ture excited more than half my admiration, and all my love.
Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray coming on in the embers, symptoms of death in the candle, a blotch of tallow on the Shakespeare, and the coat not half done. It must have been about then, I think, that the thin-edged sweetness of the Singing Mouse's voice pierced keenly through the air. I was right glad when the little creature came and sat on my knee, and in its affectionate way began to nibble at my finger-tips. It sat erect, its thin paws waving with a tiny, measured swing, and in its mystic voice, so infinitely small, so sweet and yet so majestically strong, began a song which no pen can transcribe. Knowing that the awakening must come, but unwilling to lose a moment of the dream, I, who with one finger could have crushed the little thing, sat prizing it more and more, as more and more its voice swept, and swelled, and rang; rang, till the fire burst high in noble pyramids of flame; rang, till the candle flashed in a thousand crystals; swell
scientific women and teachers, who have been thoroughly successful in the work they have undertaken, though it has not been that which has usually fallen to the lot of women?
At the time of writing these words, the largest congregation in London is mourning the loss of a woman who, Sunday by Sunday, gathered together eight hundred members of a Young Woman's Bible Class, to listen while she spoke to them of things pertaining to their present and eternal welfare. And who is there but would earnestly wish such women God-speed? Their work may be a little different from some of that of their sisters, but it is good work all the same. And as such it ought to be done. Why should not the labourers be allowed to proceed with their tasks without opposition and hindrance from those who look on? It cannot be denied that much of this work never would be performed if the women did not do it. Are they not right to step into vacant places, and stretch out their hands to help, when help is needed? Whether they are rig
of the recent laughter of his companions at his eagerness.
"Well, that's hard to say," replied his elder relative. "I'd like to start to-morrow morning. It all depends on the stage of the water. If a flood came down the Athabasca to-morrow you'd see pretty much every breed in that saloon over there stop drinking and hurry to the scows."
"What's that got to do with it?" asked John.
"Well, when the river goes up the scows can run the Grand Rapids, down below here, without unloading, or at least without unloading everything. If the river is low so that the rocks stand out, the men have to portage every pound of the brigade stuff. The Grand Rapids are bad, let me tell you that! It is only within the last fifty years that any one has ever tried to run them. I'll show you the man who first went through--an old man now over seventy; but he was a young chap when he first tried it. Well, he found that he could get through, so he tried it over again. He and others have been guiding on thos
me future there would come into the world a mighty man; that he would be born a Jew (Deuteronomy 18:15), specifying the place where he would be born (Micah 5:2); that he would come to his own people and they would not receive him; that he would be despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:1-3); that he would ride into Jerusalem upon an ass, the foal of a like animal, and offer himself as king to the Jews (Zechariah 9:9); that he would be rejected by the Jews (Isaiah 53:3); that he would be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver (Zechariah 11:12); that he would die, but not for himself (Daniel 9:26); that there would be no just cause for his death (Isaiah 53:8,9,11); that nevertheless he would be numbered among the transgressors (Isaiah 53:12); that he would die a violent death, yet not a bone of his body should be broken (Psalm 34:20); that his flesh would not corrupt, and that he would arise from the dead (Psalm 16:10)--all of which and many more similar prophecies wer
ften fathomed those "abysmal deeps of personality," the recognition of which is a necessary element of marked individual growth.
We have, therefore, no materials for forming any vivid picture of Seneca's childhood; but, from what we gather about the circumstances and the character of his family, we should suppose that he was exceptionally fortunate. The Senecas were wealthy; they held a good position in society; they were a family of cultivated taste, of literary pursuits, of high character, and of amiable dispositions. Their wealth raised them above the necessity of those mean cares and degrading shifts to eke out a scanty livelihood which mark the career of other literary men who were their contemporaries. Their rank and culture secured them the intimacy of all who were best worth knowing in Roman circles; and the general dignity and morality which marked their lives would free them from all likelihood of being thrown into close intercourse with the numerous class of luxurious epicureans, whose unblu
you up?" asked Lady Elspeth."He is very good company, I am told."
"Oh, Charles is excellent company. If we didn't see him now and againthe house would be like a tomb. But he's not there all the time, andwe have relapses. He has his own rooms elsewhere, you know. And I'mreally not surprised. It taxes even him to lighten the deadly dulnessof Melgrave Square."
"It must be a great comfort to Mrs. Pixley to have you with her, mydear."
"I can't make up for all she lacks in other directions," saidMargaret, with a shake of the head. "I get quite angry with UncleJeremiah sometimes. He is so--so absorbed in benefiting other peoplethat he--Well, you can understand how delightful it is to be able torun in here and find the sun always shining."
"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Elspeth, with a twinkle in the browneyes. "Some people carry their own sunshine with them wherever theygo."
"And some people decidedly don't," said Margaret, who was evidentlysuffering from some unusual exhibition of Pixle
st tone I sing to them; yet they are never quite satisfied with me, but beat their wings, and stretch out their heads, and cannot be happy until they hear their father.
"The squirrel, who lives in the hole where the two great branches part, hears what I say, and curls up his tail, while he turns his bright eyes towards the swinging nest which he can never reach."
The fanning wind wafts across the road the voice of the old horse- chestnut, who also has a word to say about the birds'-nests.
"When my blossoms were fresh, white pyramids, came a swift flutter of wings about them one day, and a dazzlingly beautiful little bird thrust his long, delicate bill among the flowers; and while he held himself there in the air without touching his tiny feet to twig or stem, but only by the swift fanning of long, green-tinted wings, I offered him my best flowers for his breakfast, and bowed my great leaves as a welcome to him. The dear little thing had been here before, while yet the sticky brown buds wh
ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abbe Rose, againmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs andwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. "Is notthat your brother?" asked the old priest.
Pierre had not stirred. "Yes, it is my brother Guillaume," he quietlyresponded. "I have found him again since I have been coming occasionallyto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been livingfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but Ihave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, wehave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds."
Abbe Rose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if tosay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant oflofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one whorebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abbe's,and when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his
sioner at Mammoth Hot Springs.
[Illustration: "So Maw, dear, old, happy, innocent Maw, knelt down with her hatpin and wrote:"--p. 19]
You see, the geysers rattled Maw, there being so many and she loving them all so much. One day when they were camped near the Upper Basin, Maw was looking down in the cone of Old Faithful, just after that Paderewski of the park had ceased playing. She told me she wanted to see where all the suds came from. But all at once she saw beneath her feet a white, shiny expanse of something that looked like chalk. At a sudden impulse she drew a hatpin from her hair and knelt down on the geyser cone--not reflecting how long and slow had been its growth.
For the first time a feeling of identity came to Maw. She never had been anybody all her life, even to herself, before this moment on her vacation. But now she had seen the mountains and the sky, and had oriented herself as one of the owners of this park. So Maw, dear, old, happy, innocent Maw, knelt down with her hat
ture excited more than half my admiration, and all my love.
Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray coming on in the embers, symptoms of death in the candle, a blotch of tallow on the Shakespeare, and the coat not half done. It must have been about then, I think, that the thin-edged sweetness of the Singing Mouse's voice pierced keenly through the air. I was right glad when the little creature came and sat on my knee, and in its affectionate way began to nibble at my finger-tips. It sat erect, its thin paws waving with a tiny, measured swing, and in its mystic voice, so infinitely small, so sweet and yet so majestically strong, began a song which no pen can transcribe. Knowing that the awakening must come, but unwilling to lose a moment of the dream, I, who with one finger could have crushed the little thing, sat prizing it more and more, as more and more its voice swept, and swelled, and rang; rang, till the fire burst high in noble pyramids of flame; rang, till the candle flashed in a thousand crystals; swell
scientific women and teachers, who have been thoroughly successful in the work they have undertaken, though it has not been that which has usually fallen to the lot of women?
At the time of writing these words, the largest congregation in London is mourning the loss of a woman who, Sunday by Sunday, gathered together eight hundred members of a Young Woman's Bible Class, to listen while she spoke to them of things pertaining to their present and eternal welfare. And who is there but would earnestly wish such women God-speed? Their work may be a little different from some of that of their sisters, but it is good work all the same. And as such it ought to be done. Why should not the labourers be allowed to proceed with their tasks without opposition and hindrance from those who look on? It cannot be denied that much of this work never would be performed if the women did not do it. Are they not right to step into vacant places, and stretch out their hands to help, when help is needed? Whether they are rig
of the recent laughter of his companions at his eagerness.
"Well, that's hard to say," replied his elder relative. "I'd like to start to-morrow morning. It all depends on the stage of the water. If a flood came down the Athabasca to-morrow you'd see pretty much every breed in that saloon over there stop drinking and hurry to the scows."
"What's that got to do with it?" asked John.
"Well, when the river goes up the scows can run the Grand Rapids, down below here, without unloading, or at least without unloading everything. If the river is low so that the rocks stand out, the men have to portage every pound of the brigade stuff. The Grand Rapids are bad, let me tell you that! It is only within the last fifty years that any one has ever tried to run them. I'll show you the man who first went through--an old man now over seventy; but he was a young chap when he first tried it. Well, he found that he could get through, so he tried it over again. He and others have been guiding on thos
me future there would come into the world a mighty man; that he would be born a Jew (Deuteronomy 18:15), specifying the place where he would be born (Micah 5:2); that he would come to his own people and they would not receive him; that he would be despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:1-3); that he would ride into Jerusalem upon an ass, the foal of a like animal, and offer himself as king to the Jews (Zechariah 9:9); that he would be rejected by the Jews (Isaiah 53:3); that he would be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver (Zechariah 11:12); that he would die, but not for himself (Daniel 9:26); that there would be no just cause for his death (Isaiah 53:8,9,11); that nevertheless he would be numbered among the transgressors (Isaiah 53:12); that he would die a violent death, yet not a bone of his body should be broken (Psalm 34:20); that his flesh would not corrupt, and that he would arise from the dead (Psalm 16:10)--all of which and many more similar prophecies wer
ften fathomed those "abysmal deeps of personality," the recognition of which is a necessary element of marked individual growth.
We have, therefore, no materials for forming any vivid picture of Seneca's childhood; but, from what we gather about the circumstances and the character of his family, we should suppose that he was exceptionally fortunate. The Senecas were wealthy; they held a good position in society; they were a family of cultivated taste, of literary pursuits, of high character, and of amiable dispositions. Their wealth raised them above the necessity of those mean cares and degrading shifts to eke out a scanty livelihood which mark the career of other literary men who were their contemporaries. Their rank and culture secured them the intimacy of all who were best worth knowing in Roman circles; and the general dignity and morality which marked their lives would free them from all likelihood of being thrown into close intercourse with the numerous class of luxurious epicureans, whose unblu
you up?" asked Lady Elspeth."He is very good company, I am told."
"Oh, Charles is excellent company. If we didn't see him now and againthe house would be like a tomb. But he's not there all the time, andwe have relapses. He has his own rooms elsewhere, you know. And I'mreally not surprised. It taxes even him to lighten the deadly dulnessof Melgrave Square."
"It must be a great comfort to Mrs. Pixley to have you with her, mydear."
"I can't make up for all she lacks in other directions," saidMargaret, with a shake of the head. "I get quite angry with UncleJeremiah sometimes. He is so--so absorbed in benefiting other peoplethat he--Well, you can understand how delightful it is to be able torun in here and find the sun always shining."
"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Elspeth, with a twinkle in the browneyes. "Some people carry their own sunshine with them wherever theygo."
"And some people decidedly don't," said Margaret, who was evidentlysuffering from some unusual exhibition of Pixle
st tone I sing to them; yet they are never quite satisfied with me, but beat their wings, and stretch out their heads, and cannot be happy until they hear their father.
"The squirrel, who lives in the hole where the two great branches part, hears what I say, and curls up his tail, while he turns his bright eyes towards the swinging nest which he can never reach."
The fanning wind wafts across the road the voice of the old horse- chestnut, who also has a word to say about the birds'-nests.
"When my blossoms were fresh, white pyramids, came a swift flutter of wings about them one day, and a dazzlingly beautiful little bird thrust his long, delicate bill among the flowers; and while he held himself there in the air without touching his tiny feet to twig or stem, but only by the swift fanning of long, green-tinted wings, I offered him my best flowers for his breakfast, and bowed my great leaves as a welcome to him. The dear little thing had been here before, while yet the sticky brown buds wh
ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abbe Rose, againmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs andwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. "Is notthat your brother?" asked the old priest.
Pierre had not stirred. "Yes, it is my brother Guillaume," he quietlyresponded. "I have found him again since I have been coming occasionallyto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been livingfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but Ihave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, wehave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds."
Abbe Rose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if tosay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant oflofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one whorebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abbe's,and when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his
sioner at Mammoth Hot Springs.
[Illustration: "So Maw, dear, old, happy, innocent Maw, knelt down with her hatpin and wrote:"--p. 19]
You see, the geysers rattled Maw, there being so many and she loving them all so much. One day when they were camped near the Upper Basin, Maw was looking down in the cone of Old Faithful, just after that Paderewski of the park had ceased playing. She told me she wanted to see where all the suds came from. But all at once she saw beneath her feet a white, shiny expanse of something that looked like chalk. At a sudden impulse she drew a hatpin from her hair and knelt down on the geyser cone--not reflecting how long and slow had been its growth.
For the first time a feeling of identity came to Maw. She never had been anybody all her life, even to herself, before this moment on her vacation. But now she had seen the mountains and the sky, and had oriented herself as one of the owners of this park. So Maw, dear, old, happy, innocent Maw, knelt down with her hat