The evening came, and Liastonoluh sat waiting for the coming of her lover. She had not taken the flute away; and, moreover, she heartily loved the young brave. The night wore on, and wore out. She heard naught save the shriek of the owl, as with ominous cries he stood sentry near her lodge. Why came he not? Was he on the war-path? They were at peace with all their enemies. Was he ill? Was he dead? The early sunrise saw her abroad to learn. In the path which led by the water's side to the council-chamber she met him. She would have rushed to his arms, but he turned aside, that she might pass, while the red anger mounted to his cheeks. Then first it flashed upon her that his neglect was intentional. The blood rushed in a flood back upon her heart for an instant, and then, as she passed slowly by, with haughty steps and averted eyes, went boiling through her veins at the indignity she had received. Now all was indeed at an end: she would tear him from her heart, as false and unworthy her regard. Not so with Miastonemoh. His pride was touched, but so was his heart; and the lingering weeks, as they wore away, still found him idle, listless, and reserved. He deserted the play-ground, the chase, and the council-chamber, to loiter away his time in watching the ceaseless breaking of the waves upon the long beach, or in slowly wandering along the skirts of the prairie. In vain his young friends rallied him. His elasticity was gone, his eyes were sunken, his arm seemed nerveless, and his laugh forgotten.

Things were thus decidedly bad, when one morning as he stood moodily observing the young braves practising their games in the playground, one of their scouts rushed into camp with the cry that their old enemies the Sacs were upon them. Instantly all was hurry and confusion, rushing in hot haste to horse, and clamoring for arms. Miastonemoh turned silently away, took his quiver of arrows and his shield of buffalo hide, mounted a wild horse he had caught and half broken long before, and rode straight to the wigwam of Liastonoluh. He found her standing like a frightened fawn at the door. He fixed his eyes upon her for a brief space and said:

'Does Liastonoluh fear to die? Let the words of Miastonemoh lay like a stone at the heart of the deceitful. He will pass from the war-path to the happy hunting-grounds beyond. Had she chosen to walk by his side they would together have wandered over the bright prairies of the spirit land. She gave sweet words to a brave of the Winnebagoes, but poured bitterness into his heart. And now when the war-cry of the Sac cometh the proud maiden trembles, for she must journey alone through the shadowy land that leads to the last home of the pale-faces!' He gave no time for reply, but suddenly lashing his horse to speed, dashed to the plain. The battle was neither long nor bloody. The enemy were driven off with loss. On retiring from the field the Winnebagoes found that but a single warrior was missing, but that one, alas! was the gallant and beloved Miastonemoh! He had been seen in a hand-to-hand conflict with the most renowned chief of the enemy, had repelled and driven him, and when last seen was in hot pursuit. Who could doubt but that, having pursued his adversary beyond the bounds of prudence, his life had been sacrificed

to his rashness. Such was indeed the fact. Hemmed in by numbers who closed upon his rear, the young brave had no alternative but to sell his life as dearly as possible, and when at last his horse fell hamstrung, himself, pierced by an hundred arrows, yielded his strong breath only to the fierce spear-thrust of the most stalwart of his foes.

His dark scalp-lock still ornaments the war-club of the first warrior of the Sacs!

The maiden's pride failed with the death of her lover. The rose left her cheek and her eyes lost their brightness. Some years have passed, and still in the summer evenings, pale and wan, she sits at her cabin door, and with plaintive voice chaunts the death-song of the lost Miastonemoh.

Here ends Mac's tale. How the flute came into his possession is more than I should be able to qualify. I only know that I have it. He's an honest boy and a clever, in the main, and yet I am constrained to allow that had he chosen to carry it off, neither the medicine-bag nor the prowess of the young brave would have proved any bar to the accomplishment of his design. A natural contempt for all kinds of superstition would have rendered him as careless of the one as a Colt's revolver, his constant companion, would have made him indifferent to the other. As for facts, I give you the tale as 't was told to me. Yours truly,

MAURICE FRITZ.

A STORM.

WHERE from columnar cliffs the clamoring sea-gulls
Dive to the ocean's ever tumbling foam;

Where above golden vapors golden eagles

Wheel in swift orbits under Jove's blue dome;
Where royal lion-hounds and yelping beagles

Range through the ancient forests of Illome,
There amid Plutonic mountains duly
Fortress-girdled, lies the land of THULE.

A grisly juggler and his black banditti
Held in old time this pleasant territory:
But knights now buried sacked his silver city,
Flinging from the rocks this wizard hoary:
He became a whale (a spermaceti)

And has been seen by Northmen in their barks,
Baited through all the Arctic seas by sharks.

Now it was night. A fierce and roaring storm
Marched up the glimmering sky his black brigades,

Clouds and pale fire begirt his awful form;

Vaporous cavaliers and giant shades

Crowded th' horizon, while the ponderous ordnance
Rumbled through darkness with a deep discordance.

Now the wild lightning was let slip, and tore

The hollow clouds. The thunder like a dragon,
Sprang to the ground, and with an awful roar,

Burst through the cracking caves of old Mount Zagon :

VOL. XXXVI.

Then, burrowing down through its foundations four,
Roved growling through those halls of gold and granite,
Where dwell the goblin-kings of this brave planet.

The winds then blew, and the swift rains descending,
Filled to the brim with foam the mountain lochs;
Through the thick darkness shot bright rockets, rending
From Zagon's pinnacles the topmost blocks.
The woods resounded; with the tumult blending,
Arose old Ocean's uproar by the rocks.

On a scarped mist stood ranged a line of gunners
From Hell's grim garrison, and fired loud thunders.

Each flash revealed that diabolic corps

Pounding their cartridges with iron rammers,
Wrought in huge furnaces from Tophet's ore.
Louder and wilder rose th' infernal clamors:
Swift through the tempest frightful thunders tore,
And towers fell as struck by brazen hammers.
Beneath this battery strange tall war-ships quivered,
Their bulwarks being stove and topmasts shivered.

In truth it was a most rebellious night:

The awakened monsters in their dens lay growling,
To their feet starting as each sharp light

Kindled the caves. The swamp-dogs cowered howling,

And even spectres kept their graves from fright:

Demons alone around the land went prowling,
Sent on secret, black, and midnight missions,

By the Oriental College of Magicians.

That night a curséd and malignant Moor,
Of morals loose and principles oblique,
Abetted by a hairy Tartar Sheikh,

And by a certain chemist of Darfour,
Who often caused the sheeted dead to squeak,
Desiring slumbering Christendom to harass,
To Thulé came and stole the royal heiress.

The morning came: the Storm's decamping forces
Stood out to sea: we saw their sun-streaked backs
Dip in the west; along the river-courses

White fogs and vapors rolled in mighty stacks:
The Knights of Thulé fiercely spurred their horses
Through the wet gorges on the Tartar's tracks;
But the old gray monarch beat his forehead,
And heedless of his counsellors, thus he sorrowed:

'O! for a crack of old Olympic thunder!

O! for the batteries of Saturnian ZEUS!
O! for a word to break the earth asunder,

Ev'n to that gulf where through the Stygian sluice,
Phlegethon rolls the world's deep arches under:
O! for that champion who with mind unshaken,
Harpooned, on Norway's coast, the scaly Kraken!'

27

1

Y

THE POETRY OF CREATION.

BY A STUDENT OF NATURE.

As the stars pale before the sun, so does the poetry of man lose its brilliancy, when compared with the wonderful poem of the CREATOR. GOD is the SUPREME POET, and he deals not with words mere shadows of things that are - but with the actual embodiments of poetry themselves for there is in every object which He has made something beside an outward, mechanical form: there is a spiritual meaning, a living lesson, to be drawn from every thing.

This world is not merely the rugged spot on which we are to struggle for a foot-hold on life - to toil for daily bread; but a bright member of the starry brotherhood, that range the fields of space, raising from every corner of the universe the harmonious anthem of praise; a region of still waters, and cooling shades, and bright birds, and blessed things, for the comfort of God's weary children. This world is a poem, written in letters of light on the walls of the azure firmament.

Man is not merely a creature displaying the endowment of two legs, and the only being qualified to study grammar; not an animal browsing in the fair fields of creation, and endeavoring with all possible grace to gild and swallow the pill of existence; but the master-piece in the mechanism of the universe, in whom are wedded the visible and the invisible, the material and the spiritual; before whom the waves of the ocean crouch, and on whom the winds and lightnings and the fire all wait to do his bidding; the great gardener in this garden of the LORD; the keeper of His great seal, for he alone is stamped with the image of GOD. Man is a glorious poem; each life a canto, each day a line. The melody plays feebly at first upon the trembling chords of his little heart, but with time gains power and beauty as it sweeps onward, until at last the final notes die away far, far above the world, amid the melodies of heaven.

Nature is not merely a senseless, arable clod, through which runs the golden vein, and o'er which waves the golden harvest; not a monster, to be bowed down by the iron fetters of rail-roads and telegraphs; but it is a grand old temple, whose star-lit dome and woodland aisles, and bright and happy choir, invite the soul to worship and to gratitude. Nature is a sweet poem: each downy-cheek'd floweret, each uncouth stone, and frowning mountain, and silvery river, are the bright syllables. And though the fall of man has thrown them into confusion, they shall be arranged once more in harmony; and the burthen of that song shall be beauty and praise to HIM from whom all beauty radiates.

How often, when the quiet night woos us forth to commune with Nature in her chastened robes, is our spirit thronged almost to oppression by thoughts new and inexpressible! When the bright moon, just risen above the hill-top or the peaceful waters, tinges the cloudy curtains that hang about the couch of the departed day, draws out the

long mysterious shadows, and locks in her white arms the slumbering earth; then, as we look above, can we say with him, who knew so well to express his lofty thoughts:

'YE stars, which are the poetry of heaven!

A beauty and a mystery, ye create

In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star!"

Why should we, then, give way to the absurdly-named practical spirit of these days? Physical good is not the only good of earth. The mind, the soul must be fed as well -ay, infinitely, rather than this feeble body. We are in the world to make ourselves blessed; and is not the bliss that comes from purifying the heart and enlightening the intellect more to be desired than the gratification of our sensual appetites ? Let us, then, learn to analyze whatever we meet in the pilgrimage of life, and read the lesson of truth and beauty that God has stamped upon it. Then will the desert of the world gush out in fountains to refresh our flagging spirits and to brace our sinking frames.

Z.