His joy is the gladness of those

Who feel they are helping the whole;
Less fluent the harmony flows

If an instrument flag, if a soul

Unfaithful should be to the beat

Of the baton that bids him be true;
And the music is oft times so sweet,

Small matter what makes it, or who.
And haply-who knows?-in the day
When the ultimate piece is rehearsed,
Shall come his Great Moment to play,
And the fiddle called second, be first.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE 1

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

1

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road-
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heat with thrill of human tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Here was a man to hold against the world,

A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things;

The rectitude and patience of the cliff;

The good will of the rain that loves all leaves;

The friendly welcome of the wayside well;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;

The secrecy of streams that make their way
Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock;
The tolerance and equity of light

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower
As to the great oak flaring to the wind-
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky.

Sprung from the West
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.
Up from log cabin to the Capitol,

One fire was on his spirit, one resolve—
To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,
Clearing a free way for the feet of God.
And evermore he burned to do his deed
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king;
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
The conscience of him testing every stroke,

To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place-
Held the long purpose like a growing tree-
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

THE STORY OF PHILIP NOLAN

Abridged from THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE

Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the "Legion of the West." When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans, he met this gay, bright young fellow at a dinner party. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him and, in short, fascinated him. And when the wily traitor left the place, he had lured Nolan to his side.

Soon a grand catastrophe came in the great treason-trial at Richmond. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom there was evidence enough, -that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed an order to march anywhere, had the order been signed "By command of His Excellency, Aaron Burr."

When the president of the court asked Nolan whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy,

"Damn the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!"

He did not know how the words shocked the old judge who called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face as white as a sheet to say,

"Prisoner, hear the sentence of the court! The court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again."

Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. The judge was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night.

"Mr. Marshal," the judge continued, "take the prisoner to Orleans, and deliver him to the naval commander there. Make my respects to him, and say that the prisoner is to be placed on board one of the ships where he is to be provided with such quarters, rations and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank, if he were a passenger on the vessel on the business of his Government. He is never unneces

sarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his country, or to see any information regarding it." Accordingly Nolan was put on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise. Here no company liked to have him with them, because his presence cut off all talk of home, of politics or letters, of peace or of war. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally submitted.

As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy. Everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America, and made no allusions to it. He had the foreign papers that came into the ship, only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisements or stray paragraphs that alluded to America.

One of the officers had a lot of English books among which was the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, so Nolan was permitted to join our circle one afternoon when a lot of us sat on deck reading aloud. In his turn Nolan took the book, and read without a thought of what was coming,

'Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!"

We all saw something was to pay; but Nolan expected to get through, I suppose, and plunged on,

"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand!"

By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that, and staggered on,—

"The wretch, concenterd all in self—”

but starting up, swung

Here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, the book into the sea, and vanished into his state-room.

We did not see him again for two months, and he was not the same man afterward. He never read aloud again, unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. He was always shy now, and had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man.

When we were nearly home we met an outward bound vessel which took poor Nolan and his traps on board to begin his second cruise. There was no going home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again.

One day we overhauled a little schooner which had slaves on board. The officer who boarded the boat sent back for someone who could speak Portuguese. Nolan said he would interpret if the captain wished, and was sent. "Tell them they are free," said Vaughn, the officer in charge. When this was told them, there was a yell of delight, leaping and dancing. "Tell them that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was so distant, that they would be eternally separated from home there. Their wild delight changed to a howl of dismay.

Vaughn was disappointed, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood out on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men and said,

"They say, 'Not Palmas,' they say, ‘take us home; take us to our own country; take us to our own house.' One says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he was caught in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since. And this one that he has not heard a word from home in six months."

Even the slaves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughn's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get the words, Vaughn said,

"Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the mountains of the moon, if they will. If I have to sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!"

On his way back to the ship Nolan said to the youth with him, "Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a home, and