chirp, represented, he said, the dedications and addresses which servile authors used to write in praise of unworthy patrons.  In the middle of the valley lay a great pool of spilt broth, and this signified the alms which rich men are too selfish to give away in their lifetime but bequeath to charities in their wills, to be paid out of money they can no longer use.  Next Astulf came upon numbers of beautiful dolls from Paris, which little girls throw aside because they prefer their dear old bundles of rags with beads for eyes; and one of the biggest hillocks in all the place was formed of a pile of knives lost out of careless schoolboys’ pockets.

Now, when Astulf grew old and had boys and girls of his own, they used to clamber on his knee in the twilight and ask for a story, and oh! how they wished for the Hippogrif.  Sometimes the old knight said that the Hippogrif was dead, but I have known people to shut their eyes and climb on his back, and cling to his mane, and go flying over the ocean and the hills clear through to the other end of the world.  For Hippogrif is only a name for Fancy, and the Valley of Lost Lumber and the River of Oblivion and the Temple of Immortality exist for every one of us.

    Freedom’s Silent Host.

    BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

    There are many silent sleepers
      In our country here and there,
    Heeding not our restless clamor,
      Bugle’s peal nor trumpet’s blare. 
        Soft they slumber,
      Past forever earthly care.

    O’er their beds the grasses creeping
      Weave a robe of royal fold,
    And the daisies add their homage,
      Flinging down a cloth of gold. 
        Soft they slumber,
      Once the gallant and the bold.

    Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers,
      Brings a waft of violet,
    Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose,
      On their lowly graves we set. 
        Soft they slumber,
      We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily
Showering the furrows green,
Childish songs that lift and warble
Where the sleepers lie serene
(Soft they slumber)
Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them,
Play the sweet old bugle call,
And because they died in honor
O’er them let the flowerets fall. 
Soft they slumber,
Dreaming, stirring not at all.

Freedom’s host of silent sleepers,
Where they lie is holy ground,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Musket’s rattle, trumpet’s sound. 
Soft they slumber,
Ever wrapped in peace profound.

Presence of Mind.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason’s house!  It seemed as if the blue gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fashion that was enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the sunbonnet was feeling.  She had, as she thought, more than her share of toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.