country; all hands were lined up along the port side of the ship, standing at attention, and facing the shore.

As the order, "Salute!" came, sharply cut and abrupt, from the bridge, the right hand of every officer and man was raised to his cap, and there remained while the ship's bell rang out twenty-one slow, solemn strokes, one for each gun of a national salute.

The venerable mansion, with the white pillars of its porch, like giant sentinels on guard, looked down from the heights through a framework of majestic trees to the river below. As a gray-bearded patriarch receives the homage of youth, so this dignified monument to the first head of the government seems to receive the passing salute of the representation of the government to-day.

With the last stroke of the bell came the order, "Sound the retreat!"

The bugle answered, and as the last note came back from the shore, Mount Vernon disappeared behind the green of the trees. Every vessel of war of the United States passing the home of Washington observes this impressive ceremony. The effect upon one seeing it for the first time is thrilling, and it loses none of its dignity and beauty by repetition.

It is a good custom and tends to keep alive in the hearts of our country's defenders on the sea a spirit of veneration and love for the one whom every schoolboy learns to consider the first soldier and statesman of the country's history.

ma-jes'tic, stately; dignified.
pa'tri-arch, the head of a tribe.
ven"er-a'tion, reverence and re-

spect.

JOHN F. URIE, U.S.N. (Abridged).

buoys, floating anchors for ships. cer'e-mony, outward forms, or rites. hom'age, honor; respect.

sa-lute', a ceremony of respect.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress tree;

We know the forest round us

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil:

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;

Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.

And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,

Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

glades, open places in the woods.
mo-rass', a swampy place.
deem, think.

spoil, things taken in fight.
barb, a war horse.
hoar'y, white with age.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) was a noted American poet, whose native state was Massachusetts. He was a lawyer, but was always more interested in literature than in law. He published "Thanatopsis," one of his most celebrated poems, when he was only twenty-two. Among his most remarkable pieces of work are his translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" from the Greek. His poetry is published in one volume, "Poetical Works," and his letters of travel, orations and addresses are published under the title, "Prose Writings." "The Song of Marion's Men" was included in an edition of his poems published in England, but the line in that edition, "The British soldier trembles" was changed to "The foeman trembles in his camp." In all of his poetry he describes the beauties of nature in lofty and uplifting language.

Write a true or imaginary story about a day or more spent in a camp in the woods.

Where was the camp? How many persons were in it? Why were you there? How did you eat and sleep? What did you see and hear? What adventures did you have?

Write one of your favorite stories from history.

When and where did the event take place? Who were engaged in it? What were the important points connected with it? What were the results? How is this event connected with other historical events?

AMERICAN SALMON

That was a day to be remembered. It had only begun when we drew rein at a tiny farmhouse on the banks of the Clackamas and sought horse feed and lodging, ere we hastened to the river that broke over a weir not a quarter of a mile away.

Imagine a stream seventy yards broad, divided by a pebbly island, running over charming " riffles" and swirling into deep, quiet pools, where the good salmon goes to smoke his pipe after meals.

The weir had been erected to pen the Chenook salmon from going farther up-stream. We could see them, twenty or thirty pounds in weight, lying by the score in the deep pools, or flying madly against the weir and foolishly skinning their noses. They were not our prey, for they would not rise at a fly, and we knew it. Nevertheless, when one made his leap against the weir, and landed on the foot-plank with a jar that shook the board I was standing on, I would fain have claimed him for my own capture.

California sniffed up-stream and down-stream, across the racing water, chose his ground, and let the gaudy fly drop in the tail of a riffle. I was getting my rod together, when I heard the joyous shriek of the reel and the yells of California, and three feet of living silver leaped into the air far across the water. The forces were engaged.

The salmon tore up-stream, the tense line cutting the water like a tide-rip behind him, and the light bamboo bowed to breaking. What happened thereafter I cannot tell.

In what appeared to be half a day, but in what was really little over a quarter of an hour, the fish sullenly came home