Maryánka is not in the least affronted by being called "the devil's own child," and regards these words as a sort of subtle flattery; she gaily goes on with her chores. Her face is enveloped in a twisted kerchief; she wears a rose-colored shirt and

a green beshmet. She disappears under the shed where the fat cattle have already hastened, and soon her voice is heard, as she caressingly talks with the cow buffalo.

66

'Won't you stand still! There, there, now! there, old lady!"

Soon after the young girl goes with her mother from the stable to the dairy, both carrying two crocks of milk, the product of the evening's milking. From the clay chimney of the dairy pours the dense smoke; the milk is quickly boiled into cream.

While the young girl is busy with the fire, the old mother goes down again to the gate. Twilight settles down over the village. The air is filled with the odor of vegetables, of cattle, and the pungent smoke of the dung.

Everywhere along the street hasten the Cossack women with lighted rags in their hands. In the yards can be heard only the sound of the cattle puffing and peacefully chewing the cud, and the voices of women and children ringing through the streets.

ar' ba, a heavy springless wagon. besh' mets, robes.

Cau' ca sus, a mountain of Europe. chu vy a ki, shoes.

cor' don, a line of military sentinels. crock, an earthen jar.

fag' ots, sticks or twigs.

Nogai (no gÏ'), a Turco-Tatar race living in southern Russia and Caucasia.

Ma'ry án' ka.

pun' gent, strong; penetrating.
rep' ar tee', a witty or sharp reply.
steppe, Russian prairie.

Tol' stoi, a famous Russian author.
verst, a Russian measure of distance,
about two-thirds of a mile.
wat'tles, whips.

IO VICTIS!

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had

grasped at, who stood at the dying of day, With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,

With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus — its pæan for those who have won

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their painknotted brows, breathe a prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win

Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight - if need be, to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's Victors? Unroll thy long annals and say

Are they those whom the world called the victorswho won the success of a day?

The Martyrs or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopyla's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

chap' let, garland.

Io Vic' tis (è'ō), Hurrah for the vanquished!

pæan (pe! an), a song of victory.

re' qui em, a mass sung for the repose of one dead.

Ther mop'y læ, Grecian battle-field in 480 B. C.

tryst, meeting.

un' se duced', not tempted.

Xerxes (zerks' eez), king of Persia.

As a rule, the books which will do you most good are those which make you work hardest while reading, which stimulate the brain, and inspire you to nobler purpose.

-O. S. MARDEN.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

CHARLES DICKENS.

(From "Christmas Books.")

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country's done for. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly