The Pine-Tree,'

a jubilee was held at Sofia: the poet receiving in the building of the National Assembly the thanks and acclamations of his fellow-countrymen, as well as letters and greetings in verse from authors in other parts of Europe. At this writing, a portion of his latest work, 'New Ground,' has been translated into French.

Lucy Catlin Bull

THE PINE-TREE

ALLEGORY OF THE ANCIENT KINGDOM OF BULGARIA

BE

ELOW the great Balkan, a stone's-throw from Thrace,
Where the mountain, majestic and straight as a wall,
Lifts his terrible back—in a bird-haunted place

Where green boughs are waving, white torrents appall.

With yellowing marbles, with moldering eaves,

Mute rises the cloister, girt round with the hills
And mingling its gloom with the glimmer of leaves,
The newness of blossoms, the freshness of rills.
Without the high walls what commotion and whirr!
Within them how solemn, how startling the hush!
All is steeped in a slumber that nothing can stir-
Not the waterfall shattered to foam in its rush.

In that hallowed inclosure, above the quaint shrine,
With angel and martyr in halo and shroud,
Looms a giant-limbed tree -

a magnificent pine,

Whose black summit is plunged in the soft summer cloud.

As the wings of an eagle are opened for flight,

As a cedar of Lebanon shields from the heat,
So he shoots out his branches to left and to right,
Till they shade every tomb in that tranquil retreat.`

The monk with white beard saw him ever the same,-
Unaltered in grandeur, in height or in girth;

Nor can any one living declare when that frame
Was first lifted in air, or the root pierced the earth.

That mysterious root that has long ceased to grow,
Sunken deep in the soil,- who can tell where it ends?

That inscrutable summit what mortal can know?

Like a cloud, with the limitless azure it blends.

And perchance the old landmark, by ages unbent,
Is sole witness to valor and virtue long past.
Peradventure he broods o'er each mighty event

That once moved him to rapture or made him aghast.
And 'tis thus he lives on, meeting storm after storm
With contempt and defiance a stranger to dread.
Nor can summer. or winter, that all things transform,
Steal the plumes from his shaggy and resolute head.

From the crotches and tufts of those wide-waving boughs,
Blithe birds by the hundred are pouring their lays;
There in utter seclusion their nestlings they house,
Far from envy and hate passing halcyon days.

Last of all save the mountain, the

Takes the tinge of the sunset.

Balkan's own son

A crown as of fire

First of all he receives from the new-risen one,

And salutes his dear guest with the small feathered choir.

But alas! in old age, though with confident heart

He yet springs toward the zenith, majestic and tall.

Since he too of a world full of peril is part,

The same fate hath found him that overtakes all.

On a sinister night came the thunder's long roll;
No cave of the mountain but echoed that groan.
All at once fell the storm upon upland and knoll
With implacable fury aforetime unknown.

The fields were deserted, the valleys complained;
The heavens grew lurid with flash after flash;
In the track of the tempest no creature remained-
Only terror and gloom and the thunderbolt's crash.

As of old, the huge tree his assailant repays

With intense indignation, with thrust after thrust; Till uprooted, confounded, his whole length he lays, With a heart-rending cry of despair, in the dust.

As a warrior attacked without warning rebounds
Undismayed from each stroke of his deadliest foe—
Then staggers and languishes, covered with wounds,
Knowing well that his footing he soon must forego;

As he still struggles on in the enemy's grasp,
Falling only in death, yielding only to fate

With a final convulsion, a single deep gasp,

That at least he survive not his fallen estate,

So the pine-tree, perceiving the end of his reign,
Yet unsplintered, uncleft in that desperate strife,
Vouchsafed not to witness the victor's disdain,

But with dignity straightway relinquished his life.

He is fallen! he lies there immobile, august;
Full of years, full of scars, on the greensward he lies.
Till last evening how proudly his summit he thrust,
To the wonder of all men, far into the skies.

And behold, as a conqueror closes the fray

With one mortal stroke more to his down-trodden foe, Then ignoring the conquest, all honors would pay,

Shedding tears for the hero his hand hath brought low,—

Thus the whirlwind, forgetting his fury, grew dumb,
Now that prone on the turf his antagonist lay;
And revering the victim his stroke had o'ercome,
To profound lamentation and weeping gave way.

Translation of Lucy C. Bull.

THE SEWING-PARTY AT ALTINOVO

From Under the Yoke ›

GNIANOFF now turned back towards Altinovo, a village which lay in the western corner of the valley. It was a twohours' journey; but his horse was exhausted and the road was bad, so that he only just reached the village before dark, pursued right up to the outskirts by the famished howls of the wolves.

He entered by the Bulgarian quarter (the village was a mixed one, containing both Turks and Bulgarians), and soon stopped before old Tsanko's door.

Tsanko was a native of Klissoura, but had long ago taken up his abode in the village. He was a simple, kindly peasant, and a warm patriot. The apostles often slept at his house. He received Ognianoff with open arms.

"It is a piece of luck, your coming to me. We've got a sewing-party on to-night-you can have a good look at our girls.

You won't find the time heavy on your hands, I'll be bound," said Tsanko with a smile, as he showed the way in.

Ognianoff hastened to tell him that he was being pursued, and for what reason.

"Yes, yes, I know all about it," said Tsanko: "you don't suppose just because our village is a bit out of the way, that we know nothing of what goes on outside?"

"But shan't I be putting you out?"

"Don't you mind, I tell you. You must look out among the girls to-night for one to carry the flag," laughed Tsanko; there -you can see them all from this window, like a king."

Ognianoff was in a small dark closet, the window of which, covered with wooden trellis-work, looked on to the large common room: here the sewing-party was already assembling. It was a meeting of the principal girls of the village; the object being to assist in making the trousseau for Tsanko's daughter Donka. The fire burned brightly and lighted up the walls, which boasted no ornament save a print of St. Ivan of Rilo, and the bright glazed dishes on the shelves. The furniture as in most wellto-do villagers' houses-consisted of a water-butt, a wardrobe, a shelf, and the great cupboard which contained all Tsanko's household goods. All the guests, both male and female, were seated on the floor, which was covered with skins and carpets. Besides the light of the fire there were also two petroleum lamps burninga special luxury in honor of the occasion.

It was long since Ognianoff had been present at a gathering of this kind,—a curious custom sanctioned by antiquity. From his dark recess he watched with interest the simple scenes of the still primitive village life. The door opened, and Tsanko's wife came to him: she was a buxom and talkative dame, also from Klissoura. She sat down by Ognianoff's side, and began to point out to him the most remarkable girls present, with the necessary details.

"Do you see that fat rosy-cheeked girl there? That's Staïka Chonina. See what a sad, sad look Ivan Kill-the-Bear gives her now and again. He barks for her like a sheep-dog when he wants to make her laugh. She's very industrious, quick-witted, and cleanly. Only she ought to marry at once, poor girl,- she's getting so fat: she'll be thinner after marriage. It's just the opposite of your town girls. The girl to the left of her is Tsvéta Prodanova: she is in love with the lad over there with his

mustache sticking out like a skewer. She's a lively one for you see her eyes in every corner of the room at once; but she's a good girl. That's Draganoff's Tsvéta by her side; and next to her Raïka, the Pope's daughter. I'd rather have those two than twenty of your fine ladies from Philippopolis. Do you see their white throats, just like ducks? Why, I once caught my Tsanko saying he'd give his vineyard at Mal Tepe, just to be allowed to kiss one of them on the chin! Didn't I just box his ears for him, the vagabond! Do you see that girl to the right of fat Staïka? That's Kara Velio's daughter: she's a great swell; five young fellows have already been after her, but her father wouldn't have anything to say to them. He's keeping her for somebody, the old weasel-you know he looks just like a weasel. Ivan Nedelioff 'll have her, or I'll bite my tongue out. There's Rada Milkina: she sings like the nightingale on our plum-treebut she's a lazybones, between ourselves. I'd rather have Dimka Todorova, standing over there by the shelf: there's a blooming rose for you! If I was a bachelor I'd propose to her at once. Why don't you take her yourself? That's the Péëffs' girl standing by our Donka. She's a pretty girl, and industrious into the bargain so they say she's as good as our Donka. She's got a sweet voice, like Rada Milkina, and laughs like a swallow twittering: you listen to her."

As she stood there by Boïcho in the dark, she reminded him of the scene in the Divina Commedia' where Beatrice, at the gate of hell, points out to Dante one by one the condemned, and tells him their history.

Ognianoff listened more or less attentively: he was entirely absorbed by the picture, and cared little for the explanations. The bolder among the girls jested with the lads, flirted with them archly, and laughed merrily the while. They were answered by the deep guffaws of the youths, who looked shyly across at the weaker sex. Jests, taunts, and chaff followed in one continual flow: loud laughter was called forth by jokes with a double meaning, which sometimes brought the hot blush to the girls' cheeks. Tsanko alone took no part in the merry-making. His wife was busy with the stew-pan, where the supper was preparing. As for Donka, she couldn't stay still for a moment.

"Come, you've chaffed each other enough now: suppose you give us a song," cried the housewife, as she left Boïcho and returned to her saucepans on the fire. "Now then, Rada, Stanka,