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Then spoke Miltiades. And thee, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed,-what gift is promised thyself? Tell it us straightway,-Athens the mother demands of her son !"

Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength

Into the utterance-" Pan spoke thus: For what thou hast

done

Count on a worthy reward!

release

Henceforth be allowed thee

From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

“I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my

mind!

Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may

Pound-Pan helping us-Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and then,-no Athens to save,Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,— Hie to my house and home; and, when my children shall creep

Close to my knees, recount how the God was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full-rewarding him—so!"

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: So, when Persia was dust, all cried, "To Akropolis! Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs

through,

Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!

through clay,

Like wine

Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still "Rejoice!"-his word which brought rejoicing indeed.

So is Pheidippides happy forever, the noble strong man Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so well,

He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell

Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously-once to shout, thereafter be mute: "Athens is saved!"

Pheidippides dies in the shout for his

meed.

THE NEW SOUTH

By HENRY WOODFEN GRADY, Journalist, Orator.

1851; died at Atlanta, 1889.

Born at Athens, Ga.,

Taken from a speech at a banquet of the New England Society in the city of New York, December 21, 1886. See New York Tribune, Dec. 22, 1886; also "Henry W. Grady His Life, Writings, and Speeches," published, in 1890, by The Cassell Publishing Co., New York, N. Y.

You have just been told how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, your returning armies came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes!

Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate soldier as, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds, having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. What does he find ?-let me ask you who went to

your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice. He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence-the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.

What does he do this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June. From the ashes left us in 1864 we have raised a brave and beautiful city; somehow or other we have caught the sunshine in the bricks and mortar of our homes, and have builded therein not one ignoble prejudice or memory.

It is a rare privilege to have had part, however humble, in this work. Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South-misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave, and generous always.

The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation

came because through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed, and her brave armies were beaten.

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has nothing for which to apologize. I should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hill—a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men-that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that I shall send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. But, speaking from the shadow of that memory which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the omniscient God held the balance of battle in His almighty hand, and that human slavery was swept forever from American soil, the American Union was saved from the wreck of war.

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts, which never felt the generous ardor of conflict, it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox ? Will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, and glorifying his path to the grave-will she make this vision on which the

last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat and a delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, become true, be verified in its fullest sense, when he said: Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united now and united for

THE RESCUE OF LYGIA

By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish Original by Jeremiah Curtin. Taken, by permission of the publishers, from "Quo Vadis," published by Little, Brown & Co., Boston.

Jeremiah Curtin, Author; born in Milwaukee, Wis., 1840. Henryk Sienkiewicz (se'enkē'āvich), Polish Novelist; born at Okreya, Poland, 1846.

Though the [Roman] people were sated already with blood-spilling, still, when the news went forth that the end of the games was approaching, and that the last of the Christians were to die at an evening spectacle, a countless audience assembled in the amphitheater. Those who had seen Lygia at the house of Plautius told wonders of her beauty. Others were occupied above all with the question, would they see her really on the arena that day? . . .

Uncertainty, waiting, and curiosity had mastered all spectators. Cæsar arrived earlier than usual; and immediately at his coming people whispered that something uncommon would happen, for . . . Cæsar had with him Cassius, a centurion of enormous size and gigantic strength, whom he summoned only when he wished to have a defender at his side. . . . It was noted also that certain precautions had