placing his head where mine had been. "Well, there", he added suddenly, looking out of the window, "it is John Nubbins, the wretch, who received that smile. She is looking again at him and smiling and bowing. He crosses the street to meet her, and again she smiles and bows, but she turns and comes to this side of the street, and actually walks back in the direction from which she came. "There!" exclaimed my friend, becoming excited and almost forgetting where he was, "he keeps toward the end of the park, and she turns that way too; they are only separated by a short distance! They turn toward each other and will meet again! By Jove!"

I had continued with my papers during this involuntary espionage and its report, but my attention to business was mechanical, and in the same manner my desire to shield Claudine from unpleasant comment framed my lips to say:

"Yes, it is her creed and that of her family to bestow a kind word upon everything, man, bird or beast."

"Well, but what made her turn back and meet him again?" queried my friend, who was so excited he forget to be cour

hopeless condition of John Nubbins's morals. I honor you for your confidence in your affianced, and my respect for her has increased tenfold because she is so noble as to inspire you with that confidence. The trouble is, others will

THE LITTLE SHIP.

A LITTLE ship came sailing in

All on a summer morn. What time the harbor lights grew dim The ship was homeward borne.

And what with mirth, and what with tears,

And what with eager joy,
The little ship was welcomed home
By love without alloy.

Fair be thy voyage, little ship,

When forth thou yet shalt fare. And God be with thee on the sea

And bless thee everywhere.
Fair be thy voyage, ship of life,

And may it end at last
On that bright shore so beautiful
Where all the storms are past.

The sky above

Is full of love,

The bright procession arching.

Tramp, tramp, tramp,

The mother-heart shall miss them. But home at last,

The bright day past,

They'll hurry fast

And mother'll kiss them.

AT THE HEART OF THE ROSE.

OH, the sweet, sweet secret,

Oh, the whispering tune
That the fairies murmur,
The small elves croon!
Deep in the passionate
Heart of the rose,
Is the secret of perfume

The South wind knows.

There be who have heard it.
And seek full fain

The pleasure that lies

In the pang of pain.
There be who have felt it,

And only they
Interpret the magic
Of love's sweet day.

Oh, rose deep flushing,

Thy petals rare
Are wafting bliss

On the summer air.
But down in thy heart
The sweet secret lies
The angels dream of
In Paradise.

SPRING rouses the migratory instinct in many a man tied down to the routine of city life; but it is in September, when the stifling heat of summer begins to abate, that there comes the most imperious call to be up and away. The maples will soon be reddening in the Great North Woods; the bass, who sulked through the summer months upon the rocky bottom of the lake, scornful of the most tempting worm, bestirs himself again; and trout are leaping in the mountain streams.

Let those who care for luxuries seek the huge caravansary in the summer-resort. They can never know in its full beauty the pleasant freedom of the woods -the trail through pine and balsam and wild raspberry jungle; the camp-fire, lighting up the darkness; the fresh breeze

of the earliest morning, when the sleeper, awakened by the gleam of the rising sun, leaps from his couch of evergreens and plunges into the lake. Attuned to the solemn harmony of these solitudes, our hearts grow care-free, and the troubles of daily life fall from us and are forgotten. Life takes on a new meaning for us.

The man who goes into the woods to kill, knows nothing of the joys of nature, as compared with him who goes there in a spirit of humility, to learn what Mother Nature has to teach him. The flight of the wild fowl over the waters, the slot of the deer, or perhaps the doe, timidly peering through the thick undergrowth, are merely evidences of food for him. He who is ignorant of the rotherhood of all created things, who does not per

ceive the universal and all-pervading spirit of God in the least of His creatures, misses those immaterial pleasures of the woods which afford the keenest enjoyment to the votary of mercy.

How many memories we recall of those too-brief days of vacation! To wake in the morning, under the coo' sky, now tinged with saffron, and hear, through the intense stillness, the sound of the industrious woodpecker, boring the rotten. birch-bark in search of breakfast! Days when, like Crusoe, we explore the hidden mysteries of the woods and foreshore, discovering some rocky stream, with its promise of trout, or, if we are very lucky, the cave, the winter quarters of the small black bear of the forests, or the earth home of the raccoon who,

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we suspect, was that midnight visitor that awakened us as he made off with our bacon. And, best of all, those unforgettable nights, after the sun had sunk behind the burned-over crest of the mountain, when the loon's scream, as he flew homeward, came harshly across the water, and the whippoorwills called through the pine-trees.

What nights those were, when we returned, a little late, from our search for supper, with a basket of river trout, or some bass, fresh from the lake! We beached our boat high above water-mark, took down the sail, made from old canvas, and the mast, cut from a birch sapling. No meal surely ever tasted better than that trout, fried over the wood fire and eaten with the fingers, and pan.