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HARLES KINGSLEY was born at Holme Vicarage, on the borders of Dartmoor, Devon, Eng., in 1819, and was educated at home until the age of fourteen, when he became a pupil of Rev. Derwent Coleridge, and afterwards a student at King's College, London. From there he went to Magdalen College, Cambridge, where he was very successful, and took his B. A. degree in 1842, coming out as a senior optime with a first-class in classics. At the end of the year he was ordained by Dr. Sumner, Bishop of Winchester, and became curate at Eversley, a moorland parish in Hampshire, and, that living becoming vacant, he was presented to it by the patron, Sir John Cope, Bart. (1844), holding that benefice for thirty years. He was appointed regius professor of modern history at Cambridge in 1859, but resigned that office ten years later on being appointed by the Crown, Canon of Chester. He held that office for only four years, as on the death of Canon Nepean in 1873 he was named to the Westminster canonry. He was Chaplain in Ordinary to the Queen (1859), one of the chaplains to the Prince of Wales, and Domestic Chaplain to Lord Sydney.

In early life he was an eager apostle of socialism and democracy, and was one of a small party of young men who keenly and actively interested themselves in the cause of the working classes after the collapse of political chartism in 1848, and earned for himself the title of the "Chartist Parson." They started a magazine called Politics for the People, addressed meetings and set up the college in Red Lion Square.

To this period and its prevailing influences belong the first noteworthy writings of Charles Kingsley, such as "Yeast," "Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet," "Hypatia, or New Foes With An Old Face," and "Two Years Ago." Among his other works may be mentioned: "Westward Ho," a stirring tale of the Elizabethan sea-rovers; "Hereward the Wake," a story of the struggles between the Saxons in the Fen country and their Norman conqueror; and "The Water Babies," a story for children. Some of his songs have taken a permanent place in English literature. He died in 1875. T. H. W.

THE THREE FISHERS. THREE fishers went sailing away to the west, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the


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For men must work and women must weep,
And there's little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to town. For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner it 's over the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.


"WATCHMAN, what of the night?" "The stars are out in the sky,

And the merry round moon will be rising soon, For us to go sailing by."

"Watchman, what of the night?"

"The tide flows in from the sea; There's water to float a little cock-boat Will carry such fishers as we."

"Watchman, what of the night?"

"The night is a fruitful time; When to many a pair are born children fair, To be christened at morning chime."


TO C. E. G.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol

Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long, And so make life and death, and that forever, One grand sweet song.


"O, MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee."


The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land, And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress of golden hair,

A drownéd maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.


THE baby sings not on its mother's breast;
Nor nightingales, who nestle side by side;
Nor I by thine; but let us only part,

Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still,
As having uttered all, must speak again.

Oh, stunted thoughts! Oh, chill and fettered rhyme!

Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,
Losing its proper home, can find no rest.
So, like a child who wiles away the time
With dance and carol till the even-tide,
Watching its mother homeward through the glen;
Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart,
Tells to his listening mate within the nest
The wonder of his star-entranced heart,
Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill-
Forth all my being bubbles into song,

And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.


WHEN all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;

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