And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer: But being spent the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, THE CROWD AND COMPANY. In holy meetings, there a man may be DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A sweet disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe string, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. To DAFFODILS. Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: MUSIC. The mellow touch of music most doth wound ONLY TO LIVE BY HIS BEST. Julia, if I chance to die To commit it to the fire: Better 'twere my book were dead GRACE FOR A CHILD. Here, a little child, I stand, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on our all. Amen. WITH FIRE AND SWORD.1 BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. [HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, the foremost living Polish novelist, was born of Lithuanian parents at Vola Okrzejska in the Lukowschen, in 1846. After pursuing his studies at the University of Warsaw, he adopted a wandering existence, and in 1876 proceeded to America, where he spent considerable time in southern California, and wrote for the Warsaw papers numerous stories and impressions of travel. He subsequently returned to Poland and took up literature as a profession. Nearly all of his works have been translated into English, and enjoy great popularity in the United States and England. The most important are: "Children of the Soil"; "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," and "Pan Michael," forming a trilogy of historical novels; "Quo Vadis," a tale of the time of Nero; "Yanko the Musician"; "Without Dogma"; "Hania."] THE DEATH OF THE TRAITORS. AT the house of the inspector of weights and measures, in the outskirts of Hassan Pasha, at the Saitch, sat two Zaporo 1 Copyright by Little, Brown & Co. jians at a table, fortifying themselves with spirits distilled from millet, which they dipped unceasingly from a wooden tub that stood in the middle of the table. One of them, already old and quite decrepit, was Philip Zakhar. He was the inspector. The other, Anton Tatarchuk, ataman of the Chigirin kuren, was a man about forty years old, tall, with a wild expression of face and oblique Tartar eyes. Both spoke in a low voice, as if fearing that some one might overhear them. "But it is to-day?" asked the inspector. “Yes, almost immediately," answered Tatarchuk. "They are waiting for the koshevoi and Tugai Bey, who went with Hmelnitski himself to Bazaluk, where the horde is quartered. The Brotherhood is already assembled on the square, and the kuren atamans will meet in council before evening. Before night all will be known." "It may have an evil end," muttered old Philip Zakhar. Listen, inspector! But did you see that there was a letter to me also?" "Of course I did, for I carried the letters myself to the koshevoi, and I know how to read. Three letters were found on the Pole, one to the koshevoi himself, one to you, the third to young Barabash. Every one in the Saitch knows of this already." "And who wrote? Don't you know?" "The prince wrote to the koshevoi, for his seal was on the letter; who wrote to you is unknown." "God guard us!" "If they don't call you a friend of the Poles openly, nothing will come of it." "God guard us!" repeated Tatarchuk. "It is evident that you have something on your mind." "Pshaw! I have nothing on my mind." "The koshevoi, too, may destroy all the letters, for his own head is concerned. There was a letter to him as well as to you." "He may." here the old "But if you have done anything, then " inspector lowered his voice still more"go away!" "The "But how and where?" asked Tatarchuk, uneasily. koshevoi has placed guards on all the islands, so that no one may escape to the Poles and let them know what is going on. The Tartars are on guard at Bazaluk. A fish couldn't squeeze through, and a bird couldn't fly over." |