All my walls are lost in mirrors whereupon I trace
Self to right hand, self to left hand; self in every place,
Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,

Almost like my father's chair which is an ivory throne;
There I sit upright and there I sit alone.

Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;
My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend---
O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?

As I am a lofty princess, so my father is

A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties,
Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdom's balances.

He has quarreled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes;
Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes;
Long-descended valiant lords, whom the vulture knows.

On whose track the vulture swoops when they ride in state
To break the strength of armies and topple down the great;
Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.

My father, counting up his strength sets down with equal pen,
So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;
These for slaughter, these for breeding, with the how and when.

Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;
Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseer's whips;
Some to trap fur beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.

Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood
That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;
Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.

Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay;
On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray;
My father, frowning at the fare, seemed every dish to weigh

The singing men and women sang that night as usual;

The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall—
A melancholy, windy fall as at a funeral.

Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;

My ladies loosed my golden chain; meanwhile I could have wept To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.

A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said,
“Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed;
Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."

Other footsteps followed after with a weightier tramp;

Voices said: Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp."

"Howl and stamp!" one answered. "They made frce to hurl a stone At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown. "There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown."

One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,

Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread;

Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out that he was dead.

These passed. The king. Stand up. Said my father with a smile,

'Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile;

She is sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait
(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate)—
Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state?

Or shall my women stand and read some unimpassioned scene-
There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between-
Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command: "Charge!" a clash of steel. Charge again, the rebels stand! Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand!"

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;

A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;

I heard a cry for fagots, then I heard a yell of fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,

You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said:

"Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth:

I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,
I will take my gold and gems and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,

I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand
Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;
I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;
I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive.

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show
The lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know.
I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

DOLLY.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

OUR little Dolly was a late autumn chicken, the youngest of ten children, the nursing, rearing, and caring for whom had straitened the limited salary of Parson Cushing of Poganuc Center, and sorely worn on the nerves and strength of the good wife, who plied the laboring oar in these performances.

It was Dolly's lot to enter the family at a period when

babies were no longer a novelty; when the house was full of the wants and clamors of older children, and the mother at her very wits' end with a confusion of jackets and trowsers, soap, candles, and groceries and the endless harassments of making both ends meet which pertain to the lot of a poor country minister's wife.

Although it never distinctly occurred to Dolly to murmur at her lot in life, yet at times she sighed over the dreadful insignificance of being only a little girl in a great family of grown-up people. For even Dolly's brothers were studying in the academy, and spouting scraps of superior Latin at her to make her stare and wonder at their learning. She was a robust little creature, and consequently received none of the petting which a more delicate child might have claimed. Once Dolly remembered to have had a sore throat with fever. The doctor was sent for. Her mother put away all her work and held her in her arms.

Her father

sat up rocking her nearly all night, and her noisy, roystering brothers came softly to her door and inquired how she was. Dolly was only sorry that the cold passed off so soon, and she found herself healthy and insignificant as ever. Being gifted with an active fancy, she sometimes imagined a scene when she should be sick and die, and her father and mother and everybody would cry over her. She could see no drawback to the interest of the scene, except that she could not be there to enjoy her own funeral, and see how much she was appreciated.

of three garrets

The parsonage had the advantage splendid ground for little people. There was first the garret over the kitchen, the floors of which in fall were covered with stores of yellow pumpkins, fragrant heaps of quinces, and less fragrant spread of onions. There were bins of shelled corn and of oats, and, as in every other gar

ret in the house, there were also barrels of old sermons and family papers. Garret number two was over the central portion of the house. There were piles of bed-quilts and comforters, and chests of blankets; rows and ranges of old bonnets and old hats that seemed to nod mysteriously from their nails. There were old spinning-wheels, an old clock, old arm-chairs and old pictures, snuffy and grim, and more barrels of sermons. In one corner hung in order the dried herbs-catnip and boneset and elder-blow and hardhack and rosemary and tansy and pennyroyal, all gathered at the right time of the moon, dried and sorted and tied in bundles hanging from their different nails-those canonized floral saints which when living filled the air with odors of health and sweetness, and whose very mortal remains and dry bones were supposed to have healing virtues.

Then those barrels of sermons and old pamphlets! Dolly had turned them over and over, upsetting them on the floor, and reading their titles with amazed eyes. It seemed to her that there were some thousands of the most unintelligible things. "An Appeal on the Unlawfulness of a Man's Marrying his Wife's Sister" turned up in every barrel which she investigated till her soul despaired of finding an end. Then there were Thanksgiving sermons; Fast-day sermons; sermons that discoursed on the battle of Culloden; on the character of Frederick the Great; a sermon on the death of George the Second, beginning, "George! George! George is no more!" This somewhat dramatic opening caused Dolly to put that one discourse into her private library. But, oh, joy and triumph! One rainy day she found at the bottom of an old barrel a volume of the "Arabian Nights." Henceforth her fortune was made. To read was with her a passion, and a book once read was read daily, always becoming dearer and dearer as an old friend. The "Arabian