One day the Singer was not seen. Men said
That as the early day was breaking red,

He rowed far out to sea, rowed swift and strong,
Toward the spot where he had gazed so long.
Then all the people shook their heads, and went
A little sadly, thinking he had spent

His life in vain, and sorry they no more

Should hear his sweet mad songs along their shore.
But when the sea with sunset hues was dyed,
A boat came slowly drifting with the tide,

Nor oar nor rudder set to turn or stay,

And on the crimson deck the Singer lay.

"Ah! he is dead," some cried. "No! he but sleeps," Said others," madman that he is, joy keeps

Sweet vigils with him now."

The light keel grazed

The sands; alert and swift the Singer raised

His head, and with red cheeks and eyes aflame
Leaped out and shouted loud, and called by name
Each man, and breathlessly his story told.

"Lo! I have landed on the hills of gold!

See, these are flowers, and these are fruits, and these

Are boughs from off the giant forest trees;

And these are jewels which lie loosely there,

And these are stuffs which beauteous maidens wear." And staggering he knelt upon the sands

As laying burdens down.

But empty hands

His fellows saw, and passed on smiling. Yet
The ecstasy in which his face was set

Again smote on their hearts with sudden sense
Of half-involuntary reverence.

And some said, whispering, "Alack, is he

The madman? Have ye never heard there be

Some spells which make men blind?"

And thenceforth they

More closely watched the Singer day by day,
Till finally they said, "He is not mad.
There be such hills, and treasure to be had
For seeking there! We too without delay
Will sail."

And of the men who sailed that way,
Some found the purple mountains in the sea,
Landed, and roamed their treasure-countries free,
And drifted back with brimming laden hands.
Walking along the lifeless silent sands,
The Singer, gazing ever seaward, knew,
Well knew the odors which the soft wind blew
Of all the fruits and flowers and boughs they bore.
Standing with hands stretched eager on the shore,
When they leaped out, he called, "Now God be praised,
Sweet comrades, were they then not fair?"

Amazed, And with dull scorn, the other men who brought No treasures, found no mountains, and saw naught In these men's hands, beheld them kneeling low, Lifting, shouting, and running to and fro

As men unlading argosies whose freight

Of gorgeous things bewildered by its weight.

Tireless the great years waxed, the great years waned; Slowly the Singer's comrades grew and gained,

Till they were goodly number.

No man's scorn

Could hurt or hinder them. No pity born

Of it could make them blush, or once make less
Their joy's estate; and as for loneliness,

They knew it not.

Still rise the magic hills

Purple and gold and red; the shore still thrills.
With fragrance when the sunset winds begin
To blow and waft the subtle odors in

From treasure-laden boats that drift and bide
The hours and moments of the wave and tide,
Laden with fruits and boughs and flowers rare,
And jewels such as monarchs do not wear,
And costly stuffs which dazzle on the sight,
Stuffs wrought for purest virgin, bravest knight;
And men with cheeks all red, and eyes aflame,
And hearts that call to hearts by brother's name,
Still leap out on the silent lifeless sands,
And staggering with overburdened hands
Joyous lay down the treasures they have brought,
While, smiling, pitying, the world sees naught!

WHEN THE HOUSE IS ALONE.

MARY KYLE DALLAS.

[There are few persons possessed of nerves and an imagination who have not gone through the experiences here amusingly detailed. We never know what a variety of unobtrusive sounds are drowned by the roar of day, or lost in the activity of social life, until we are left to keep house alone at night, with the buzz of day stilled, and our nerves wrought up to concert pitch of anticipation. The inanimate gains a voice in such a situation, and the wooden tongues of stairs, walls, and furniture speak to one another across the rooms, without heed to the shuddering mortal who listens in dread to their mysterious accents.]

WHEN the house is alone by itself inexperienced persons may believe that it behaves exactly as it does when there are people in it; but that is a delusion, as you will dis

cover, if you are ever left alone in it at midnight, sitting up for the rest of the family.

At this hour the deceitful house will believe that every one has gone to bed, and will not think it necessary to keep up the delusion of being wrapped in peace and silence; at this hour its true disposition will reveal itself.

To catch it at its best, pretend to retire, put out the gas or the lamp, and go up-stairs. Afterward, come down softly, light no more than one lamp, go into the empty parlor and seat yourself at a table, with something to read. No sooner have you done so than you will hear a little chip, chip, chip along the top of the room,—a small sound, but persistent. It is evidently the wall-paper coming off, and you decide, after some tribulation, that if it does come off you can't help it, and go on with your book. By the way, it is all sham; you are not reading; you never read at such times; but as you sit with your book in your hand you begin to be quite sure that some one is coming down-stairs. Squeak-squeak-squeak! What folly! There is nobody up there to come down; but there no, it is on the basement stairs. Somebody is coming up.

Squeak-snap! Well, if it is a robber you might as well face him. You get the poker and stand with your back against the wall. Nobody comes up. Finally, you decide that you are a goose, put the poker down, get a magazine, and try to read.

There, that's the door. You heard the lock turn. They are coming home. You run to the door, lift the vestibule curtain, and peep out. Nobody there! But as you linger the door-lock gives a click that makes you jump. By daylight neither lock nor stairs make any of these noises unless they are touched or trodden on. You go back to the parlor in a hurry, with a feeling that the next thing

you know something may catch you by the back-hair, and try to remember where you left off. Now, it is the table that snaps and cracks as if all the Rochester knocks were hidden in its mahogany. You do not lean on it heavily; and you have leaned on it heavily without this result; but it fidgets you, and you take a rocking-chair and put the book on your knee. Your eyes wander up and down the page, and you grow dreamy, when apparently the book-case fires off a pistol. At least, a loud, fierce crack comes from the heart of that piece of furniture; so loud, so fierce, that you jump to your feet trembling!

You go up

You cannot stand the parlor any more. stairs. No sooner do you get there than it seems to you that somebody is walking on the roof. If the house is a detached one, and the thing is impossible, that makes it all the more mysterious. Nothing ever moaned in the chimney before, but something moans now. There is a ghostly step in the bath-room. You find out afterwards that it is the faucet dripping, but you do not dare to look at that time. And it is evident that there is something up the chimney, you would not like to ask what.

If you have gas, it bobs up and down in a phantom dance. If you have a lamp, it goes out in a blue explosion. If you have a candle, a shroud plainly enwraps the wick and falls towards you.

The shutters shake as if a hand clutched them, and finally a doleful cat begins to moan down cellar. You do not keep a cat, and this finishes you. You pretend to read no longer; and as you sit with a towel over your head and face, and hear something under the surbase go "shew, shew, shew," like a little saw, you do not wonder at the old ghost-stories.

Ten minutes afterwards the bell rings; the belated ones