-the lines might have been written in Chinese. Sometimes the theme is varied; thoughts of the beloved lend a sweetness even to absence

In absence lovers grieve that nights should be,

But all the livelong night I think of thee.

I blow my lamp out to enjoy this rest, And shake the gathering dew-drop from my vest. ...

ories of love than expectations of it. They look back upon love through a long vista of years which have smoothed away the agitations of romance and have brought with them the calm familiarity of happiness, or the quiet desolation of regret. Thus, while one cannot be certain that this love is not sometimes another name for a sublimated friendship, one can be sure enough that these lovers are always friends. Affection, no doubt, is

the word that best describes such feelings; and it is through its mastery of the tones and depths of affection that our anthology holds a unique place in the literature of the world. For this cause, too, its pages, for all their strange antiquity, are fresh to us; their humanity keeps them immortal. The poets who wrote them seem to have come to the end of experience, to have passed long ago through the wonders and the tumults of existence, to have arrived at last in some mysterious haven where they could find repose among memories that were for ever living, and among discoveries that were for ever old. Their poetry is the voice of a civilization which has returned upon itself, which has achieved, after the revolution of ages, simplicity. It has learnt to say some things so finely that we forget, as we listen to it, that these are not the only things that can be said.

We parted at the gorge and cried "Good cheer!"

The sun was setting as I closed my door;

Methought, the spring will come again next year,

But he may come no more.

The words carry with them so much significance, they produce so profound The New Quarterly.

a sense of finality, that they seem to contain within themselves a summary of all that is most important in life. There is something almost cruel in such art as this; one longs, somehow or other, to shake it; and one feels that, if one did, one would shake it into ice. Yet, as it is, it is far from frigid; but it is dry-dry as the heaped rose-leaves in a porcelain vase, rich with the perfume of how many summers! The scent transports us to old gardens, to old palaces, we wander incuriously among forsaken graves; we half expect some wonder, and we know too well that nothing now will ever come again. Reading this book, we might be in the alleys of Versailles; and our sensations are those of a writer whose works, perhaps, are too modern to be included in Professor Giles's anthology—

Here in the ancient park I wait alone. The dried-up fountains sleep in beds of stone;

The paths are still; and up the sweeping sward

No lovely lady passes, no gay lord.

Why do I linger? Ah! perchance I'll find

Some solace for the desolated mind In yon green grotto, down the towering glade, Where the bronze Cupid glimmers in the shade. G. L. Strachey.

Oh, he won't hurt you.

He's nothing but bark. I don't think he could bite you, even if he had a mind, for there isn't above one tooth in 'is head. He don't belong to us by rights, he was a stray-we calls 'im "Stray"-for he came a prowling round 'ere whining and looking so miserable that I 'adn't the 'eart to keep on a-driving 'im away. That's just me all over. I am so regular soft-'earted, that if I sees a fellow VOL. XLI.

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creature suffering, well, it makes me as if I'd do anything-in reason. And I'm just the same with dumb animals. And my little boy, 'e says, "Oh, mammie, let 'im stay," and it did 'appen as we wanted a dog just then, so there he is! As my 'usband says, he does very well to sit in the front and bark -but I expect one of these days we shall 'ave to get rid of 'im, for 'e's getting very old. Well, I've always got a

great feeling for old folks, and I do 'ope that when I gets old myself there'll be those about me to show me kindness, for what with leaving all the things behind you bit by bit, and not knowing what's before you, it must be a very melancholy feel. I thought a deal of my poor mother. She did keep

up wonderful up to the last. We buried 'er two years come next Michaelmas, and she went off very sudden. As I always says, there's mercy in all things, and a long doctor's bill is a heavy burden to them as is left, for you don't like your dead to lie in debt. But I'm one of those who sets great store by my own flesh and blood. The family as you're born into is where your duty lies-next after your own home, you know. Of course you can't 'elp it, you're obliged to 'ave them for kin as the Almighty thinks fit, and that's just where luck comes in. Well, I've always 'ad good luck with my family, they've paid their way, and kept respectable, and that isn't what every one can say.

I never feels the same about the fam

ily as you marries into. It isn't your own flesh and blood, and your duty don't lie in it any more than it do in your neighbor's garden. If you keep your own weeds down, I always say, it's as much as need be expected of you. Now there's Will's father. Of course an old gentleman about the place as can't do any work, is a bit cumbersome sitting in a armchair all day, and it gives a good bit of extra trouble, but I shouldn't 'ave minded a bit if it 'ad been my own father. I should 'ave felt it's what the Almighty sends you, and it has to be put up with and made the best of. But, as I said to Will, we are a bit crowded here, and will be when the children gets bigger and all, I says, so it's better for 'im to stay on at the farm with Nat and his wife. Then Will's money isn't so very much, and though of course an old gentleman

like 'im isn't what you call 'earty, still he has to 'ave his vittles, and I'm not one of them as could bear to see any one wanting for what I could give 'em, you know.

You see the farm 'ad always been his, and 'is father's before 'im, so it would 'ave been very 'ard to take 'im off the ground. But 'e'd 'ad very bad luck with one thing and another. Bad seasons, and poor crops, and his wife laid by for a year or more, and the butter business falling through. And I believe, from all I 'ear, that 'e was 'elping 'is widowed sister more than 'e ought. She'd got such a family, you know. Any way things went from bad to worse. There was a deal o' business about it, and a deal o' talk. There was money on it or something. I can't follow it all through. Will's told me many's the time, and it seems to go in straight enough when he tells me, but it always comes out in a muddle when I tell it. But anyhow he was bankrupted.

Nat and his wife took the farm on, and the father along with it. She'd a tidy bit of money from her father, and they borrowed a bit more, and started it again. As she says, "Look at Nat's father, and look at mine, the one did all the losing, and the other did all the saving." Well, it's quite true. Her father was the biggest old screw in the country, and never give a copper away, I should say.

You see, as Nat said, the father must 'ave a home somewheres, and, as I says, we're crowded enough 'ere; and his daughter Mrs. Gask, as is married into the drapery line, she said as she knew he'd never make 'imself 'appy away from the farm-and there it was!

He's very broken now. He 'eld 'is head up at first, and bore it very brave. I've often 'eard 'im say as how he's a good bit of work in him yet if the Lord'd spare 'im, and 'ed 'elp Nat pull

He was quite a fine up

Of

it through. standing man then-but he gets so very bent. Of course Nat's wife is a 'ard woman. She's a splendid wifeshe's that clean, and such a manager, she turns every threepence into sixpence, as the saying is-but her tongue's like a razor. It's my belief she's sharpened it on the old gentleman till she can't speak without cutting 'im. I'm sure many's the time I've 'eard 'er say things to 'im that I shouldn't like to 'ave said to me. And Nat's no good with 'er. He's as meek as a lamb when she begins on 'im. course she's very 'ard-working, and they say as 'er butter's the best for miles round. My 'usband says 'e wonders the sight of 'er don't turn it sour, but, as I tell 'im, he'd be the very last to say so to 'er face. They're such poor-spirited creatures, men are. They're up in a moment if they get a blow, but a cut with a tongue soon sends 'em off with their tail between their legs. Well, as my poor mother used to say, "The Almighty provides for women creatures by giving 'em a tongue to 'ave ready when it's wanted."

The old gentleman can't do no work now. Of course it was very bitter for 'im at first to keep on at a place where he'd been master. I think as Nat would 'ave let 'im go on ruling it, if it 'adn't been for 'er. But she said -and I dare say it was true-that if he'd managed it right he wouldn't 'ave been bankrupted, and they didn't want no more disgrace in the family. Well, of course she didn't want 'er money thrown away. You can understand that. But 'e's got so shaky he couldn't do anything now. He comes down 'ere at times when he can walk as far. It was only last Tuesday he was 'ere. I was busy with the washing, and I couldn't 'ave 'im sitting about when I was at work, it worries you so. So I just sent 'im off with little Willy into the meadow to pick

cowslips. And when they come in, there 'e was a trying to make a cowslip ball for the children-but bless ye, his fingers have go so fumbly he couldn't do it, and at last 'e give it up. "Oh dear," 'e says, "oh dear, I can't do it, for I think I've forgot how. And I'd use to do 'em for my little ladsbut that's so long ago," 'e says "so long ago." And little Willy says, "Oh mammie, do look at granfer, he's crying"; and I says, "I'll make 'im a cup o' tea presently, I daresay he's a bit tired."

And there, after he'd 'ad 'is tea, he says, "Do you think as you could put a stitch in my coat, I've torn it, and Nat's wife don't like me to make rents in my things."

Well, of course, I was only too glad to do it for 'im, the poor old fellow, and you should 'ave seen how grateful 'e was! You'd 'ave thought that I'd done 'im ever such a favor. And I says to 'im, "Jane's very sharp, but she's very good to you," I says, "and makes you very comfortable"-for I didn't want 'im to get it into 'is head as he'd be better off with me.

And

"Oh, as for that," I says-I always make a point of speaking very cheerful to him, you know-"we must all expect to get old if we lives long enough. And I'm sure no one would be any the better for being told as they're going to die young. It's so discouraging. after all," I says, "you've a deal to be thankful for"-for he's apt to get a bit grumbling-"and when I'm past work," I says, "I only 'ope I shall 'ave as good a 'ome as you. And I'm sure," I says, "nobody 'ud think of saying anything

against you on account of your misfortunes. I dare say as you did your best, though it did turn out so bad."

And there was Willy a beginning again, "Don't cry, Grandfer," and the baby setting on too, "Don't ky." She is a funny little creature, and ever so forward for 'er age. The old gentleman's very fond of them, and they're very fond of him too. But fancy them a noticing 'im crying! It only shows you how sharp they are.

One day he come down here, and really I couldn't keep from laughing, for he'd got something under 'is coat, and he brought it out so secret-like, and there it was-nothing but a paper of sweeties for 'em! And he says, "Nat's wife 'd say I was a regular old fool wasting a penny, but," he says, "it's only for once in a way." "Why," I says, "I thought after all that fuss as you'd got a watch-and-chain, or something grand a-coming out."

"I 'aven't nothing left," 'e says. "But now and again I can get a penny, and little folks like sweeties." I don't believe as Nat's children takes much notice of 'im. Once when I was up there, he'd got the little boy on 'is knee, and she says, "You put that child down," and then she says quite out loud to me, "I can't abear 'im holding the children, he gets so shaky he'll let 'em fall some day."

I'm sure he heard, for he put 'is hand up to his face, and I saw he was all of a tremble. Nat walked off out of the kitchen. He isn't man enough to stand up for 'im, so he goes out of hearing. You see, when a woman's got the money, it makes her that masterful.

I did think as she was harder than need be when we were there for the baby's christening. There was a tea, and there was Will and me, and our two, and Mrs. Gask and her husband. And as we was a sitting down to tea she calls out to the girl-they keeps a

The National Review.

I

regular big girl: "Here, Mary, you 'aven't put the newspaper down." couldn't think what she meant, and the girl got red, and 'er said, "I didn't think as you'd 'ave it with company," and Nat, he looked as confused as possible, but she would 'ave it. And what do you think it was? Why it was a newspaper put on the table where the poor old man sat, as she said, "She wasn't going to 'ave the cloth slopped all over." But it did seem 'ard for 'im.

When we was going 'ome, Mrs. Gask did go on about it. She says she couldn't abear to think of 'er father being put upon like that, but, as she said, it was no use a-saying nothing, for it'd only make it the worse for 'im. "If only we lived in the country," she says, "he should 'ave a home with us. But," she says, "I know what my father is, and if he was took off the farm it'd break his 'eart."

That's where it is. Of course, as I always say, you've got to put up with something wherever you be, and I daresay he'd rather be on the old place. You see, it would be very hurtful to Nat if we 'ad 'im with us, and Will and Nat 'ave always been very good brothers. And she'd be very vexed. It'd make such a talk! They'd say as she'd drove 'im out. So all considered, he'll 'ave to stay. And of course, as I always tells him, he's got every comfort, and nothing to pay for it. I dare say he feels 'is age, and it makes 'im lowspirited, and take more notice where any one else wouldn't pay no heed.

But, as I say, we all get old in time, and it's no use being mopey over it, after all. It's what we've got to come to. Now hark at that old Stray barking at nothing! Well, he's for all the world like Grandfer for that-and he'd save 'imself some trouble if he'd let things pass by.

And when you've lost your teeth and can't bite, no one heeds your bark. Ellen L. Grazebrook.