made of India rubber. I just stood still and waited to see where she was going to light. Finally she settled down, and after resting a moment or two said we would learn the staccato. She said all I would have to do would be to make the note by a simple stroke of the glottis. I told her I would. Then she began ha, ha, ha, ha, just like I was the biggest idiot in creation. I didn't like to be laughed at right in my face, but I thought I would put up with it for the sake of learning to sing.

While I was resting, she said she would run over the minor scale. I told her I would be pleased to hear it. She went over it once right slowly. I knew there was something wrong. I studied a moment and then said, "Do that again, will you?"

Before she had finished, I could see the graveyard. Tombstones rose up in the background. It seemed like all my folks were dead and she was playing the funeral dirge. I told her that I was not well and must go home.

Before I left she told me I must practice holding my breath, and for a good exercise she recommended that I take a full breath and then count forty before letting it go. All the way home I could think of nothing but staccatos and portamentos, and la, le, li, lo, loo, kept ringing in my ears. When I reached home, I went out on the piazza, stood up erect, and prepared to make my forty. I drew in a full breath and began to count, but made only fifteen. I was not to be discouraged, how, ever, and so I took a new start. By the time I reached twenty, my checks had begun to stand out considerably, and at twenty-five the explosion took place. I took a good rest and then determined to make forty in spite of all obstacles. I filled my lungs well and began. At twenty I began to feel weak, at twenty-five the blood was rushing to my face, and at thirty my eyes began to roll back, but I held on like grim death. Just as I reached thirty-five, my boarding-house lady came to the front door, and, seeing me in this condition, dashed a bucket of cold water in my face. And I fainted.

LOST ON THE DESERT.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS. Written expressly for this Collection.

Burning, burning, burning is the sand,

And burning, burning, burning is the sky!
Three days upon this trackless arid sea,

The sun white-hot, the heavens a bright steel eye
That gloats upon me, lost and pitiful;

The red sand shining like another eye

I tread upon. The Khamseen's fiery breath,
Blowing in fitful gasps, has killed the air.
There is no shade, not any tree nor shrub,
Not any rock to hide me from the glare
Of sky and earth; and all the sound there is
Is the faint tinkling of the blowing sand
That cuts me as it flies, save in the night,
The hot, dry night, when stifled murmurs come
Of fray mysterious in the under world
Where Korah, Dathan and Abiram still

Are tortured with the fierce thirst of the lost.
Not any sound, not any bird or beast,

Not any insect-only, once I heard
The groaning of the camels far away
Of some slow caravan going Egyptward.

Where is my camel? Ah, it died last night-
I had no water for it and it died.

Water! See my goat-skin! Dry it is,
And all around is parched and blistering sand.
Nay, nay, there is the water! Hail, bright length
Of liquid life! There it is, and broad palms
Droop over it, how cool; and little waves
Round into curves upon the shingly shore,
And-ah, 'tis gone again; again 'twas but
The mirage I have seen these bitter days,
The shadow of sweet waters somewhere in
A fertile land, or near or more than far.
Ah, for a moment's shade! ah, for a drop
Of moisture for my tongue that aches upon
The pebbles in my mouth that keep my throat
From drying till I die! Let me forget,-

Let me remember!

A few short days, it seems, And Cairo saw me and my Musa there,— Musa, my brave lover, bold and strong,

Musa prisoned by the Arab dog

For guarding me from slavery in the mart

Where my fair looks should bring a pretty price.
"The Desert, to the Desert!" O my love!
Die of God's drouth, die not of man's surfeit-
Thy body burn away, but not thy soul.
If I can follow, that I surely will,—
Will find the shining track across the sand,
After I slay my jailors. Take, O love,
My camel and the goat-skin filled with sweet
Nile water, and the dates and almonds which
I treasured for our marriage feast, O love!"
And then they led him far. And I obeyed-
Ran hither, thither, found his camel and
The goat-skin and the dates. And that is all!
The dates I lost, the camel dying rolled
Upon its side and crushed the filled goat-skin.
And I am here, and, Musa, where art thou!
I dreamed last night thou cam'st to me and laid
Cool sherbet on my tongue and lumps of ice
And manna; and I woke to find thee not,
And only bleaching camel-bones were here
And the soft tinkling of the sliding sands
And that wild tumult in the under world!
As rivers of water in a dry, dry place,
Art thou, O Musa, to me; as shadow thou
Of a great rock in a most weary land,
A barren thirsty land where no water is!
O Musa, O my love in prison chains,
Ah, could I find my way back unto thee,
And die beside the walls that keep thee from
This lonely death with me!

Ah me-a drop,
A tiny drop of water, O my God,

Who led Israel's children through this howling waste When three days toiled they and no water found!

A little dew to soothe my swollen lips,

That burst apart, peeling upon the dry

Hot pebbles that no moisture bringeth forth

From the scorched cavern underneath the tongue!

Musa! Musa! Ah, I crave the shade,

The little shade the camel dead may give

I sink beside it, bathe my hands within

The dimness of the shadow cast by it,
And scorched and burning am I, and the air
Shakes with the heat like any solid thing,
And-Musa! Musa! See the water there,
The palms, the mottled bird, and-Musa, love,
Thou too art there, dipping a golden gourd
Within the water cool and trickling from
Thy fingers! Musa, Musa, lo, I come!
Ah, God! 'tis but the mirage once again,
And I am burning in the burning sand,
In the eternal silence hot and dry!

A TEETOTALER'S STORY.*-DELIA A. HAYWOOD. "Well, Alfred, you're welcome, old fellow! Step in-take this big easy chair,

I remember your fondness for lounging,
You see. Old boy, I declare,
Time hasn't dealt with you harshly-
Albeit your bonny brown hair

Is silvered a little, and crow's feet

Line cheeks that were ruddy and fair.

"It's twenty odd years since we parted,
You say, Alf? Why-yes, it must be,
For I have a boy now at college—

And you, Alf? Not married? Let's see,-
Where's Stephen St Clair? I remember
We thought he was partial to Grace,
Your sister; no wonder, that girl had
A beautiful, flower-like face.

"Both dead? Sad indeed are Time's changes—
But here, take a glass of champagne.
You look tired and pale, pray excuse me,

Your coming has set my brain

In a whirl-and it may be

I'm forgetting my duty as host.

What, nothing! Why Alfred, you're joking,
I remember you used to boast

That liquor could never upset you.

You aren't in earnest, Alf, you

•Written expressly for this Collection.

A man of your sense-you surely
Are not in league with the crew
Of ultra reformers, the ranters-
"I am a teetotaler, Fred,

No offence at your comments. If after
I tell you, old friend, what led

"Me into the ranks of the 'ranters'
You ask me to drink this champagne,
For once, I will stifle my scruples.
I promise to cheerfully drain
This glass to its dregs-but my story:

You spoke, Fred, of Stephen St Clair,
You remember him, handsome, great hearted,
Big brained and yet sunny and debonair?
"Well, Stephen and Grace were married,

And never a happier bride

E'er went from the home-nest and never
Was one on whom love and fond pride
Were lavished more freely, nor ever
A lovelier home. And when
The babe came, the dear, dimpled Eva,
I almost envied them then.

"The rosebud beauty of childhood
Is ever most fair to see;

But Gracie's babe had a dream face
That filled me with mystery,—

The face of a pictured angel.
Her hair was of dusky gold,

Her eyes, they were deep soft azure.
Not strange that love should enfold

"That babe in the rose-lined cradle,
Nor strange that her mother should fail
To see in her Eden a shadow,

Or mark of the serpent's trail,—

The serpent that lurks in the wineglass;
The monster who under the guise

Of fairest seeming doth enter

Too often in paradise.

"Yes, friend, I remember how often
I echoed my boyish boast

That wine could not harm me, and truly
I think I am stronger than most,