upon the grass they lay.
Tiring of games and idle jests,

As swept the hours along,
They called to one who mused aparty

“Come friend, give us a song."

"I fear I cannot please," he said;

“The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing

For me long years ago." “Sing one of those,” a rough voice cried,

“ There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us

A mother's songs are dear.”
Then sweetly rose the singer's voice

Amid unwonted calm,
“Am I a soldier of the cross,

A follower of the Lamb ?
And shall I fear to own His cause-

The very stream was stilled,
And hearts that never throbbed with fear,

With tender thoughts were filled.
Ended the song; the singer said,

As to his feet he rose, “Thanks to you all, my friends; good night;

God grant us sweet repose.”
“Sing us one more," the captain begged;

The soldier bent his head,
Then glancing round, with smiling lips,

“You'll join with me,” he said. “ We'll sing this old familiar air,

Sweet as the bugle call,
'AU hail the power of Jesus' name,

Let angels prostrate fall.'"
Ah! wondrous was the old tune's spell

As on the singer sang;
Man after man fell into line,

And loud the voices rang.
The songs are done, the camp is still,

Naught but the stream is heard ;
But ah! the depths of every soul

By those old hymns are stirred.
And up from many a bearded lip,

In whispers soft and low,
Rises the prayer the mother taught

The boy long years ago.

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