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ment. Even the blunt weapon which a craven snapped and flung away, inspires a king's son who

“ Saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,

And saved a great cause that heroic day.” But the point which Mr. Sill evidently had first in mind, and one which constantly recurs in his philosophical verses, is the necessity and value of work, work in new fields, and work which should mean the fullest and most intense effort of the laborer, in spite of opposition and ridicule. He paints in glorious colors the reformer predicting the downfall of a “stone-walled city of sin," and the inevitable result when" Down in one great roar of ruin, crash watch-tower, citadel and battlements.” Again he makes his appeal for service, and calls out—“ If you dare, come now with me fearless, confident, and free," believing this the sweeter and more desirable existence than that of one who is “only as the rest, with Heaven's common comforts blessed.” The especial branch of labor which Mr. Sill seemed to value was that among men, where one's personality and character should be focussed upon his fellow-beings. The poet expressed this idea as coming from his own soul, in his alumni poem :

· Nailing this thesis on the golden gate
Of the new Mammon temples: that the souls-
The striving, praying, hoping human souls-

Alone on earth are valuable.” That Mr. Sill meant this was shown by his life as a teacher. His work as a professor of English literature was not confined to the routine of recitations and to a class book. He was rather the helper and inspirer of those who were under his instruction. His whole personality was thrown into his efforts to arouse in them a love and enthusiasm for their work. He suggested and lent ideas for others to develop, thus making himself of value in the most practical way. Nor was this association with him without its charm. He was not like an uncongenial

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physician administering an effective medicine. On the contrary, Mr. Sill's influence was a combination of true genius with the warmest sympathy and geniality. His influence was greatest where his friendship was strongest. Few shared this friendship, but those who did esteem it as a precious blessing.

Mr. Sill was but forty-seven years old at the time of his death. The fact that he died at such an early age has been constantly lamented by the friends of English literature, on the ground that his genius had only begun to ripen, and that what he did write, was but the assurance of what he would have done had he lived to maturity. While all who read his verses must share this regret, a real satisfaction should be derived from the poetry he has left, in the completeness of what he did, even in his early days. None ought to feel this satisfaction more than his Alma Mater-his Alma Mater as it embraces all Yale menfor in the forty-seven years of his life, Edward Rowland Sill struck as clear and full and true a note in his poetry as has any alumnus of the University. The editor of a collection of Mr. Sill's verses has written very appropriately that “after his death, month by month, new poems under his familiar signatures appeared in the magazines, as if he went out of the sight of men, singing on the way.” The poet himself has still more happily though unconsciously spoken of his own death, prophesying as it were the early end of his useful life :

“And what if then, while still the morning brightened,
And freshened in the elm the Summer's breath,
Should gravely smile on the gentle angel
And take my hand and say “My name is Death.”

Charles Cheney Hyde.

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T!

HE mellow afternoon sunlight sifted through the

overhanging tree-tops into the shadowy roadway; beams reflected from the river struggled up through the willows and made changing mottled spots of light among the branches.

Mr. Dennis O'Hara, of Washington and Alexandria, and lately of the Albany penitentiary, stepped cautiously out of the underbrush and slipped across the road into the willows by the side of the river. He was attired in a broadly striped suit of black and white that had suffered from contact with the greasy trucks of railroad cars. His black hair,he wore no hat-was short and bristling ; his face was dark with a week's growth of beard, and there were berry stains upon his lips. He carried a leather handbag under his arm.

Two hundred miles away a young man was writing to the station agent at Paleytown for a handbag left by mistake on the platform of the station the night before.

In Alexandria a poor old woman was sitting in her doorstep sobbing over a copy of the Washington Evening Star, which said that the authorities had abandoned all search for Dennis O'Hara, the notorious escaped convict, believing that he had been among the unidentified victims of the fire in the Troy freight-yards.

When Mr. Dennis O'Hara walked into the principal street of Paleytown, an hour later, the shadow of the opposite mountain was climbing up the hillside from the river, and a wood-thrush with ringing liquid notes was sounding the curfew of the pine-woods. Mr. O'Hara was now clothed after the manner of the young man who loiters about a summer hotel; he wore a yachting cap; the beard had disappeared, as also had the berry stains about his lips; but his face still had the waxen pallor that comes from long confinement; it was still haggard with hunger and exhaustion.

The first house in the village was the parsonage; it was a small white cottage overgrown with honeysuckles, and almost covered by the overhanging branches of a great elm in the tiny yard. As Mr. O'Hara approached the minister was leaning on the gate watching a child at play in the road. The minister was a very old man; his hand trembled as it lay on the fence.

The convict approached him, hat in hand ; “ Are you the head of the family," he asked ; “ if you are I should like to talk with you a minute.”

Mr. O'Hara's voice was of such a quality that one more experienced than the minister would have expected it to say “youse instead of "you" and "wid " instead of " with."

The old man started out of his abstraction, and seeing the speaker, removed his broad brimmed black hat. “This is my home-my wife's and mine," he said gently, at the same time opening the gate, “and I make you very welcome to it.” He bowed courteously as he motioned his visitor to enter.

There had been a very unpleasant brutal look in the convict's eye as he observed the minister's feebleness; but it gave way to puzzled embarrassment before this quaintly gracious invitation. He preceded the old gentleman up the narrow gravel walk between the trim geranium beds. At the door they were met by the minister's wife. Her aspect was not as tranquilly trustful as her husband's. She looked on Mr. Dennis O'Hara with anxiety and suspicion. He felt it, and was more at ease.

“Mrs. Goodhart,” said the old gentleman, coming forward, “this is a friend who has been kind enough to visit us; he has not yet made known his name, but,"

• My name is Harrison Duncan, of Chicago," interrupted Mr. O'Hara.

The minister bowed; “I hope," he continued, “that if he has leisure, Mr. Duncan will do us the honor to break bread with us." Then, as he noticed that his visitor's head was still bared, he added, “Be covered, I beg of you."

“ Wha-wh- which ?" stammered Mr. O'Hara.

The minister quietly removed his own hat again. The convict shifted his weight from one foot to the other dif. fidently. Catching at Mrs. Goodhart's inquiring look, "yes, thanks,” he said, hurriedly, “I will."

Seated at the supper table between the pastor and his wife, Mr. O'Hara's discomfort abated. He observed with complacency that the silver was solid. His appetite and manner of satisfying it rather tended to increase his hostess's anxiety. He was reminded by her expression he had not explained his errand.

“I am," he said, “an agent of the Ex-Convicts' Aid Association. I have papers of interest in my bag, but I have lost the key. Our present object is to get the

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