delayed by long descriptions of Italian scenery and life, and yet the romance is in many respects the maturest and richest of Hawthorne's creations.-Pattee's American Literature.

In that work (The Marble Faun) are typified the classical, sensuous life, through Donatello; the Jewish dispensation through Miriam; the Christian dispensation through Hilda, who looks over the ruins of Rome from her virgin chamber amidst the doves. -Bulwer Lytton.

A Forest Walk.

[From the Scarlet Letter.]

"Mother," said little Pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. Now, see! Now, see! There it is, playing, a good way off. Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It will not flee from me, for I wear nothing on my bosom yet."

"Nor ever will, my child, I hope," said Hester.

"And why not, mother?" asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of her race. "Will it not come of its own accord, when I am a grown woman?"

"Run away, child," answered her mother, "and catch the sunshine! It will soon be gone."

Pearl set forth, at a great pace, and, as Hester smiled to perceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendor, and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. The light lingered about the lonely child, as if glad of such a playmate, until her mother had drawn almost nigh enough to step into the magic circle too.

"It will go now," said Pearl, shaking her head.

"See!" answered Hester, smiling, "now I can stretch out my hand and grasp some of it."

As she attempted to do so the sunshine vanished; or, to judge from the bright expression that was dancing on Pearl's features, her mother could have fancied that the child had absorbed it into herself, and would give it forth again, with a gleam about her path, as they should plunge into the gloomier shade. There was no other attribute that so much impressed her with a sense of new and untransmitted vigor in Pearl's nature, as this never-failing vivacity of spirits; she had not the disease of sadness, which almost all children, in these latter days inherit, with the scrofula, from the troubles of their ancestors.

Perhaps this too was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy with which Hester

had fought against her sorrows before Pearl's birth. It was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the child's character. She wanted-what some people want throughout life-a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy. But there was time enough yet for little Pearl.

"Come, my child!" said Hester, looking about her from the spot where Pearl had stood still in the sunshine. "We will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselves."

"I am not aweary, mother," replied the little girl. But you may sit down if you will tell me a story meanwhile."

"A story, child!" said Hester. about?"

"And what

"O, a story about the Black Man," answered Pearl, taking hold of her mother's gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her face. "How he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him,-a big, heavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly Black Man offers his book and iron pen to everybody that meets him here among the trees; and they are to write their names in their own blood. And then he sets his mark on their bosom! Didst thou ever meet the Black Man, mother?"

"And who told you this story Pearl?" asked her mother, recognizing a common superstition of the period.

"It was the old dame in the chimney-corner at the house where you watched last night," said the child. "But she fancied me asleep while she was talking of it. She said that a thousand and a thousand people had met him here, and had written in his book, and have his mark on them. And that ugly-tempered lady, old Mistress Hibbins, was one. And, mother, the old dame said that this scarlet letter was the Black Man's mark on thee, and that it glows like a red flame when thou meetest him at midnight, here in the dark wood. Is it true, mother? And dost thou go to meet him in the night-time?"

"Didst thou ever awake and find thy mother gone?" asked Hester.

"Not that I remember," said the child. "If thou fearest to leave me in the cottage, thou mightest take me along with thee. I would very gladly go! very gladly go! But, mother, tell me now! Is there such a Black Man? And didst thou ever meet him? And is this his mark?"

"Wilt thou let me be at peace if I once tell thee?" asked her mother.

"Yes, if thou tellest me all," answered Pearl.

"Once in my life I met the Black Man!" said her mother. "This scarlet letter is his mark."

The Suburban Villa.

[From the Marble Faun.]

But Donatello's enjoyment was of a livelier kind. He soon began to draw long and delightful breaths among those shadowy walks. Judging by the pleasure which the sylvan character of the scene excited in him, it might be no merely fanciful theory to set him down as the kinsman, not far remote, of that wild, sweet, playful, rustic creature, to whose marble image he bore so striking a resemblance. How mirthful a discovery would it be (and yet with a touch of pathos in it), if the breeze which sported fondly with his clustering locks were to waft them suddenly aside, and show a pair of leaf-shaped, furry ears! What an

honest strain of wildness would it indicate! and into what regions of rich mystery would it extend Donatello's sympathies, to be thus linked (and by no monstrous chain) with what we call the inferior tribes of being, whose simplicity, mingled with his human intelligence, might partly restore what man has lost of the divine!

The scenery amid which the youth now strayed was such as arrays itself in the imagination when we read the beautiful old myths, and fancy a brighter sky, a softer turf, a more picturesque arrangement of venerable trees, than we find in the rude and untrained landscapes of the Western world. The ilex-trees, so ancient and time-honored were they, seemed to have lived for ages undisturbed, and to feel no dread of profanation by the axe any more than overthrow by the thunder-stroke. It had already passed out of their dreamy old memories that only a few years ago they were grievously imperilled by the Gaul's last assault upon the walls of Rome. As if confident in the long peace of their lifetime, they assumed attitudes of indolent repose. They leaned over the green turf in ponderous grace, throwing abroad their great branches without danger of interfering with other trees, though other majestic trees grew near enough for dignified society, but too distant for constraint. Never was there a more venerable quietude than that which slept among their sheltering boughs; never a sweeter sunshine than that now gladdening the gentle gloom which these leafy patriarchs strove to diffuse over the swelling and subsiding lawns.

In other portions of the grounds the stonepines lifted their dense clump of branches upon a slender length of stem, so high that they looked like green islands in the air, flinging

down a shadow upon the turf so far off that you hardly knew which tree had made it. Again, there were avenues of cypress, resembling dark flames of huge funeral candles, which spread dusk and twilight round about them instead of cheerful radiance. The more open spots were all a-bloom, even so early in the season, with anemones of wondrous size, both white and rose-colored, and violets that betrayed themselves by their rich fragrance, even if their blue eyes failed to meet your own. Daisies, too, were abundant, but larger than the modest little English flower, and therefore of small account.

These wooded and flowery lawns are more beautiful than the finest of English park scenery, more touching, more impressive, through the neglect that leaves nature so much to her own ways and methods. Since man seldom interferes with her, she sets to work in her quiet way and makes herself at home. There is enough of human care, it is true, bestowed long ago and still bestowed, to prevent wildness from growing into deformity; and the result is an ideal landscape, a woodland scene that seems to have been projected out of the poet's mind. If the ancient Faun were other than a mere creation of old poetry, and could have reappeared anywhere, it must have been in such a scene as this.

In the openings of the wood there are fountains plashing into marble basins, the depths of which are shaggy with water-weeds; or they tumble like natural cascades from rock to rock, sending their murmur afar, to make the quiet and silence more appreciable. Scattered here and there with careless artifice, stand old altars bearing Roman inscriptions. Statues, gray with the long corrosion of even that soft atmosphere, half hide and half reveal themselves, high on pedestals, or perhaps fallen and broken on the turf. Terminal figures, columns of marble or granite porticoes, arches, are seen in the vistas of the wood-paths, either veritable relics of antiquity, or with so exquisite a touch of artful ruin on them that they are better than if really antique. At all events, grass grows on the tops of the shattered pillars, and weeds and flowers root themselves in the chinks of the massive arches and fronts of temples, and clamber at large over their pediments, as if this were the thousandth summer since their winged seeds alighted there.

The ancient dust, the mouldiness of Rome, the dead atmosphere in which he had wasted so many months, the hard pavements, the smell of ruin and decaying generations, the chill palaces, the convent-bells, the heavy incense of altars, the life that he had led in those dark,

narrow streets, among priests, soldiers, nobles, artists, and women-all the sense of these things rose from the young man's consciousness like a cloud which had darkened over him without his knowing how densely.

He drank in the natural influences of the scene, and was intoxicated as by an exhilarating wine. He ran races with himself along the gleam and shadow of the wood-paths. He leapt up to catch the overhanging bough of an ilex, and swinging himself by it alighted far onward, as if he had flown thither through the air. In a sudden rapture he embraced the trunk of a sturdy tree, and seemed to imagine it a creature worthy of affection and capable of a tender response; he clasped it closely in his arms, as a Faun might have clasped the warm, feminine grace of the nymph, whom antiquity supposed to dwell within that rough, encircling rind. Then, in order to bring himself closer to the genial earth, with which his kindred instincts linked him so strongly, he threw himself at full length on the turf, and pressed down his lips, kissing the violets and daisies, which kissed him back again, though shyly, in their maiden fashion.

While he lay there, it was pleasant to see how the green and blue lizzards, who had been basking on some rock or on a fallen pillar that absorbed the warmth of the sun, scrupled not to scramble over him with their small feet; and how the birds alighted on the nearest twigs and sang their little roundelays unbroken by any chirrup of alarm; they recognized him, it may be, as something akin to themselves, or else they fancied that he was rooted and grew there; for these wild pests of nature dreaded him no more in his buoyant life than if a mound of soil and grass and flowers had long since covered his dead body, converting it back to the sympathies from which human existence had estranged it.

All of us, after long abode in cities, have felt the blood gush more joyously through our veins with the first breath of rural air; few could feel it so much as Donatello, a creature of simple elements, bred in the sweet sylvan life of Tuscany, and for months back dwelling amid the mouldy gloom and dim splendor of old Rome. Nature has been shut out for numberless centuries from those stony-hearted streets, to which he had latterly grown accustomed; there is no trace of her, except for what blades of grass spring out of the pavements of the less trodden piazzas, or what weeds cluster and tuft themselves on the cornices of ruins. Therefore his joy was like that of a child that had gone astray from home, and finds him suddenly in his mother's arms again.

KINDERGARTEN PROGRAMME WORK IN WEST SUPERIOR.

Each week's subject is based upon a phase of truth growing out of the thought of the previous week, making the entire programme a connected whole.

Beginning with family relationships, as these are the first relations which he feels, and from this we can go to other natural homes, and to the idea of individual responsibility.

Through the materials are made permanent the important truths developed in the morning talks and stories, and incidentally the properties of the materials, as color, form, number, angles, edges, position, contrast, similarity, etc., are taught.

The activity of the subject is made the basis. for the physical exercises, as every thing the child does in kindergarten is made concrete; for example, in the stretching exercises the child picks cherries, or knocks down ripe nuts, or sows seeds, or he is blustering wind or the leaves blown from the trees, this rests and strengthens his little body, and he is given the correct positions of body and arms for such work.

The play time corresponds to the recess period with the great advantage that here the child's play is a part of his days work, but, so carefully planned that he plays and doesn't know that it really is a lesson. Beginning with the Sense Games, the children are taught to see, hear, smell, feel and hear accurately. These games with their appropriate songs, make the children notice changed positions of objects in the room, and to recognize playmates by their voices, feel things and tell what they are, what used for, where found, etc. The talks and stories are dramatized, each child being some definite part of the whole.

The sports and plays of other nations are played, which really is a most important and beneficial step in future history and Geography study.

The child's conversational powers are developed in reproductions of stories, talks, plays, and local incidents; his memory in the song, and memory gem work; his imagination in the dramatic work; his attention in following logical talks, and his powers of observation in the weather talks, nature work and handling of materials; economy in the careful use of time. and material; morality in following the standard of politeness set by the kindergartner in neatness and cleanliness of all things, helpfulness to others, and regard for their rights, love for lower animal life, and the beauties of nature.

The following is an outline of subjects, not

Holland being sometimes called the "Land of Pluck"; but I doubt if anywhere in all their possessions have these curious people shown their queer and eccentric habits to greater advantage than in the little out-of-the-way island of Saba.

The island is small, its greatest diameter being not over two and one-half miles, and it is nothing more than an isolated mountaintop rising out of the sea. The sides are very steep and high, rising in places for a sheer 2,000 feet. There is no harbor, no beach, no safe anchorage, and no large trees on the island. Although Saba has a population of over 2,500, yet you might sail all around it without seeing any signs of houses or settlements. If you wished to land, or "go abroad," as the Sabans say, you would have to do so on a shelving rock on the southern side of the island; and here you would find a steep, winding flight of stone steps leading up the rocky mountain-side.

Following these steps, which number eight hundred and are called "The Ladder," you at last reach the top of the mountain, and looking inland, see a small grassy plain covered with neat white, red-roofed houses, the whole surrounded on every side by towering peaks and precipices covered with beautiful treeferns, bamboos, and wild plantains. This little town, the only one on the island, is known as "The Bottom"- -a curious name, surely; but it is well named, nevertheless, for the plain on which it is built is nothing more than the bottom of the crater of an extinct volcano.

Descending the slope into this queerest of queer towns, you find the streets simply narrow paths walled with stone, higher in places than your head, while every inch of earth is cultivated with true Dutch thrift and industry. Here and there small patches of sugar-cane, yams, and arrowroot are side by side with beans, corn, and potatoes, with palm and banana trees rising over all. The population consists of whites and negroes in nearly equal numbers, while the blue-eyed and tow-headed children play with blackskinned and curly-haired piccaninnies; but all are Dutch in speech, manners, and looks. The houses, shops, gardens-everything is Dutch. -A. H. Verril in June St. Nicholas.

A BUNCH OF NATURE POEMS.

Whittier's Nature Study. "Knowledge never gained at SchoolOf the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place; Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenant of the wood;

How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
How the ground-mole sinks his well,
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay;
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet-artisans.

For eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks.

Hand in hand with her he walks,

Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy."

-From "The Barefoot Boy."

The Gladness of Nature.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our Mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves on that aspen bower,

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.-Bryant.

The Poet's Song.

The rain had fallen, the poet arose,

He passed by the town and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat.

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the wild swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under the spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared with his foot on the prey.

And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."

The Painter.

Nature hath taken her delicate brush,

Her palette and paints and all.

-Tennyson.

What was he doing the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river?

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep, cool bed of the river,
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,

Then notched the poor, dry, empty thing

In holes as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan,
(Laughed while he sat by the river!)
"The only way since the gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed,"
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan,

Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Maize, the Nation's Emblem.
Upon a hundred thousand plains
Its banners rustle in the breeze,
O'er all the nation's wide domains
From coast to coast betwixt the seas.

It storms the hills and fills the vales,
It marches like an army grand,
The continent its presence hails,
Its beauty brightens all the land.

Far back through history's shadowy page
It shines, a power of boundless good,
The people's prop from age to age,
The one unfailing wealth of food.

God's gift to the New World's great need
That helped to build the nation's strength,
Up through beginnings rude to lead
A higher race of men at length.
How straight and tall and stately stand
Its serried stalks upright and strong!
How nobly are its outlines planned,
What grace and charm to it belong!

What splendor in its rustling leaves!
What richness in its close-set gold!
What largess in its clustered sheaves,
New every year, though ages old!

America, from thy broad breast
It sprang, beneficent and bright,
Of all thy gifts from heaven the best,
For the world's succor and delight.