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IN LIGHTER VEIN.

Aunt Lucretia's Libretto.

who was listening for the second time to a description of "the feller that was the livin' image of Caleb Sprowl,"

MAN who tirage which reinind them of home. don't see no reason in your leavis home. Diprovou

ANY people who travel find their greatest enjoyment "if you set so much on the looks of Caleb Sprowl, I

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greatly to the surprise of her neighbors, she announced her intention of visiting a niece who lived in Boston. "I've got all wore out seein' the same folks from year's end to year's end," she said, " and I 'm a-goin' where I sha'n't see a cow nor a neighbor fer a good spell."

Aunt Lucretia was warmly welcomed. She was taken to see Bunker Hill Monument (which was not as tall as she expected), to the new Public Library, the Art Museum, and to all the noted churches in the city. Still the old lady did not seem to be well entertained. She expressed no admiration and but little surprise. Indeed, her manner, so far from being that of a countrywoman who had never been beyond the limits of her native town, was blasé and indifferent in the extreme.

One afternoon she went with her niece to see "The Old Homestead." She evidently enjoyed it, and that evening had a great deal to say about the play.

"There, that play was the most natural thing I 've seen since I left home," she said in a satisfied tone. "I jest wish I could remember what that old feller's name was that looked so much like Caleb Sprowl," and the old lady chuckled reminiscently. "If any of you are calculatin' to take me round any more, you can take me to see that piece again. I don't want to urge it upon you, but I should be perfectly willin' to go 'most any time." Upon her return home, Aunt Lucretia had but little to say of her visit. But to each inquiring neighbor she would relate, as nearly as she could recall them, the different scenes in "The Old Homestead."

"Land, Mrs. Moore!" finally exclaimed an old lady

"

"Of course I did. I see all there was to see, went to a fair and a picture-show, and nigh about wore myself out. But, there, 't was n't what I expected, and I did n't expect 't would be; so when Maria took me to see that show I jest begun to feel to home and enjoy myself. I don't s'pose 't will be likely to get so fur east as this, but if it should, I'd be willin' to pay Caleb's fare in jest so he could see how he looks in that old linen duster. I'd give considerable to know that old feller's name; but I came off 'n' left my libretto that had the names printed on it, and I can't seem to recall it." Alice Turner.

The Touch of Spring.

I HEARD, as the wind went by me,
A breath, or was it a sigh?
Something too vague for rhyming,
Too tuneless for melody.

Light-lighter than moth-wings floating,
And yet, as it swept along,
It wrote on my heart a poem,
And drew from my soul a song.

Mary Ainge De Vere.

Could n't Get By.

I TRIED to climb Parnassus high,
But gave up in despair;
For at the foot 't was crowded by
The asses grazing there.

John Kendrick Bangs.

In the Wintergreen Patch.

ONE morning, ere springtime was yet on the wane,
While the opals of dew gemmed the grass in the lane,
Where the woodland was weaving its sheltering thatch
I found, as I strayed, a fine wintergreen patch.

And there was a maid, in no finery tricked,
Whose lips were as red as the berries she picked,
Whose eyes had more blue than the lupine could hold,
And whose hair had the glint of the buttercup's gold.

She smiled, and my feet, as if spellbound, must stop,
While my foolish old heart seemed to buzz like a top;
She spoke, and the words, as they fell from her tongue,
Had more charm than the song that the hermit-thrush
sung.

Her hands were so slender, her fingers so white,
To watch their swift play was a dream of delight.
Who can foil Madam Fate? There was naught could

avail;

I was tranced by each berry that dropped in the pail.

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Perhaps 't is all in their vocation,

Perhaps they would starve, did they not;
But one thing demands legislation,
One criminal, extermination,-
Or, at the least, expatriation,-
The reviewer who tells us the plot.

When life, though we patiently take it,
Is often so bitter a pill;

So acid a draught, though we shake it,
And strive effervescent to make it,
May we not, for a moment, forsake it
By losing ourselves in a thrill?

If mystery veil the last pages,
We can live in the heroine's life,-

Or the hero's,- can rage when he rages,
Can fight in the battle he wages,
And come, by his various stages,
Triumphantly out of the strife.

But when, before even beginning,
We know what the end is, how tame
Becomes the amusement- the spinning
And weaving employed for our winning
Seem visibly shrinking and thinning;
And for this is the author to blame?

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THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK.

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ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE.

FROM A CHALK DRAWING AT BISCOMBE, AFTER THE ORIGINAL PORTRAIT BY MISS CURRAN, BY PERMISSION OF LADY SHELLEY.

you very shelley

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Thou hast a voice, Great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.

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F Shelley's lines are true for Mont Blanc, they must, a fortiori, be true for Japan's great sacred mountain, Fuji-san. All mountains in the Mikado's empire are reverenced, but "Fuji the Peerless" preeminently. Rising on all sides with a majestic sweep from the plains of Suruga and Ko-shiu, the symmetric cone of Fuji, in figure nearly ideal, attains an elevation of 12,500 feet above the sea.

All the mountains of Japan are of unquestioned volcanic origin, and Fuji stands where Hondo, the main island, is broadest. About twenty craters are still active throughout the islands, but Fuji-san belongs to the much greater number which are now inactive. Its last eruption occurred in 1707, continuing more than a month. As far away as Tokyo, sixty miles northeast, the ashes fell to a depth of seven or eight inches; while on the Tokaido, twelve or fifteen miles southeast, the accumulation was six feet. At this time was

formed Ho-yei-san, a secondary or parasitic cone on the southeast slope.

No other mountains in Japan reach within three thousand feet of the elevation of Fuji, and it is therefore in prominent view from an immense area, including thirteen provinces of the empire. Certain avenues in Tokyo are called Fuji-mi, or Fuji-viewing streets, and from all of them the famous peak is a glorious spectacle.1 All winter long the summit of Fuji-san is unapproachable, and from November to July snows reign supreme. In the latter month, however, when the trails up the mountain slopes are laid bare, the ascent becomes feasible, and remains so throughout the summer and early autumn.

Our interest in ascending Fuji-san was not that of the tourist, merely to say that he had been to the top; nor of the Japanese pilgrim, to pay vows at the shrine of the adorable goddess Kono-Hana-Saku-ya-Himé; nor yet of the poet, who, if he wish still to venerate the lofty eminence, had better stay below; but of the scientist purely, and for the purpose of making sundry observations bearing upon the perma1 Fuji-no-yama, Fuji-san, Fujiyama, Fusiyama, and famed peak in frequent usage. Fuji-no-yama and FujiFuji plain and simple-all are designations of the far- san are preferable orthography. Copyright, 1892, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.

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