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Wild devastation, ruin and flame, gaunt, sickening horrors,
Revel where erst sweet peace folded her quiet wings. Merciless, onward thundered the waters, glutted with ruin
Faint with its cruel wrath, hastened the Jotun grim. Hark to that wild cry! pitiful, awful, reaching to heaven!
Agony from great deeps borne on ten thousand lips! Hear it! the human cry of despair, high Heaven impleading,
Pleading, but wordless yet, borne on the sobbing wind! Quickly, from warm hearts, come the responses, sympathy
breathing! Pauses the listening world,-pauses to answer the cry! Sympathy, helpful, opens the world's heart throbbing hu
manely. Mite of the widow drops, welcome as silver or gold. Freely, from full store, heartily given, treasure to treasure,
Measure for measure, gifts pour in an answering flood. Swiftly the kind hand, tenderly outstretched, ministers com
fort. Charity, Christ-like, pours balm in the open wounds. Back to his sea home driven, the Jotun flees from the Asir!
While to the dulled ear comes softly the whisper of Hope!
THE DARK FOREST OF SORROW.
JEROME K. JEROME. It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush, while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister, --conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god they have been taught to wor. ship but know not; and, standing where the echoing dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping, half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there. And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that pain and sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell the mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grew very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their
therein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to lighten the gloom and sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode, missing his comrades, wandered far away and returned to them no more; and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle toward which they had been journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night, as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great hall, and drank a loving measure, there came the comrade they
had lost, and greeted them. His clothes were ragged like a beggar's, and many sad wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great radiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he told them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom there came to him a stately maiden, and took him by the hand and led him on through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our wayworn knight saw, as in a dream, a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the depth.
And the vision faded, and the knight, kneeling upon the ground, thanked the good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he had seen the vision that lay there hid.
And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that the good knight saw therein we may not peak nor tell.
A CHINESE VERSION OF “MAUD MULLER.”
Joseph BERT SMILEY.
Bigee warmee day,
Muchee lakee bay.
Leanee onee lake,
Heartee muchee arbe.
Feelee wellee madee,
Face no lookee sweet,
Stubble hurtee feet.
She no likee hay; She no singee songee,
Allee longee day. Judgee wellee thirstee,
Munhee wantee dlink, Lookee plettee girlee,
Allee samee wink. Plettee girlee smilee,
Teethee wellee white. Judgee longee gazee,
Headee feelee light. She no likee workee,
Likee cuttee dash. Judgee wellee soffee,
Muchee gottee cash. Plettee girlee blushee,
Singee sweetee song. Longee lashee droopee,
Judgee allee gone. Judgee oldee manee,
Headee wellee white. Judgee liftee pursee,
Feelee wellee light. Judgee lookee backee,
Cost too muchee wink,
Judgee muchee think.
Bookee allee pen,
Whatee mightee been,
Girlee lakee hay,
Better keep away.
THE WIZARD'S SPELL.*-LETITIA VIRGINIA Douglas. In the dark Thuringian forest stood a castle tall and grim, In whose chambers aged and boary, hung with arras old
and dim, Dwelt the Baron of Von Klingen,-he a master stern and
cold, In whose service many a brow-beat serf and vassal had grown
old, Bent with blows and spent with starving (so had whispered
Rumor's tongue). On his walls ancestral ever, suits of curious armor hung; To the Wizard's rude ancestors this whole barbaric array Had belonged ; and he delighted, like a child, in their dis
play! There was one, among the number in the Wizard's den,
that lacked Rust and dust, like all the others,—'twas a giant cataphract; Curious-carved the scales, the gauntlets formed to glove a
monster's hands. There, grim-towering in his closet, chief of his delights, it
stands. All apart, within the forest with his lady young and sweet, Dwelt Von Klingen, stern and mystic, at the awful Mesmer's
feet. In his turret, from his lady far apart, he often stayed ; Locked her from his mystic sessions, though she oft admit
tance prayed. “Could she love this savage monster ?” asked Dame Rumor.
Aye, and more, Passionate love and deep devotion for her lord in heart she
bore. Beauty and the Beast were nothing, wonderful to tell, beside This Thuringian Wizard-Baron and his fair and hapless
bride! In his turret-chamber lonely, locked from all the world
away, Sat the Wizard, working magic, at the close of autumn day. He from board had long been absent, nor he once had sought
the side Of his weeping, yearning Gretel, -of his soft, adoring bride: And she longed, with sweet optation, as she'd never longed
before, For the love the Baron gave her in the happy days of yore, When their honeymoon was newest, and her cup was run:
ning o'er * By permission of the Author,