No friendly hand the wound to bind,
The writhing spirit seeks to find,
But goes to weep alone.

And when this fitful dream is o'er,
And friend, or foe, can do no more,
All earthly comforts flown;
When brightest mortal glories pale,
And heart and flesh together fail,
The parting spirit lifts the veil,
And passes through alone.

huz za', a hurrah; a cheer.

pan' o ply, defensive armor.

re plete', completely filled. stat' ure, height.

SING ME A SONG OF A LAD THAT IS GONE.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone!

Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,

All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.

ON THE ROAD TO MOSCOW.

COUNT LEO N. TOLSTOI.

(From "Childhood, Boyhood, Youth.")

Two equipages were again brought to the porch of the Petrovskoe house: one was a coach in which sat Mimi, Katenka, Liubotchka, and the maid, with the clerk Yakov on the box; the other was a britchka, in which rode Volodya and I, and the footman Vasili.

The sun has but just risen above the dense white clouds which veil the east, and all the country round about is illuminated with a quietly cheerful light. All is so very beautiful about me, and I am so tranquil and light of heart. The road winds away in front like a wide, unconfined ribbon, amid fields of dry stubble, and herbage sparkling with dew. Here and there by the roadside we come upon a gloomy willow, or a young birch with small sticky leaves, casting a long, motionless shadow upon the dry clayey ruts and the short green grass of the highway. The monotonous sound of the wheels and bells does not drown the song of the larks, who circle close to the very road.

Yonder on the footpath which winds beside the road, some slowly moving figures are visible; they are pilgrims. Their heads are enveloped in dirty cloths; sacks of birch-bark are bound upon their backs; their feet are wrapped in dirty, tattered footbands, and shod in heavy bast shoes. Swaying their staves in unison, and hardly glancing at us, they move on with a heavy, deliberate tread, one

after the other; and questions take possession of my mind,— whither are they going, and why? will their journey last long? and will the long shadows which they cast upon the road soon unite with the shadow of the willow which they must pass?

Here a calash with four post-horses comes rapidly to meet us. Two seconds more, and the faces which look at us with polite curiosity have already flashed past; and it seems strange that these faces have nothing in common with me, and that, in all probability, I shall never behold them again.

Here come two shaggy, perspiring horses, galloping along the side of the road in their halters, with the traces knotted up to the breech strap; and behind, with his long legs and huge shoes dangling on each side of a horse, rides a young lad of a postilion, with his lamb's-wool cap cocked over one ear, drawling a long-drawn-out song. His face and attitude are expressive of so much lazy, careless content, that it seems to me it would be the height of bliss to be a post-boy, to ride the horses home, and sing some melancholy songs.

Yonder, far beyond the ravine, a village church with its green roof is visible against the bright blue sky; yonder is a hamlet, the red roof of a gentleman's house, and a green garden. Who lives in this house? Are there children in it, father, mother, tutor? Why should we not go and make the acquaintance of the owner?

Here is a long train of huge wagons harnessed to troikas of well-fed, thick-legged horses, which we are obliged to turn out to pass. "What are you carrying?" inquires Vasili of the first carter, who,

with his big feet hanging from the board which forms his seat, and flourishing his whip, regards us for a long time with an intent, mindless gaze, and only makes some sort of reply when it is impossible for him not to hear. "With what wares do you travel?" Vasili asks, turning to another team, upon whose railed-in front lies another carter beneath a new rug. A blonde head, accompanied by a red face and a reddish beard, is thrust out from beneath the rug for a moment; it casts a glance of indifferent scorn upon us, and disappears again; and the thought occurs to me that these carters surely cannot know who we are and whither we are going.

bast, rope or matting made of inner

bark of the lime-tree.

britch' ka, in Russia, a light, partly covered four-wheeled carriage.

ca lash', light carriage.

pos til' ion (yŭn), one who rides a posthorse.

troi' ka, team of three horses harnessed abreast.

MY FIRST GEOLOGICAL TRIP.

SIR ARCHIBALD GEIKIE.

(From "Geological Sketches at Home and Abroad.")

We started off about noon; a goodly band of some eight or nine striplings, with two or three hammers, and a few pence amongst us, and no need to be home before dusk.

The

An October sun shone merrily out upon us. neighboring woods, gorgeous in their tints of green, gold, and russet, sent forth clouds of rooks, whose noisy jangle, borne onward by the breeze, and mingling with the drone of the bee and the carol of the lark, grew mellow in the distance, as the cadence of a far-off hymn.

Our path lay through a district rich in historic associations. Watch-peels, castles, and towers looked out upon us as we walked, each with its traditionary tales, the recital of which formed one of our chief delights. Or if a castle lacked its story, our invention easily supplied the defect. And thus every part of the way came to be memorable in our eyes for some thrilling event, real or imaginary.

Thus beguiled, the four miles seemed to shrink into one, and we arrived at length at the quarries. They had been opened, I found, along the slope of a gentle declivity. We made for a point midway in the excavations; and great indeed was our delight, on climbing a long bank of grass-grown rubbish, to see below us a green hollow, and beyond it a wall of rock, in the center of which yawned a dark cavern, plunging away into the hill far from the light of day.

My companions rushed down the slope with a shout of triumph. For myself, I lingered a moment on the top. With just a tinge of sadness in the thought, I felt that though striking and picturesque beyond anything of the kind I had ever seen, this cavern was after all only a piece of human handiwork.

The heaps of rubbish around me had no connection with beings of another world, but told only too plainly of ingenious, indefatigable man. The spell was broken at once and forever, and, as it fell to pieces, I darted down the slope and rejoined my comrades.

They had already entered the cave, which was certainly vast and gloomy enough for whole legions of gnomes. The roof, steep as that of a house,