ated bedstead lay an old manwho seemed to be at death's door; his eyes were sunk, his breathhurried, his lips trembling. By the side of his bed stood an earthenlamp upon a fragment of brick taken from the ruins of the house. In itthe oil was deficient; so also was it in the body of the man. Anotherlamp shone by the bedside--a girl of faultlessly fair face, of soft,starry beauty.

Whether because the light from the oil-less lamp was dim, or becausethe two occupants of the house were absorbed in thinking of theirapproaching separation, Nagendra's entrance was unseen. Standing inthe doorway, he heard the last sorrowful words that issued from themouth of the old man. These two, the old man and the young girl, werefriendless in this densely-peopled world. Once they had had wealth,relatives, men and maid servants--abundance of all kinds; but by thefickleness of fortune, one after another, all had gone. The mother ofthe family, seeing the faces of her son and daughter daily fading likethe dew-drench

used himself in the many long days during which he was confined to the house by ill health.

It is at this stage the steam and kettle story takes its rise. Mrs. Campbell, Watt's cousin and constant companion, recounts, in her memoranda, written in 1798:

Sitting one evening with his aunt, Mrs. Muirhead, at the tea-table, she said: "James Watt, I never saw such an idle boy; take a book or employ yourself usefully; for the last hour you have not spoken one word, but taken off the lid of that kettle and put it on again, holding now a cup and now a silver spoon over the steam, watching how it rises from the spout, and catching and connecting the drops of hot water it falls into. Are you not ashamed of spending your time in this way?"

To what extent the precocious boy ruminated upon the phenomenon must be left to conjecture. Enough that the story has a solid foundation upon which we can build. This more than justifies us in classing it with "Newton and the Apple," "Bruce and the Spider," "Tell a

west? He often asked himself that question in some amusement as they approached the coast of China. They entered a long winding channel and steamed this way and that until one day they sailed into a fine broad harbor with a magnificent city rising far up the steep sides of a hill. It was an Oriental city, and therefore strange to the young traveller. But for all that there seemed something familiar in the fine European buildings that lined the streets, and something still more homelike in that which floated high above them--something that brought a thrill to the heart of the young Canadian--the red-crossed banner of Britain!

It was Hongkong, the great British port of the East, and here he decided to land. No sooner had the travelers touched the dock, than they were surrounded by a yelling, jostling crowd of Chinese coolies, all shouting in an outlandish gibberish for the privilege of carrying the Barbarians' baggage. A group gathered round Mackay, and in their eagerness began hammering each other with

one about some very frightening and mysterious happenings in a modest suburban house on Long Island, and the other about excellence. I now have reason to hope that she has been reading Emerson, and she probably has. She is not a shirker, but, at least usually, as much a person of serious intent as one should be at her age and in her condition. Her understanding of Emerson is not perfect, but neither is mine. The essay she has been reading, I have read many times, and every time with the realization that my understanding of it, up to now, of course, has not been perfect.

I know this as surely as I know that Socrates was once exasperated by a yapping dog: Someday, perhaps this day, when I have explained some difficult proposition's exploration by Emerson, that young woman, or somebody else very much like her, will raise her hand and ask the question, and ask it just as Socrates asked, out of what she knows to be her ignorance, and her desire not to be ignorant. And her question will remind me that I am

know, I know! That will do-o-o, that will do-o-o!" cooed theWood-Pigeon obstinately in her soft, foolish little voice, withoutpaying the least attention to Mother Magpie's directions.

"We all know that--anything more?" chirped the chorus of birds, tryingto conceal how anxious they were to know what came next, for the nestswere only half finished.

But Mother Magpie was thoroughly disgusted, and refused to go on withthe lesson which had been so rudely interrupted by her pupils.

"You are all so wise, friends," she said, "that surely you do not needany help from me. You say you know all about it,--then go on and finishyour nests by yourselves. Much luck may you have!" And away she flew toher own cosy nest in the elm tree, where she was soon fast asleep,forgetting all about the matter.

But oh! What a pickle the other birds were in! The lesson was but halffinished, and most of them had not the slightest idea what to do next.That is why to this day many of the birds have never learned to buil

back to London. I cannot say that we were sorry.

For, let us be candid. I could be classed as a selfish, and unpatriotic old curmudgeon, but when we have cut the sentimental cackle, one has to confess that you cannot mix classes that are as different as chalk and cheese. These women from the East End were much less clean than animals, and far less likeable. They were lazy lumps of flesh, coarse, vulgar, noisy, ignorant. You could hear their hideous voices and their obscene laughter all over the house. And you could smell them. Blame our social scheme, if it pleases you, but the fact was incontestable, they were no better than unclean savages in our lovely house.

I think it must have been in August that I received my first warning. I had gone shopping in Melford, and I met Gibson in the ironmongers. He was looking worried and cross.

"Been requisitioned yet?"

"Requisitioned?"

"They are taking my place over next week. I expect you will be."

I think I gaped at him.

Indian tribes were in a difficult position. Both the French and the English were trying to get their lands and each seeking to win their alliance against the other. Washington reminded the chiefs that he had their word of honor and so kept them with him.

After receiving the French reply, the party started back home, going as far as possible in canoes. The rivers were swollen and full of ice, making the water-trip extremely dangerous. On Christmas Day, Washington began his long journey home--nearly a thousand miles through almost trackless forests. The horses became so tired that he and Christopher Gist decided to hurry on foot, in advance of the others, to the fork of the Ohio, leaving their horses to be brought later. They tramped several days, camping in the forests at night. An Indian met them and offered to show them a short cut. But he was treacherous and guided them out of their way and tried to shoot them. They escaped, traveling as fast as they could all night and all the next day.

At n

sion.Let them be always honored according to their deserts;and long may Maclear, Herschel, Airy, and others live to make knownthe wonders and glory of creation, and to aid in renderingthe pathway of the world safe to mariners, and the dark places of the earthopen to Christians!

I beg to offer my hearty thanks to my friend Sir Roderick Murchison,and also to Dr. Norton Shaw, the secretary of the Royal Geographical Society,for aiding my researches by every means in their power.

His faithful majesty Don Pedro V., having kindly sent out ordersto support my late companions until my return, relieved my mind of anxietyon their account. But for this act of liberality, I should certainlyhave been compelled to leave England in May last; and it has afforded methe pleasure of traveling over, in imagination, every scene again,and recalling the feelings which actuated me at the time.I have much pleasure in acknowledging my deep obligationsto the hospitality and kindness of the Portuguese on many occasio