J.T.  McKAY.

THE PROBLEM.

  Two parted long, and yearning long to meet,
  Within an hour the life of months repeat;
  Then come to silence, as if each had poured
  Into the other’s keeping all his hoard.

  And when the life seems drained of all its store,
  Each inly wonders why he says no more. 
  Why, since they’ve met, does mutual need seem small,
  And what avails the presence, after all?

  Though silent thought with those we love is sweet,
  The heart finds every meeting incomplete;
  And with the dearest there must sometimes be
  The wide and lonely silence of the sea.

CHARLOTTE F. BATES.

MONACO.

There are three ways of reaching Monaco from Nice—­by sea, by rail, and by carriage via the Corniche road.  This last is the longest, but by far the most interesting route.  The railroad takes you to Monaco in about an hour, and the steamer employs pretty nearly the same time.  A carriage, on the other hand, requires not less than five hours for the journey, but then the scenery passed through is perhaps the most striking in Southern Europe.  I have often gone on foot, leaving Nice early in the morning, and arriving in Monaco at about four in the afternoon, having been able to rest fully two hours on the way.  Once beyond the town, the road begins to ascend what is called the Montee de Villefranche, and at every step the views become more and more varied and picturesque.  Presently an olive wood is traversed, and the town is lost to sight until the summit of the mountain which separates the Bay of Nice from that of Villefranche is attained.  This olive wood is of great antiquity, and, like almost all similar thickets in this part of the country, doubtless owes its origin to the Romans, who are said to have introduced the tree into the Maritime Alps and the south of France.  Many of the trees are very large, and their trunks are black and much twisted, their branches long and weird-looking, but the exceeding delicacy of their foliage, which is dark green on the outside and silver gray on the inner, lends them a very fascinating appearance, especially on a moonlight night, when the arching boughs of an olive grove look exactly as if covered with shawls of rich black lace.  The leaf of the olive tree, which is an evergreen, is attached to the bough by a very slender stalk, so that the slightest wind sets it in motion, as it does that of the quivering aspen.  The fruit resembles an acorn without its cup, and is brown and dingy.  The flower is very insignificant.