Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with

sheaves overladen,

As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures.

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing

Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious,

Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness

Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor.

O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting!

O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy!

But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps,

And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain.

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered,

Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection.

And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly,

Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little,

Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all

things.

Such were the marriage rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh.

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the dili

gent servant,

Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid;

For when he asked her the question, she answered, Nay;" and then added:

66

"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph."

INTERLUDE.

“A PLEASANT and a winsome tale,"

The Student said, "though somewhat pale
And quiet in its coloring,

As if it caught its tone and air

From the gray suits that Quakers wear;

Yet worthy of some German bard,
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard,

Who love of humble themes to sing,
In humble verse; but no more true
Than was the tale I told to you."

The Theologian made reply,

And with some warmth, "That I deny;
"T is no invention of my own,

But something well and widely known
To readers of a riper age,

Writ by the skilful hand that wrote
The Indian tale of Hobomok,
And Philothea's classic page.
I found it like a waif afloat,
Or dulse uprooted from its rock,
On the swift tides that ebb and flow

In daily papers, and at flood
Bear freighted vessels to and fro,
But later, when the ebb is low,
Leave a long waste of sand and mud."

"It matters little," quoth the Jew; "The cloak of truth is lined with lies, Sayeth some proverb old and wise; And Love is master of all arts, And puts it into human hearts The strangest things to say and do."

And here the controversy closed
Abruptly, ere 't was well begun ;
For the Sicilian interposed
With, "Lordlings, listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale ;
A tale that cannot boast, forsooth,
A single rag or shred of truth;
That does not leave the mind in doubt
As to the with it or without;
A naked falsehood and absurd
As mortal ever told or heard.
Therefore I tell it; or, maybe,
Simply because it pleases me."

THE SICILIAN'S TALE.

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE.

Finished February 9, 1873.

ONCE on a time, some centuries ago,

In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars Wended their weary way, with footsteps slow, Back to their convent, whose white walls and spires

Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow; Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers, And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks.

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare

And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin, Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer, Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline, As if his body but white ashes were,

Heaped on the living coals that glowed within; A simple monk, like many of his day, Whose instinct was to listen and obey.

A different man was Brother Timothy,

Of larger mould and of a coarser paste;

A rubicund and stalwart monk was he,

Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist, Who often filled the dull refectory

With noise by which the convent was disgraced, But to the mass-book gave but little heed, By reason he had never learned to read.

Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood, They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise, Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood

Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. The farmer Gilbert, of that neighborhood,

His owner was, who, looking for supplies Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade.

As soon as Brother Timothy espied

The patient animal, he said: "Good-lack! Thus for our needs doth Providence provide ; We'll lay our wallets on the creature's back." This being done, he leisurely untied

From head and neck the halter of the jack, And put it round his own, and to the tree Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he.

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh,

He cried to Brother Anthony: "Away! And drive the ass before you with your staff;

And when you reach the convent you may say You left me at a farm, half tired and half Ill with a fever, for a night and day, And that the farmer lent this ass to bear Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare."

Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks
Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade
Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks,
But, being obedient, silently obeyed ;
And, smiting with his staff the ass's flanks,

Drove him before him over hill and glade,