And the ancient Arrow-maker
Turned again unto his labor,
Sat down by his sunny doorway,
Murmuring to himself, and saying:
"Thus it is our daughters leave us,

Those we love, and those who love us!
Just when they have learned to help us,
When we are old and lean upon them,
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers,
With his flute of reeds, a stranger
Wanders piping through the village,
Beckons to the fairest maiden,

And she follows where he leads her,
Leaving all things for the stranger!"

Pleasant was the journey homeward
Through interminable forests,
Over meadow, over mountain,
Over river, hill, and hollow.
Short it seemed to Hiawatha,
Though they journeyed very slowly,
Though his pace he checked, and slackened
To the steps of Laughing Water.

Over wide and rushing rivers
In his arms he bore the maiden;
Light he thought her as a feather,
As the plume upon his head-gear;
Cleared the tangled pathway for her,
Bent aside the swaying branches,
Made at night a lodge of branches,
And a bed with boughs of hemlock,
And a fire before the doorway
With the dry cones of the pine-tree.

All the travelling winds went with them, O'er the meadow, through the forest;

All the stars of night looked at them,

Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber;
From his ambush in the oak-tree

Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Watched with eager eyes the lovers;
And the rabbit, the Wabasso,

Scampered from the path before them,
Peering, peeping from his burrow,
Sat erect upon his haunches,
Watched with curious eyes the lovers.

Pleasant was the journey homeward!
All the birds sang loud and sweetly
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease;
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa,
"Happy are you, Hiawatha,

Having such a wife to love you!"
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
"Happy are you, Laughing Water,
Having such a noble husband!"

From the sky the sun benignant
Looked upon them through the branches,
Saying to them, "O my children,
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,
Life is checkered shade and sunshine,
Rule by love, O Hiawatha!"

From the sky the moon looked at them,
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors,
Whispered to them, "O my children,
Day is restless, night is quiet,
Man imperious, woman feeble;
Half is mine, although I follow;

Rule by patience, Laughing Water !"

Thus it was they journeyed homeward; Thus it was that Hiawatha

To the lodge of old Nokomis

Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight,
Brought the sunshine of his people,
Minnehaha, Laughing Water,
Handsomest of all the women
In the land of the Dacotahs,
In the land of handsome women.

EXCELSIOR.-By H. W. Longfellow.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ;

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"-
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Oh! stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the per sant's last good-night;-
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveler,-by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow, was found,
Still grasping, in his hand of ice,
The banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,—
Excelsior!

THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY.-By C. G. Ipina

A PILLAR of fire by night,
A pillar of smoke by day,

Some hours of march-then a halt to fight,
And so we hold our way;

Some hours of march-then a halt to fight,
As on we hold our way.

Over mountain and plain and stream,
To some bright Atlantic bay,

With out arms aflash in the morning beam,
We hold our festal way;

With our arms aflash in the morning beam,
We hold our checkless way!

There is terror wherever we come,

There is terror and wild dismay

When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum
Announce us on the way;

When they see the Old Flag, and hear the drum
Beating time to our onward way.

Never unlimber a gun

For those villanous lines in grey,

Draw sabres! and at 'em upon the run!
'Tis thus we clear our way,

Draw sabres and soon you will see them run,
As we hold our conquering way.

The loyal, who long have been dumb,
Are loud in their cheers to-day;

And the old men out on their crutches come,
To see us hold our way;

And the old men out on their crutches come,
To bless us on our way.

Around us in rear and flanks,
Their futile squadrons play,

With sixty-mile front of steady ranks,
We hold our checkless way;

With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,
Our banner clears the way.

Hear the spattering fire that starts
From the woods and copses grey,

There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts,
As we frolic along the way!

There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts, As we rattle along the way.

Upon different roads abreast

The heads of our columns gay,
With fluttering flags, all forward pressed,
Hold on their conquering way.
With fluttering flags to victory pressed,
We hold our glorious way.

Ah, traitors who bragged so bold
In the sad war's early day,
Did nothing predict you should ever behold
The Old Flag come this way?

Did nothing predict you should yet behold
Our banner come back this way?

By heaven! 'tis a gala march,
"Tis a pic-nic or a play;

Of all our long war 'tis the crowning arch,
Hip, hip! for Sherman's way!

Of all our long war this crowns the arch--
For Sherman and Grant, hurrah!

MR. PICKWICK'S ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A
MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL PAPERS.
Pickwick Papers.

"DEAR me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick!"

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chamber-maid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another.

"This is your room, Sir," said the chamber-maid.

"Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.

66 "Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Oh, no, Sir."

"Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night."

"Yes, Sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chamber-maid retired, and left him alone,

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg's it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client: and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep; so he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs.

Now this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state, at present. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his Lead, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs.

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there scemed to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself