nis were more and more successful; and Mrs. Magee, who now received a modest stipend from her lodger, seconded them warmly. Maginnis of April 30 was no longer Maginnis of February 3. A transformation had taken place. He was erect, respectably clad, alert, well shaven on Wednesdays and Sundays, and still the very symbol of docility. If Sister Margaret had been devoid of artistic feeling, she would have let the result of her work alone; but a retainer of the church retired from active service, and Sister Margaret at once suggested her protégé to Father Dudley. One of the colored "boys"-Pompey-was recalled to make up the lapses in convent attendance. Mother Juliet was alarmed; there was a noticeable difference in the laundry windows. "It's for the good of his soul that he should be as near Father Dudley as possible, reverend mother," spoke Sister Margaret. Mother Juliet had nothing to say to this, but she could not help hoping that Sister Margaret's next treasure would have a less sensitive soul. Maginnis rose more and more in favor with the fathers at the church. This Sister Margaret noticed with pleasure. The artist was strong within her, and already she had forgotten the interests of the convent in the vision of Lewis Maginnis as sexton of the big church. "A Kerry boy, too," she said to herself; "and he'll soon be with a button-hole bouquet in his coat, showing the sisters to their pew of a Sunday." Pompey was at work for good-or for bad-and Caesar had returned; Maginnis came only with messages from the church, or to give counsel when something went wrong with the boiler. Mother Juliet missed him, but she was silent; she had become tired of his soul. On Easter Sunday Sister Margaret's dream was realized. Beaming with pride, his red hair shining above his black coat, which held a large red rosebud, stood Lewis Maginnis beside the church door, waiting for the sisters to arrive. They came, and, as Maginnis led the way to their pew, Sister Margaret felt all the justifiable pride of a sculptor whose statue has been bought by a really appreciative patron. In the afternoon Maginnis came to the convent-by the front door, as he had at first come. He asked for Sister Margaret, and laid his glossy silk hat on the big volume of Butler's "Lives of the Saints" that graced the table. "Well, Lewis Maginnis," said Sister Margaret, entering with Sister Rosalie. ""Tis a happy man you ought to be." "And I am, sisther-thanks be to God and you.' "It is I had little to do with it, Maginnis," said Sister Margaret, with much humility. Maginnis blushed. "If it wasn't for you, sisther, I'd never have met her." There was a pause. A light flashed upon Sister Margaret. "And so you're going to settle down-and it's well," said Sister Margaret, nodding as one who knows the heart of man. "There is no better woman living than Mrs. Magee. And I hope you'll both keep that Mary Ann in order." "It was Mrs. Magee I thought of first," said Maginnis, with simplicity, "but Herself thought I'd better take Mary Ann, as it would steady her; and Magee in his grave only ten months would set the neighbors talking." Sister Margaret did not speak. A vision of the high blue bows obscured the ruddy smile of Lewis Maginnis. When she spoke it was as if to a far-distant man. She had assisted him successfully in his evolution. Spiritually, he was in a state of grace; physically, he was as the dragon-fly to the tadpole; artistically, he was what she had conceived he ought to be. He looked, as he stood in the parlor, with a rosebud in his lapel, the ideal sexton. And yet FRANCIS THOMPSON' 1859-1907 Francis Thompson, poet and critic, was born in Lancashire in 1859 to parents who were converts to the faith. His father was a physician, and the young Thompson was early designed for that profession. Obtaining his primary education at Ushaw, he later entered Owens College at Manchester to study medicine. But medicine held no attraction for him. 1Selections from the work of Francis Thompson are reprinted by the kind permission of Mr. Wilfrid Meynell owner of the copyright. He soon found his way to London to launch himself as a writer. After experiences as tragic as those undergone by the youthful Chatterton he was found by Mr. Wilfrid Meynell, editor of Merry England, who made it possible for him to pursue his literary career. His first publication was Poems, which appeared in 1893. Next came Sister Songs in 1895. His third volume, New Poems, was published in 1897. During the remaining ten years of his life he wrote little besides his Life of St. Ignatius except a few discerning reviews. Soon after his death in 1907, however, appeared his Shelley, than which there is probably no better example of subjective criticism in English literature. It was this essay that began his fame, a fame that has been gradually upon the increase ever since, until now the name of Francis Thompson is fast becoming recognized as that of a great poet, if not, indeed, that of a rare genius. TO MY GODCHILD-FRANCIS M. W. M. THIS laboring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aërial ways: And now, back warping from the inclement main, 5 Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, 10 Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah! from any other that it came, 15 Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. (In two alone of whom most singers prove 20 He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher's fellow-from these, and not from me, 25 Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, 30 Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey hest with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death. From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see 40 How little a world, which owned you, needed me. For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps. 45 Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to hold you by! And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, 50 And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; I sure shall keep a younger company: 55 The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet- In sandaled shadow of the Triune feet; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, Your cousined clusters, emulous to share 60 With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; 65 LITTLE JESUS Ex ore infantium, Deus, et lacentium perfecisti laudem LITTLE JESUS, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; 5 10 Play Can you see me? through their wings? And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil Thy robes, with playing on our soil? 20 How nice to have them always new In Heaven, because 'twas quite clean blue! Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, 25 |