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shoulders of the Indian, falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist's body, the lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle and lying helpless upon the prairie.

His horse met mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about and rose again.

When I came to my feet El Sol was standing over the Navajo with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive.

“The horse! the horse! secure the horse!” shouted Seguin, as he galloped up; and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the mustang, which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie. In a few minutes the animal was lassoed, and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave.

GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS.

(1770—1802.)

GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS was born at Letterfyan, County Leitrim, about 1770 ; the son of a landowner in that county, he became a yeomanry officer and had considerable reputation as a wit. He wrote numerous songs and poems for the Dublin magazines between 1792–95 ; published a musical prelude called 'Bantry Bay'in 1797, which was performed at Covent Garden, and a poem in four cantos entitled The Panthead'in 1791. Several pieces have been attributed to him which he did not write. He died at Stowe, Buckinghamshire, England, in 1802.

KATHLEEN O’MORE.

My love, still I think that I see her once more,
But alas! she has left me her loss to deplore,
My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
Her color still changing, her smiles ever new
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir;
Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her-
So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

She sat at the door one cold afternoon,
To hear the wind blow and to gaze on the moon-
So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

Cold was the night breeze that sighed round her bower;
It chilled my poor Kathleen; she drooped from that hour
And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

The bird of all birds that I love the best
Is the robin that in the churchyard builds its nest;
For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

GRACE RHYS.

(1865 -) MRS. Rhys (née Little) was born at Knockadoo, Boyle, County Roscommon, July 12, 1865. She is the youngest daughter of J. Bennett Little, and married in 1891 Ernest Rhys, the poet. She has edited 'Cradle Songs' (Canterbury Poets) and The Banbury Cross Series,' for children. Her first novel, Mary Dominic,' was published in 1898. It is a book not only of remarkable promise but of remarkable performance as well. The Wooing of Sheila,' her second novel, has more than fulfilled the promise of her first and her third,' The Prince of Lismore,' was published in 1904. They deal with Irish life, which she knows well, and are written with sympathetic insight, tenderness, and tragic power.

THE HONEY FAIR.

From 'The Wooing of Sheila.'i

That same morning old Theresa and Sheila had been up with the dawn. They had borrowed a small gray ass and creels to take their honey to the autumn fair of Gurt.

He was an old ass and very cunning, said his owner, and was in the habit of playing on every woman he had to do with. So they must rise early and put a nail in the end of a stick if they wanted to be in time for the fair.

The honey was in two great earthen pots, and they lifted Theresa's into one creel and Sheila's into another, and covered each with a fair white cloth.

As they were going to the town, Sheila must wear her long black dress, and her boots too; but as she had the ass to drive, she could not take the wide black shawl; so she loosely tied on a little drab-colored head-shawl and let it fall back on her shoulders.

It was a very cheerful young face that looked up to the sky to discover the promise of the day. Old Theresa, too, was in fine spirits; it was a good honey year, none better. She trundled along behind Sheila and the ass in her handsome red cloak, the frilled cap under her little round hat of black straw shining as white as snow.

They got down the hill path and out along the road before the sun fairly rose; the air was fresh with an au1 Copyright, Henry Holt & Co., New York. By permission.

MARKET DAY IN AN IRISH TOWN

From a photograph

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