Puslapio vaizdai

enriched it, making it more flexible and the only agent in promoting this developcolloquial, and enlarging its vocabulary ment, but he did more than any other sinfrom the language of the people, spoken gle man, and above all books his German and written. He had a wide knowledge Bible contributed most. of current literature, devotional and other- But even more than the oneness of lanwise, and an enormous fund of popular guage promoted by it was the unity of saws and proverbs, and his style, as a rule, sentiment to which it contributed. Di

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was not only simple and clear, but won- vided the land was still, and torn for many derfully vivid and picturesque. It was no a day with conflicts more bitter than it had exaggeration when a contemporary de- ever known, but the Luther Bible went clared, "Dr. Martin is a real German on generation by generation nourishing Cicero. He has not only taught us the similar ideals and serving as few other true religion, but has reformed the Ger- agencies to unify the spirit of the Germanman tongue, and there is no writer on speaking race. earth who equals him in it.” His writings Thus the Reformer's enforced retiredid much to promote the spread of the ment bore rich fruit. Set aside from his German he used and to give the whole active work as leader of the Reformation, country a common language.

He was not

he employed the quiet weeks of winter


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solitude in the lonely castle in a stupen- else, would alone have won for him the dous task, which, had he done nothing lasting gratitude of his native land.


(To be continued)


RESTORATION IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY The room which is to-day shown as Luther's workroom, where, supposedly, he translated the New Testament, is in the large gable end and

is lighted partly by the lower of the two windows.


(Georges Chavez, after crossing the Alps in his aëroplane, fell and was killed Sept. 23, 1910.)

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And so lies down, in slumber lapped for aye.
Diana, passing, found his youth too fair,

His soul too fleet and willing to obey.
She swung her golden moon before his eyes —
Dreaming he rose to follow-and ran-and was away.
His foot was wingèd as the mounting sun.

Earth he disdained- the dusty ways of men
Not yet had learned. His spirit longed to run

With the bright clouds, his brothers, to answer when
The airs were fleetest and could give him hand
Into the starry fields beyond our plodding ken.
All wittingly that glorious way he chose,

And loved the peril when it was most bright.
He tried anew the long forbidden snows

And like an eagle topped the dropping height
Of Nagenhorn, and still toward Italy
Past peak and cliff pressed on, in glad, unerring flight.
Oh when the bird lies low with golden wing

Bruised past healing by some bitter chance,
Still must its tireless spirit mount and sing

Of meadows green with morning, of the dance
On windy trees, the darting flight away,
And of that last, most blue, triumphant downward glance.
So murmuring of the snow: The snow, and more,

O God, more snow!on that last field he lay.
Despair and wonder spent their passionate store

In his great heart, through heaven gone astray,
And early lost. Too far the golden moon
Had swung upon that bright, that long, untraversed way.
Now to lie ended on the murmuring plain-

Ah, this for his bold heart was not the loss,
But that those windy fields he ne'er again

Might try, nor feet and shimmering mountains cross,
Unfollowed, by a path none other knew :
His bitter woe had here its deep and piteous cause.
Dear toils of youth unfinished! And songs unwritten left

By young and passionate hearts! O melodies
Unheard, whereof we ever stand bereft!

Clear-singing Schubert, boyish Keats-with these
He roams henceforth, one with the starry band,

Still paying to fairy call and far command
His spirit heed, still winged with golden prophecies.


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"TS thee ready, Cousin Mar' Ellen?" hung silent, as it had for years. The names

asked Aunt Mary Alice. She pauscd on the chance signs here and there were for a moment at the door of a little house those known for a century or more. The the brick front of which was well-nigh garb of the two old ladies who now passed covered with morning-glories, and the down Cousin Mary Ellen's brick walk to short, straight walk of which gave directly the little front gate was one that had reupon the single street of Warrenford. “It mained unchanged in cut or color for a is almost time, thee knows."

century or more. It was that once most A gentle voice replied from somewhere commonly seen hereabout, the dull-colamong the morning-glories. A small bird ored habit of the Society of Friends, chirped sweetly in its cage at the window, shaped as their mothers and grandmothers and a big bee buzzed almost as loudly had worn it. among the phlox which grew along the They made a quaint and unworldly picbrick walk. Such always were almost the ture, these two, as they stepped out upon only sounds on the single street of War- the shaded street. They walked slowly, renford on a day like this. The summits gently, fitting perfectly into the quiet picof the Blue Ridge seemed more than ever ture which lay about them. At the postsoftened to-da the wavering light of the office, far behind them up the street, there kindly summer day tempered by some might have been half a dozen village loiquality which left the landscape more than terers, but on the street itself there was usually tender. All the world was gentle no commerce. If a slow figure passed here and quiet here. Rather, the world itself or there, it was that of an old man or old had passed by long ago, and left this little

Youth had almost wholly despot to tell, to such few as chanced or parted from the place. cared to see it, of another and different "I hope that Lucy Maxwell will be day, albeit also one of rest and quiet. ready, as thee always is, Cousin Mar' Nothing but peace and calm had been Ellen," commented Aunt Mary Alice, known here from the old times of Lord presently. “Tch! tch! It is not seemly Fairfax up to the days of the Civil War. to be late at the meeting-house. Does it Since that upheaval, some of the younger seem to thee, Cousin Mar' Ellen, that it men of Warrenford had passed away be- is harder to be prompt now than once it yond the mountains in search of other was?" homes; but Warrenford itself, quaint and “But Lucy Maxwell is younger than wholly old-fashioned, remained but little we are, Aunt Mar' Alice,” rejoined her changed. Its one winding street still companion, "and thee knows she is mostly crawled at the edge of the hills; its bright very punctual." and shallow stream still crossed the street When they arrived at the home of as of old, unbridged; the old mill-wheel Miss Lucy Maxwell, the latter was dis


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