bones of your bold repose; but forget not those who with your bold went out to battle.

Among the men of noble daring, there was one, a young and gallant stranger, who left the blushing vinehills of his delightful France. The people whom he came to succor were not his people; he knew them only in the melancholy story of their wrongs. He was no mercenary adventurer, striving for the spoil of the vanquished: the palace acknowledged him for its lord, and the valley yielded him its increase. He was no nameless man, staking life for reputation; he ranked among nobles, and looked unawed upon kings.

He was no friendless outcast, seeking for a grave to hide a broken heart; he was girdled by the companions of his childhood; his kinsmen were about him; his wife was before him. Yet from all these loved ones he turned away. Like a lofty tree that shakes down its green glories to battle with the winter's storm, he flung aside the trappings of place and pride to crusade for Freedom, in Freedom's holy land. He came; but not in the day of successful rebellion; not when the new-risen sun of independence had burst the cloud of time and careered to its place in the heavens.

He came when darkness curtained the hills, and the tempest was abroad in its anger; when the plow stood still in the field of promise, and the briers cumbered the garden of beauty; when fathers were dying, and mothers were weeping over them; when the maiden was wiping the death damp from the brow of her lover. He came when the brave began to fear the power of man, and the pious to doubt the favor of God. It was then that this ONE joined the ranks of a revolted people.

Freedom's little phalanx bade him a grateful welWith them he courted the battle's rage; with theirs, his arm was lifted; with theirs, his blood was

come.

At

shed. Long and doubtful was the conflict. length, kind Heaven smiled on the good cause, and the beaten invaders fled. The profane were driven from the temple of Liberty, and at her pure shrine the pilgrim warrior, with his adored commander, knelt and worshiped. Leaving there his offering, the incense of an uncorrupted spirit, he at length rose, and, crowned with benedictions, turned his happy feet toward his long deserted home.

After nearly fifty years, that ONE has come again. Can mortal tongue tell, can mortal heart feel the sublimity of that coming? Exulting millions rejoice in it; and their long, long transporting shout, like the mingling of many winds, rolls on, undying, to freedom's farthest mountains. A congregated nation comes around him. Old men bless him, and children reverence him. The lovely come out to look upon him; the learned deck their halls to greet him; the rulers of the land rise up to do him homage.

How his full heart labors! He views the rusting trophies of departed days; he treads the high places where his brethren molder; he bends before the tomb of his FATHER; 1 his words are tears, the speech of sad remembrance. But he looks round upon a ransomed land and a joyous race; he beholds the blessings, those trophies secured, for which those brethren died, for which that FATHER lived; and again his words are tears, the eloquence of gratitude and joy.

Spread forth creation like a map; bid earth's dead multitude revive; and of all the pageant splendors that ever glittered to the sun, when looked his burning eye on a sight like this? Of all the myriads that have come and gone, what cherished minion ever ruled an hour like this? Many have struck the redeeming blow for their own freedom; but who, like 1 Washington.

this man, has bared his bosom in the cause of strangers? Others have lived in the love of their own people; but who, like this man, has drank his sweetest cup of welcome with another? Matchless Chief! of glory's immortal tablets there is one for him, for him alone! Oblivion shall never shroud its splendor; the everlasting flame of liberty shall guard it, that the generations of men may repeat the name recorded there, the beloved name of LA FAYETTE.

BILL NYE ON HORNETS.

LAST fall I desired to add to my rare collection

a large hornet's nest. I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed as though whenever he touched me he awakened a memory,—a warm memory, with a red place all around it.

Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud. When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to scrape them off, because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct toward a hornet.

I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my sunny hair;-that was when I wore my own hair-and he walked around through my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a watermelon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against the smokehouse in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is forever new.

THE SONG OF THE SANDMAN.

A

JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

N old, old man, with whiskers white,

Flies over the earth as the night comes down, And softly sings, in his gentle flight,

As he winds his way through the shades of night, "Close, little eyelids! close up tight;

For the Sandman is in town."

He comes to the babe while yet 'tis light,

But on all at last the shower comes down, And the eyes of blue and brown so bright

Must close when he sings, as he comes at night,— "Close, little eyelids! close up tight;

For the Sandman is in town."

He knows what makes little eyes so bright,

So he pours the showers of bright sand down, And sweet sleep lingers till broad daylight,

Then flies to him who sings each night,

"Close little eyelids! close up tight,

For the Sandman is in town."

THE COW AND THE BISHOP.

TOWNSEND.

NCE, in a good old college town,

O Where learned doctors in cap and gown

Taught unfledged theologues how to preach,Youths of many a land and speech,

There was a student, studious ever,

Whom fellows and townsfolk counted clever;
Despite red hair and an awkward gait,

"He'll Le a great man," they said, "just wait!"

So it chanced, on a chill September day,
When the wind was sharp and the sky was gray,
This student, deep in a study brown,

Was striding along on the edge of the town.
A tiny cottage he neared and passed

When the sound of footsteps approaching fast
And his own name called, as in urgent need,
Made him abruptly slacken his speed.
As he turned, a woman had reached his side.

"Oh, sir! you are learned and good," she cried, "And my cow is dying, my own cow Pink;

There's nothing she'll eat and nothing she'll drink; She seems to be moaning her life away;

Oh, lose not a moment, but come,

pray!"

"Good madam," said he, with a puckered brow,
"My knowledge, I fear, would not help your cow.
On cattle diseases I'm all unread,—
You'd better consult a physician instead."

"Why, sir," said the woman, with pleading eyes,
"They told me you were uncommonly wise,
And for hours I've waited and watched for you,
In hopes you would pass, as you often do."

So the student suffered himself to be led
To the poor old cow, in the rickety shed,
And he thought as he looked her carefully over,
"How I wish you were out among the clover!
But I must do something, right or wrong,
Better than all this talk prolong."