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Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco-pouch. Some carried what might be called the smoker's complete outfit a pipe, tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches. A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe, but when the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter. The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and solemn the smoker.

Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They can see over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous old gentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them. . Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns. It is a beautiful sight. Forty boys and girls in picturesque attire darting with electric swiftness in and out among each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering in the fulness of youthful glee. A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others halting on one leg, with flushed, eager faces, suddenly cross the suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of them, and every runner seems bewitched. Holland is the place for skaters after all. . . Such jumping, such poising, such spinning, such india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork-no, it is iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball all in an instant. When you think he's erect he is down; and when you think he is down he is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somersault as he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from Jacob Pott's astonished head and

claps it back again "hind side before." Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is Arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate overhead. Big drops already are rolling down your forehead. Superb skater, as you are, you may lose the race.-Hans Brinker.

IN THE CANON.

Intent the conscious mountain stood,
The friendly blossoms nodded,
As through the cañon's lonely wood
We two in silence plodded.

A something owned our presence good;
The very breeze that stirred our hair
Whispered a gentle greeting;

A grand, free courtesy was there,
A welcome from the summit bare
Down to the brook's entreating.

Stray warblers in the branches dark
Shot through the leafy passes,
While the long note of meadow-lark
Rose from the neighboring grasses;
The yellow lupines, spark on spark,
From the more open woodland way,
Flashed through the sunlight faintly;
A wind-blown little flower, once gay,
Looked up between its petals gray
And smiled a message saintly.

The giant ledges, red and seamed,
The clear, blue sky, tree-fretted;

The mottled light that round us streamed,
The brooklet vexed and petted;

The bees that buzzed, the gnats that dreamed,

The flitting, gauzy things of June;

The plain, far off like misty ocean,

Or, cloud-land bound, a fair lagoon -
They sang within us like a tune,

They swayed us like a dream of motion.

The hours went loitering to the West.
The shadows lengthened slowly;
The radiant snow on mountain crest
Made all the distance holy.

Near by, the earth lay full of rest,
The sleepy foot-hills, one by one,
Dimpled their way to twilight;

And ere the perfect day was done
There came long gleams of tinted sun,
Through heaven's crimson skylight.

Slowly crept on the listening night,

The sinking moon shone pale and slender; We hailed the cotton-woods, in sight,

The home-roof gleaming near and tender, Guiding our quickened steps aright,

Soon darkened all the mighty hills,
The gods were sitting there in shadow;
Lulled were the noisy woodland rills,
Silent the silvery woodland trills -
'Twas starlight over Colorado.

THE TWO MYSTERIES.

We know not what is, dear,
This sleep so deep and still;
The folded hands, the awful calm,
The cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again,
Though we may call and call;
The strange white solitude of peace
That settles over all.

We know not what it means, dear,

This desolate heart-pain;

This dread to take our daily way,

And walk in it again;

We know not to what other sphere

The loved who leave us go,

Nor why we're left to wander still,

Nor why we do not know.

But this we know: our loved and dead,
If they should come this day -

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Should come and ask us, What of life?"

Not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery as deep

As ever death can be;
Yet oh! how dear it is to us
This life we live and see!

Then might they say

these vanished ones—

And blessed is the thought! —
"So death is sweet to us, beloved,
Though we may show you naught;
We may not to the quick reveal

The mystery of death

Ye cannot tell us, if ye would,
The mystery of breath."

The child who enters life comes not
With knowledge or intent,

So those who enter death must go
As little children sent,
Nothing is known. But I believe

That God is overhead;

And as life is to the living,
So death is to the dead.

ODGSON, CHARLES LUTWIDGE ("LEWIS CARROLL"), an English clergyman and author; born in 1832; died at Guilford, January 14, 1898. His principal works are A Syllabus of Plain Algebraical Geometry (1860); Guide to the Mathematical Student, etc. (1864); Elementary Treatise on Determinants (1867). He wrote, under the pseudonym of "Lewis Carroll," two very popular tales for

children, entitled Alice in Wonderland (1869), and Through the Looking-glass (1875). He also published The Hunting of the Snark (1876); Rhyme? and Reason? (1883); A Tangled Tale (1886); Euclid and His Modern Rivals (1886); Game of Logic (1887); Curiosa and Mathematica (1888); Sylvic and Bruno (1890), and Symbolic Logic (1896).

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THE MOCK TURTLE'S STORY.

Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your very interesting story," but she could not help thinking there. must be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, 66 Iwe went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle we used to call him Tortoise —"

Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked.

"We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily; "really you are very dull." The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations in fact, we went to school every day —"

"I've been to a day-school too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that."

"With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle, a little anxiously.

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"Yes," said Alice, we learned French and music."

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And washing?" said the Mock Turtle.

"Certainly not!" said Alice, indignantly.

"Ah! Then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at ours they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, and washing extra.'"

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