By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,

We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window

pane;

And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings,-" It is Christmas-all is well!"

Hiram Foster's Thanksgiving Turkey

BY S. E. KISER.

[Of the many poems written when President McKinley was assassinated, none surpassed in sympathy and original conception the verses printed below.]

See that turkey out there, mister? Ain't he big and fat and nice?

Well, you couldn't buy that gobbler, not for any kind of price. Now, I'll tell you how it happened: 'Way along last spring,

you know,

This here turkey's mother hatched some twenty little ones

or so

Hatched 'em in the woods down yonder, and come marchin' home one day

With them stringin' out behind 'er, catchin' bugs along the

way.

Well, my little grandson named 'em-both his folks are dead,

you see,

So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and

me.

He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley,

One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but I Liked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow

He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now. How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear,

It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air.

And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot, And you'd ought to seen the mother-proud of him?—I tell you what!

So I says to ma and Charley-oh, three months ago at leastThat I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast.

Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here, And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this

year.

Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to

me,

After all the things that's happened, than I-well, somehow you see

I was in his ridgement-so you'll please excuse me I

dunno

I don't want to show my feelin's sometimes folks can't help it, though.

Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away; Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day?

See how all his feathers glisten-ain't he big and plump and

nice?

No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price. That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name

McKinley to,

He'll die natural-that's something turkeys mighty seldom

do.

The Winning of Lorna Doone

(From Lorna Doone.)

BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

[The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells the story, while fishing one spring had followed a stream into the Doone estate. When the following scene opens he had just had a desperate struggle to save himself from the swift current of the stream, and had nearly lost his life.]

HEN I came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mold, and a little girl, kneeling at my side, was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she whispered, softly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her; "now you will try to be better, won't you?"

I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from betweer: her bright red lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterward; although at that time she was too young to know what made her take to me.

Thereupon I sat upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country brogue, lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as if I were a great play thing.

What is your name?" she said, as if she had every right

to ask me; "and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great bag?" "You had better let them alone," I said; "they are loaches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you like."

<< Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they are only fish. But how your feet are bleeding! Oh, I must tie them up for you. And no shoes nor stockings! Is your mother very poor, poor boy?"

"No," I said, being vexed at this; "we are rich enough to buy all this great meadow, if we chose; and here my shoes and stockings be."

66

"Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot bear to see your feet. Oh, please to let me bandage them; I will do it very softly."

"Oh, I don't think much of that," I replied; "I shall put some goose grease to them. But how you are looking at me! I never saw one like you before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?"

"Lorna Doone," she answered, in a low voice, as if afraid of it, and hanging her head so that I could see only her forehead and eyelashes; "if you please, my name is Lorna Doone, and I thought you must have known it."

Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her. Nevertheless, I could not help looking at her tenderly, and the more when her blushes turned into tears, and her tears to long, low sobs.

"Don't cry," I said, "whatever you do. I am sure you have never done any harm. I will give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch some more for mother; only don't be angry with me."

She flung her soft arms up in the passion of her tears, and looked at me so piteously that what did I do but kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd thing, when I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as all honest boys must do. But she touched my heart with a sudden delight.

She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in her place would have done; nay, she even wiped her lips (which methought was rather rude of her), and drew away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedom.

I, for my part, being vexed at her behavior to me, took up all my things to go, and made a fuss about it, to let her know I was going. But she did not call me back at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover, I knew that to try

the descent was almost certain death to me, and it looked as dark as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned round again, and came back to her, and said, "Lorna."

"Oh, I thought you were gone," she answered; "why did you ever come here? Do you know what they would do to us if they found you here with me?"

"Beat us, I dare say, very hard, or me at least. They could never beat you."

"No. They would kill us both outright, and bury us here by the water; and the water often tells me that I must come to that."

"But what should they kill me for?

66 Because you have found the way up here, and they could never believe it. Now, please to go; oh please go. They will kill us both in a moment. Yes, I like you very much" -for I was teasing her to say it-" very much indeed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only please to go, John. And when your feet are well, you know, you can come and tell me how they are."

"But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very much indeed, nearly as much as Annie, and a great deal more than Lizzie. And I never saw any one like you; and I must come back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me; and I will bring you such lots of things-there are apples still, and a thrush that I caught, with only one leg broken, and our dog has just had puppies

"Oh dear! they won't let me have a dog. There is not a dog in the valley. They say that they are such noisy things-"

'Only put your hands in mine what little things they are, Lorna!—and I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will show you just how long he is."

"Hush!" A shout came down the valley, and all my heart was trembling, like water after sunset, and Lorna's face was altered from pleasant play to terror. She shrunk to me, and looked up at me, with such a power of weakness, that I at once made up my mind to save her or die with her. A tingle went through all my bones, and I only longed for my carbine. The little girl took courage from me, and put her cheek quite close to mine.

"Come with me down the water-fall. I can carry you easily, and mother will take care of you."

66 No, no," she cried, as I took her up; "I will tell

you what