Genre Fiction. Page - 246

e others might not be likely to stumble upon it. So finally hedecided it must be written somewhere in his own house.

Bini Aru had a wife named Mopsi Aru who was famous for making finehuckleberry pies, and he had a son named Kiki Aru who was not famousat all. He was noted as being cross and disagreeable because he wasnot happy, and he was not happy because he wanted to go down themountain and visit the big world below and his father would not lethim. No one paid any attention to Kiki Aru, because he didn't amountto anything, anyway.

Once a year there was a festival on Mount Munch which all the Hyupsattended. It was held in the center of the saucer-shaped country, andthe day was given over to feasting and merry-making. The young folksdanced and sang songs; the women spread the tables with good things toeat, and the men played on musical instruments and told fairy tales.

Kiki Aru usually went to these festivals with his parents, and thensat sullenly outside the circle and would not danc

to remembrance of the laws under which yelive."

At this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank theirfaces on to their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbotturned his angry eyes away from them and bent them upon theaccused, who met his searching gaze with a firm and composedface.

"What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty thingswhich are urged against you?"

"Little enough, good father, little enough," said the novice,speaking English with a broad West Saxon drawl. The brothers,who were English to a man, pricked up their ears at the sound ofthe homely and yet unfamiliar speech; but the Abbot flushed redwith anger, and struck his hand upon the oaken arm of his chair.

"What talk is this?" he cried. "Is this a tongue to be usedwithin the walls of an old and well-famed monastery? But graceand learning have ever gone hand in hand, and when one is lost itis needless to look for the other."

"I know not about that," said brother John. "I know only thatthe wo

like anything better than being moddley-coddleyed.'

With the check upon him of being unsympathetically restrained in agenial outburst of enthusiasm, Mr. Jasper stands still, and lookson intently at the young fellow, divesting himself of his outwardcoat, hat, gloves, and so forth. Once for all, a look ofintentness and intensity--a look of hungry, exacting, watchful, andyet devoted affection--is always, now and ever afterwards, on theJasper face whenever the Jasper face is addressed in thisdirection. And whenever it is so addressed, it is never, on thisoccasion or on any other, dividedly addressed; it is alwaysconcentrated.

'Now I am right, and now I'll take my corner, Jack. Any dinner,Jack?'

Mr. Jasper opens a door at the upper end of the room, and disclosesa small inner room pleasantly lighted and prepared, wherein acomely dame is in the act of setting dishes on table.

'What a jolly old Jack it is!' cries the young fellow, with a clapof his hands. 'Look here, Jack; tell me; whos

g to Gavrillac on a November morning, laden with news of thepolitical storms which were then gathering over France, Philippefound in that sleepy Breton village matter to quicken his alreadylively indignation. A peasant of Gavrillac, named Mabey, had beenshot dead that morning in the woods of Meupont, across the river,by a gamekeeper of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr. The unfortunatefellow had been caught in the act of taking a pheasant from a snare,and the gamekeeper had acted under explicit orders from his master.

Infuriated by an act of tyranny so absolute and merciless, M. deVilmorin proposed to lay the matter before M. de Kercadiou. Mabeywas a vassal of Gavrillac, and Vilmorin hoped to move the Lord ofGavrillac to demand at least some measure of reparation for thewidow and the three orphans which that brutal deed had made.

But because Andre-Louis was Philippe's dearest friend - indeed, hisalmost brother - the young seminarist sought him out in the firstinstance. He found him at break

e terror, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Charley," she shouted, "here's Eliza misbehaving again."

"I'll settle her," answered a masculine voice, and the young man dashed into the room. He had a brown horse-cloth in his hand, which he threw over the basket, making it fast with a piece of twine so as to effectually imprison its inmate, while his aunt ran across to reassure her visitors.

"It is only a rock snake," she explained.

"Oh, Bertha!" "Oh, Monica!" gasped the poor exhausted gentlewomen.

"She's hatching out some eggs. That is why we have the fire. Eliza always does better when she is warm. She is a sweet, gentle creature, but no doubt she thought that you had designs upon her eggs. I suppose that you did not touch any of them?"

"Oh, let us get away, Bertha!" cried Monica, with her thin, black-gloved hands thrown forwards in abhorrence.

"Not away, but into the next room," said Mrs. Westmacott, with the air of one whose word was law. "This way,

el path.

"Who on earth are you?" he gasped, trembling violently.

"I am Major Brown," said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action.

The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered wildly, "Come down--come down here!"

"At your service," said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.

The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight.

"For heaven's sake," he said, "don't mention jackals."

Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter.

The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and peacock

s axis would tear it into a thousand fragments.

The old Norseman also maintained that from the farthest points of land on the islands of Spitzbergen and Franz Josef Land, flocks of geese may be seen annually flying still farther northward, just as the sailors and explorers record in their log-books. No scientist has yet been audacious enough to attempt to explain, even to his own satisfaction, toward what lands these winged fowls are guided by their subtle instinct. However, Olaf Jansen has given us a most reasonable explanation.

The presence of the open sea in the Northland is also explained. Olaf Jansen claims that the northern aperture, intake or hole, so to speak, is about fourteen hundred miles across. In connection with this, let us read what Explorer Nansen writes, on page 288 of his book: "I have never had such a splendid sail. On to the north, steadily north, with a good wind, as fast as steam and sail can take us, an open sea mile after mile, watch after watch, through these unknown re

precious the Saviour's promise, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that you shall ask, it shall be done for you of my Father which is in heaven'!"

"Yes, mother dear," assented Mrs. Leland, "and we will claim and plead it for our poor dear Laura, and for Eva, that she may be sustained under the bereavement which awaits her."

"Yes," said Dr. Conly, "and there are many of our friends who will be ready to join us in the petition. I am going now to Woodburn--the captain having telephoned me that one of the servants is ill--and we all know that he and his will be full of sympathy for Eva and her sick mother."

"No doubt they will," said Grandma Elsie, "both as Christians and as warm friends of Evelyn. And it will be quite the same with our other friends."

With that the doctor bade good-morning and took his departure in the direction of Woodburn. The family there were surprised and interested by the news he had to tell of the arrival at Fairview, and of Laura's feebl

ely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these complete the list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now character determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. The tragedies of most of

ttering a legion of antiquated and house-bred notions and whims to the four winds for an airing-and so the evil cure itself.

How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, stand it I do not know; but I have ground to suspect that most of them do not STAND it at all. When, early in a summer afternoon, we have been shaking the dust of the village from the skirts of our garments, making haste past those houses with purely Doric or Gothic fronts, which have such an air of repose about them, my companion whispers that probably about these times their occupants are all gone to bed. Then it is that I appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself never turns in, but forever stands out and erect, keeping watch over the slumberers.

No doubt temperament, and, above all, age, have a good deal to do with it. As a man grows older, his ability to sit still and follow indoor occupations increases. He grows vespertinal in his habits as the evening of life approaches, till a