Yet she heard the varying message, | So with proverbs and caresses, half in voiceless to all ears beside: faith and half in doubt, "He will come," the flowers whispered; Everv day some hope was kindled, flick"Come no more," the dry hills ered, faded, and went out. sighed.

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each

"Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he';

"He that getteth himself honey, though
a clown, he shall have flies';
'In the end God grinds the miller'; ‘In
the dark the mole has eyes.'

"He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial hath no fear,'

As a pebble worn and polished in the So in vain the barren hillsides with their current of his speech:

And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear."

IV.

Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came
the stately cavalcade,
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and com-
fort to each maid;

Then the voice sententious faltered, and
the wisdom it would teach
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft
Castilian speech;

Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport;

And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and
"Conchita," he would dwell
With the fond reiteration which the
Spaniard knows so well.

Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of lovemaking in the court.

"Tired wench and coming butter never Then the drum called from the rampart, did in time agree."

The

and once more with patient mien Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,

as the idle wind

Vainly then at Concha's lattice, -vainly Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind;

Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet,

Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet;

gay serapes blazed,

Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised.

Each took up the petty duties of a life
apart and lone,
Till the slow years wrought a music in
its dreary monotone.

V.

Forty years on wall and bastion swept
the hollow idle breeze,
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from
the California seas.

Forty years on wall and bastion wrought
its slow but sure decay;
And St. George's cross was lifted in the
port of Monterey.

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

301

And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant was gayly drest,

All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and guest.

Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set,

And exchanged congratulation with the And then, while round them shadows

English baronet;

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson:
"Speak no ill of him, I pray.
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty
years ago this day.

"Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course!

Master

Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the amidst the laugh and wine Some one spoke of Concha's lover,heedless of the warning sign.

Had writ of "Little Nell."

"Lives she yet?" A death-like silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, And a trembling figure rising fixed the awe-struck gaze of all.

Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.

And

"Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew

Closer yet her nun's attire. "Señor, pardon, she died too!"

treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew;

and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak painted

and holly

The ruddy tints of health

And laurel wreaths entwine,

On haggard face, and form that drooped

Deem it not all a too presumptuous

folly,

This spray of Western pine!

WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.

WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.

[U. S. A.]

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

S. M. B. PIATT.

[U. s. A.]

BEFORE THE GATE.

MY OLD KENTUCKY NURSE

THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old, laughter,

To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,
And silences, as idle too as the rest.
But when at last upon their way return-
ing,

Taciturn, late, and loath,
Through the broad meadow in the sun-
set burning,

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,

And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had

wanted

- S. M. B. PIATT.

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring,
The helpless, powerful Slave was she,

Till he said, -man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing:
She was the Slave of Slavery.
Court-lace nor jewels had she seen :

hending

Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the

That at her side the whitest queen
She wore a precious smile, so rare

while,

Were dark, her darkness was so fair.

"Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking:

Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you -open the gate?"

303

Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look
Such as no dainty pen of gold
Would write of in a Fairy Book.

So bent she almost crouched, her face
Was like the Sphinx's face, to me,
Touched with vast patience, desert grace,

And lonesome, brooding mystery.

What wonder that a faith so strong

As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will!

Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut

enchanted

In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there.

This Princess was a Slave, -like one

Yet free enough to see the sun,
I read of in a painted tale;

And all the flowers, without a vail.

Nothing of loveliest loveliness

This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress

She was, and beautiful though black:

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- That hid her Self: as if afraid;

ing,

The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid
His shadowy lance against the spell

The cruel blackness shrank and fell.

Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,

He took her with him through the night, And swam a River cold and deep,

And vanished up an awful Height.