coach up her sleeve-well, anyhow, you jest believe that punkin' coach, rats, mice, and all, when you're hearin' 'bout it, 'fore ever you stop to think it ain't so. I don' know how 'tis, but the folks in that Cinderella story seem to match together somehow; they're all pow'ful onlikely-the prince-feller with the glass slipper, and the hull bunch; but jest the same you kind o' gulp 'em all down together. But land, Rebecky, you can't swaller that there village maiden o' your'n, and as for that what's-his-name Littlefield, that come out o' them bushes, such a feller never'd 'a' be'n in bushes! No, Rebecky, you're the smartest little critter there is in this township, and you beat your Uncle Jerry all holler when it comes to usin'a lead pencil, but I say that ain't no true Riverborostory! Look at the way they talk! What was that 'bout being 'betrothed'?"

'Betrothed is a genteel word for engaged to be married," explained the crushed and chastened author; and it was fortunate the doting old man did not notice her eyes in the twilight, or he might have known that tears were not far away.

"Well, that's all right, then; I'm as ignorant as Cooper's cow when it comes to the dictionary. How about what's-hisname callin' the girl 'Naysweet'?"

"I thought myself that sounded foolish," confessed Rebecca; "but it's what the Doctor calls Cora when he tries to persuade her not to quarrel with his mother who comes to live with them. I know they don't say it in Riverboro or Temperance, but I thought perhaps it was Boston talk."

"Well, it ain't!" asserted Mr. Cobb decisively. "I've druv Boston men up in the stage from Milltown many's the time, and none of 'em ever said Naysweet to me, nor nothin' like it. They talked like folks, every mother's son of 'em! If I'd 'a' had that what's-hisname on the 'harricane deck' o' the stage and he tried any naysweetin' on me, I'd 'a' pitched him into the cornfield, side o' the road. I guess you ain't growed up enough for that kind of a story, Rebecky, for your poetry can't be beat in York County, that's sure, and your compositions are good enough to read out loud in town meetin' any day!" Rebecca brightened up a little and bade the old couple her usual affectionate goodnight, but she descended the hill in a saddened mood. When she reached the bridge the sun, a ball of red fire, was setting behind

Squire Bean's woods. As she looked, it shone full on the broad, still bosom of the river, and for one perfect instant the trees on the shores were reflected, all swimming in a sea of pink. Leaning over the rail, she watched the light fade from crimson to carmine, from carmine to rose, from rose to amber, and from amber to gray. Then withdrawing Lancelot, or the Parted Lovers from her apron pocket she tore them into bits and dropped them into the water below with a sigh.

"Uncle Jerry never said a word about the ending!" she thought; "and that was so nice!"

And she was right; but while Uncle Jerry was an illuminating critic when it came to the actions and language of his Riverboro neighbors he had no power to direct the young mariner when she "followed the gleam," and used her imagination.)

Rebecca Rowena Randall.

(This copy not corrected by Miss Dearborn yet.)

We find ourselves very puzzled in approaching this truly great and national question though we have tried very ernestly to understand it, so as to show how wisely and wonderfully our dear teacher guides the youthful mind, it being her wish that our composition class shall long be remembered in Riverboro Centre.

We would say first of all that punishment seems more benefercently needed by boys than girls. Boys' sins are very violent, like stealing fruit, profane language, playing truant, fighting, breaking windows, and killing innocent little flies and bugs. If these were not taken out of them early in life it would be impossible for them to become like our martyred presidents, Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant.

Although we have asked everybody on our street, they think boys' sins can only be whipped out of them with a switch or strap, which makes us feel very sad, as boys when not sinning the dreadful sins mentioned above seem just as good as girls, and never cry when switched, and say it does not hurt much.

We now approach girls, which we know better, being one. Girls seem better than boys because their sins are not so noisy and

showy. They can disobey their parents and aunts, whisper in silent hour, cheat in lessons, say angry things to their school mates, tell lies, be sulky and lazy, but all these can be conducted quite ladylike and genteel, and nobody wants to strap girls because their skins are tender and get black and blue very easily. Punishments make one very unhappy and rewards very happy, and one would think when one is happy one would behave the best. We were acquainted with a girl who gave herself rewards every day for a week, and it seemed to make her as lovely a character as one could wish; but perhaps if one went on for years giving rewards to onesself one would become selfish. One cannot tell, one can only fear.

If a dog kills a sheep we should whip him straight away, and on the very spot where he can see the sheep, or he will not know what we mean, and may forget and kill another. The same is true of the human race. We must be firm and patient in punishing, no matter how much we love the one who has done wrong, nor how hungry she is. It does no good to whip a person with one hand and offer her a pickled beet with the other. This confuses her mind, and she may grow up not knowing right from wrong.*

*The striking example of the pickled beet was removed from the essay by the refined but ruthless Miss Dearborn, who strove patiently, but vainly, to keep such vulgar images out of her pupils' literary efforts.

We now respectfully approach the Holy Bible and the people in the Bible were punished the whole time, and that would seem to make it right. Everybody says Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth; but we think ourself, that the Lord is a better punisher than we are, and knows better how and when to do it having attended to it ever since the year B. C. while the human race could not know about it till 1492 A. D., which is when Columbus discovered America.

We do not believe we can find out all about this truly great and national subject till we get to heaven, where the human race, strapped and unstrapped, if any, can meet together and laying down their harps discuss how they got there.

And we would gently advise boys to be more quiet and genteel in conduct and try rewards to see how they would work. Rewards are not all like the little rosebud merit-cards we receive on Fridays, and which boys sometimes tear up and fling scornfully to the breeze when they get outside, but girls preserve carefully in an envelope.

Some rewards are great and glorious, for boys can get to be governor or school trustee or road commissioner or president, while girls can only be wife and mother. But all of us can have the ornament of a meek and lowly spirit, especially girls, who have more use for it than boys. R. R. R.

MARIENBAD, August, 1905. HE pines looked black indeed as we came in sight of Marienbad, a straggling little white village standing really very high (we had been going up steadily since Eger), but looking as if it were in a hollow, so shut in on three sides by high hills—rather like a crescent in shape, with a long stretch of green meadows running down the valley. It had been raining, and the great masses of pines on the hillsides looked black and impenetrable, rising up into the gray clouds, so low in some places that they made a great belt of mist along the sides of the mountains, the tops of the trees just emerging from a sea of clouds. It was very damp and chilly, rather depressing; but the next day's beautiful blue sky and bright sun quite effaced the first melancholy impression.

It is a pretty little place. One long street-the Kaiserstrasse-most animated with hotels, shops, and people, and smaller streets running off on each side to the Promenade and baths. There are villas and apartment houses in every direction, all looking tempting, clean, and airy-a great many balconies with chairs and awnings. Evidently everything is arranged for as much out-of door life as possible. The early morning hours at the Promenade are most amusing and interesting for a student of human nature in all its forms. One sees every type and hears every language under the sun. It is the height of the season, and there are three or four long rows of people stretching quite far down the Promenade, all with glasses in their hands, advancing about an inch at a time, and so afraid of losing their places in the line that they hardly move to let one pass through. There are some terrible monstrosities-such protruding stomachs and massive legs and arms that one wonders how they can get transported here in any kind of conveyance. One or two well-known figures, old habitués, whom the people all stop and look at, as they would at the fat woman or the twoheaded child at a country fair. Poor peo

ple; one can understand that they would go through any sort of fatigue and stand for hours in a line waiting for a glass of the wonderful water, that would give them a semblance of humanity. As soon as they have had their glasses filled, they all start down the Promenade, walking and sipping. One is supposed to take the waters slowly, and always moving. One hour must elapse between the last glass of water and breakfast, and we all toil slowly up the steep hills to some high café for our first cup of tea, which never tastes as well anywhere else.

King Edward is to arrive next week, and the "Kur" officials are very busy cleaning up. New paths and roads are being made, alleys raked and cleared, and there is a general air of preparation for the royal guest. Some of the old habitués are very interesting when they talk about Marienbad and the great changes in their recollections. The whole place is owned and run by the monks of Tepl, who have a great establishment, half monastery, half farm, at the little village of Tepl, about two hours' drive from Marienbad. They have always occupied themselves very much with the people around them, as well as with the country-providing work for the men in the surrounding villages and developing to the utmost extent the resources of the region.

It is the history of all great isolated monasteries-one sees it so often in travelling. Many of them are beautifully situated, standing high generally, well protected by hills or great forests behind them, with vineyards and gardens covering the sunny slopes every inch cultivated. Once established

the monks gave all their energies to bettering the condition of the people and getting all they could out of the land. Early in 1700 the monks of Tepl began to realize what a treasure they possessed in the Kreuz and Ferdinand Brunnen of Marienbad, and set to work quietly and laboriously to transform their wilderness of pine forests, bare hills, and marshy meadows into the great health resort it has since become. They began by piercing one or two roads and paths through the thick forests, then a small hotel

and most primitive bathing establishment were built, and a few people, shopkeepers and small proprietors, were induced by the monks to try their fortunes in the new venture. The success was complete and rapid. No foreigners came at first; the Kurgäste were almost all Austrians and Germans, and the life was most primitive and simple; but as the fame of the wonderful cures spread, people flocked there from all parts of the world, and to-day it is a charming place with every modern comfort and convenience.

The great mass of people go there to reduce weight, but the waters are efficacious for many things; rheumatism, liver, stomach, a certain kind of heart trouble (too much fat around the heart), and any nervous disorder. I think the mud baths (most disagreeable to take) are wonderful for both rheumatism and nerves; but I must say it required a certain courage the first time to plunge into that mass of black, liquid, bubbling mud. One of the favorite walks in Marienbad is to the "Moorlager," which provides all the mud for the baths. It is a curious black marsh-great blocks cut out of it, not unlike the peat marshes in Ireland and France. It quite reminded me of the "tourbières" (peat marshes) near us in the country. It was a wild, desolate stretch of country -the mud quite black, every now and then a dull-yellow streak, which they told me meant iron, and equally black pine woods shutting it in. Of course it goes through many preparations before it is used for the baths.

We are taking up our regular Kur life, drinking three or four glasses of the KreuzBrunnen, and taking mud or ambrosia baths ―as they are prescribed by the doctor. I think even without the waters one would get back health and strength in this beautiful pure air and perfectly quiet, well-regulated life. Many people begin their day very early, going down to the spring at five o'clock. They tell us that General Gallifet, who has been coming here for years, was always the first at the springs. Everybody knows the sturdy, soldierly figure that the slouched hat and round military cape can't disguise. The girls at the springs, the policemen, the Tepl monks, all know him, and he has a smiling good-morning for all.

Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman told me rather a pretty story about him. He was here several times on the 2d of September (the anniversary of Sedan). All the Ger

mans deck themselves with the blue cornflower (the German Emperor's flower) on that day, and parade the Promenade rather ostentatiously. Gallifet stood it once or twice, and then absented himself for one or two days always at that epoch. When he returned once from one of these absences he found a splendid basket of roses in his rooms, with this inscription, "From the German Colony in Marienbad to the bravest soldier in France."

We generally get down about seven o'clock, and when it is fine the morning hours are delightful. Everyone is on the Promenade between seven and eight. One sees all one's friends and makes plans for the day. The people are always an unending source of interest to me. None of them look very ill-so different from the Riviera and the Swiss sanatoriums, where one is surrounded by invalids, many of them young; so pathetic to see them cut off from all the sports and pleasures of their age, dragging themselves along in the sun, trying to make the most of a short life. Here they look fairly comfortable, the stoutness evidently the result of easy living and too much good food. Occasionally one sees someone with crutches or a cane, but not often.

The bits of conversation that one hears are amusing, always on the same subject— how many kilos one has lost or must lose, how many miles one has walked, and how little one can eat. I heard a German woman the other day talking to some friends who were complaining bitterly of the dulness of the place. "Nothing to do, no casino, always the same things to eat. What do you do with yourself?" "I eat small, and I soon to bed," was the answer.

The evenings don't exist. Everybody sups about eight o'clock; one strolls down the Kaiserstrasse, or up and down the terrace of the English Hill (on the other side of the Promenade, where almost all the hotels are filled with English), and by ten o'clock there is scarcely a soul to be seen out of doors. However, it is a charming place, so restful to the eyes. The dark walls of pines with long narrow paths cut through them so long that the opening to the sunlight seems miles away and the stretches of bright meadow high up on the hills are quite beautiful. We always go for our first cup of tea to the Egerländer café, which stands fairly high, about half an hour's walk from the

Promenade. The view of Marienbad and the valley is very extended, and one sees quite well from the terrace the crescent of hills which surround the little town. On a fine morning everyone breakfasts outside. There are quantities of little tables under the trees, and the young waitresses have their hands full for about an hour and a half. Some of the girls are very pretty; all dressed in the Egerländer costume-a short skirt, black bodice, white chemisette, and a black or dark handkerchief on their heads embroidered in bright colors. They are all numbered, have a silver number on the front of their bodices, and one hears cries for six, eight, etc., all over the place. Number Six, a pretty, dark-eyed little girl, has adopted us. She is very quick and remembers what each member of the party takes. Apparently other people find her quick, too, as we hear her hailed from many tables as she passes along. "Sechs, Ich sterbe vor Hunger" (I am dying of hunger) "Six, you have given my eggs to someone else," etc. We asked her one day what she did in the winter when the season was over; and she answered us with a smile and a blush that she went back to her village in the mountains and made her linen, as she was going to be married. One of our friends, a young Englishman, who was very pleased with her, was anxious to give her a gold watch, but we all remonstrated vigorously, and thought the peasant fiancé, waiting for his bride to return, would not be pleased to see her with a gold watch a gentleman had given her.

Sunday morning is interesting at the Springs. The whole world turns out, and it is wonderful what passes when one is sitting on a bench in the sun. Many pretty women, Austrians, tall and slight, dressed almost all in very tight-fitting tailor costumes; many English, the women with their wonderful fresh complexions and practical garments, the men often in extraordinary tweed clothes, impossible colors and loosely made, but with a certain chic; three or four monks from Tepl, usually very big men wearing long black cloaks over white soutanes and broad-brimmed hats, looking keenly about and noticing everything; American families, the girls pretty, well dressed, curious about everything, having generally been everywhere and seen whatever there was to see, have automobiled all through England and Germany, done a part of the London sea

son, and after a quiet three weeks here start off again for Paris and New York, with less trouble than we take to get back to France. A good many Jews appear on Sunday morning-an unmistakable nationality alwaysthe men and women walking in separate groups, never together. The men all look alike, dressed in the long black caftan, with a broad-brimmed hat. They are short men generally, with crops of black curly hair, long beards, and very bright eyes; some of them wear ear-rings. They always seem absorbed in their conversation, and take very little notice of the crowd or of what goes on around them. Some of the women are handsome-the elder ones with heavy braids of well-oiled hair and a white silk or lace fichu on their heads. I don't see many young ones. I fancy they are not allowed to walk on the Promenade, where there is such a promiscuous crowd of people. Rather a striking trio passed the other daythree women, all very stout, the one in the middle, evidently a person of importance in her class, was dressed in red velvet, a long trailing skirt, a pearl necklace, three rows of large stones, two heavy gold chains, one hanging down below her waist, one crossing her forehead, and a richly embroidered white silk handkerchief on her head. The other two were in green satin dresses, also with long trains, embroidered in bright colors, several gold chains, and the same white silk handkerchief on their heads. Everyone turned to look at them, but they were evidently quite accustomed to being stared at, and made their way slowly and majestically through the crowd.

There is a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers, their uniforms so tight they can hardly walk, and as they are generally very thin and narrow in the shoulders, they don't strike one as very stalwart warriors. The Hungarians and Bohemians one recognizes at once-dark, slight, with flashing eyes, rather the gypsy type. Then pass three or four singers from one of the neighboring cafés, in their national dress-extremely short black skirts just below the knee, showing liberally very stout legs encased in thick white cotton stockings, red bodices, white chemisettes, and the black fichu embroidered in bright colors on their heads. They are neither very young, nor very pretty—not half so attractive as little Number Six at the Egerländer, but they all look scrupulously clean.