way to the enclosure, one hand fumbling meanwhile to get into the pocket where lay his old-fashioned purse, securely tied and buttoned up, when a hand gripped him firmly. Another, equally decided in its action, closed over his mouth.

"Ho'd thi din," cried Nance, for it was she. "It's all reight. Sitha, look at t' l'ile dog nah. Well done, Zubdil."

It was all over in a moment, but it was a stirring moment. L'ile Nance had dealt with the intruder. Taking it in her stride, she had seized the terrier by the back of the neck, flung it from her with a toss of her head, and was about her business. She and her master had to deal with a serious situation, for one sheep, in mad panic at the terrier's attack and at the feel of its teeth in her leg, had bolted blindly through the crowd, clearing the fence in one fine leap. A silverand-gray streak flew through the opening thus made, and in a second both dog and sheep were swallowed up among the onlookers. Zub, down on his knees the better to see through the legs of the huddled spectators, was whistling until he was well-nigh black in the face, but he never lost his head. His calls were wonderful, articulate almost. They were thrilling, short, but infinitely encouraging and coaxing. Many a man would have deeply cursed his dog; every ounce of Zubdil went into encouraging the little animal. "Over, over, over," said the whistles, as plainly as could be, and at the moment that the other Nance on the slope had stayed the wrathful old farmer, her four-footed namesake came back over the fence in the rear of the missing sheep.

The prodigal, bearing down upon its fellows, who had stopped to graze the moment they found they were not being harried, alarmed them, and they fled. By good luck they bore down straight upon the cross-road hurdles.

All

With Zubdil on one flank, l'ile Nance on the other, there was no escape, and they bolted straight through. the precious seconds lost by the incident of the fox-terrier were thus won back, with more to them. Nance awaited the panting fleeces at the exit, and with her tongue lolling, and her bright eyes just visible through the tangled fringe of hair, she appeared to be grinning them a welcome. The sheep spun round to avoid her, and were brought up opposite the second entrance by the long form of the young farmer. His arms were swaying, gently, unhurriedly, waving them into the entrance. There was need now of patience and tact, for seconds were becoming precious, and an over-alarmed sheep is a-mule. He whistled softly with pursed lips while yet they hesitated what to do. Nance sank prone.

Save that there was a dark patch against the green of the grass, she had disappeared. Without any visible movement the patch drew nearer the hesitating sheep. It was pretty work, and the crowd marked their admiration by their dead silence. The sheep sighted the dog, backed round to face her, and crowded with their hindquarters against the hurdle. Zubdil was silent, motionless, save for the slow movement of his arms. Nance slid a little nearer, nearer yet. The sheep crowded farther back against the opening. She was not now a yard away. Suddenly she sat up and panted hard. One of the animals, turning sharply to escape, found an opening, pushed along it in dread haste. The other two struggled for next place, and the cross-roads were

won.

Again was l'ile Nance there to meet them as they gained the open, and collecting them smartly she raced them off towards the pen. They broke away, but their wild rush ended

in their being brought up exactly against the opening of the pen. Zubdil was there, too, his arms going like the sails of a windmill on an almost breezeless day. They pushed past the opening, and Nance rose up out of the grass to greet them. They spun about and raced off, but in a trice she was doing trick running about their heads and flanks, and when they stopped for breath the mouth of the pen was again before them. Zubdil drew a cautious step nearer, arms outspread, his lips puckered. Just wide of him a pair of ears pricked up above the grass. There was a moment's hesitation; one of the sheep poked its head through the mouth of the pen. Nance glided a little nearer, and the other two animals crowded against the first. Another step into the pen; the dog was only a yard away. There was a flurried movement about the opening. L'ile Nance sat up and lolled out a red tongue. She appeared to be laughing. There was a crush, a scramble, the sheep burst in, and Nance slid across the opening, lay down, and fixed her pearly eyes on her master. What wonder if she appeared to be grinning cheerfully?

Before the cheering had subsided, The Cornhill Magazine.

a stolid-faced judge stepped towards Zubdil. The pink rosette which de-. noted the first prize was in his hand, and at the sight of it there was more cheering. The other Nance on the slope clutched the arm of Owd Zub. For his part he was smiling broadly, and ecstatically slapping his leggings hard with his ash stick.

"Nine-an'-a-quarter minutes," said the judge, handing the rosette to the young farmer. "By gum, but it wor a near do. Shoo's a rare 'un, that dog o' thine, an' nobbut a young 'un, too."

But Zubdil's greatest reward came later. It was not the hearty congratulations of so doughty an opponent as Ike, nor the incoherent remarks of Owd Zub. It was when an arm slid through his, when eyes dimmed with the moisture of genuine pride looked into his, and a low voice said:

"I'se reight glad, lad. I is."

He laughed, gladly. Then openly, unashamed, he stooped and took toll of her lips. Nor was he denied. And the other Nance, looking up from where she lay at their feet, tossed back a lock of hair and wagged her tail in approval.

Rowland Cragg.

Honor to all in peril or in pain
Who make no terms with evil, but sustain
The right dispassionately for all men's
gain.

Honor the meek, whose lives with

prayer's endeavor

Follow their loves-whose home-fond feet shall never

Come home forever.

Honor the dead, and them that slowly die;

Honor ourselves; and honor still the

gleam

That lives in all men's hearts, whate'er they seem,

That move uncaring 'neath the comely sky.

Honor this land that, 'mid a world's downcasting,

Yields unto death her love's irradiant flower,

That, grieving, took with pride her tragic hour,

True to the Everlasting.

Oh, Thou, to Whom all honor is, to Whom Strange deaths and births are subject ceaselessly,

Unto the goal of days under the gloom Sustain Thy servants in their agony, These living lamps that, steadfast, burn from Thee

'Mid war's wild dark and doom. Close the sick ears of them that slewand slay

In dreams delirious many nights and days.

Shut the sad eyes of them that walk today

In Golgotha, and cannot turn away, But gaze, and gaze, and gaze. Oh, Thou, Who on all life's battlethundering coasts

Art lord of ghostly hosts, Judge not the blind words Thy rude

heroes cry

In the red hour of death, for under heaven

Drawn down the days or driven
As torments chase or fly,

The soul hath various tongues, and rash and wild

Is earth's bemazèd child,

And darkly wins his way

Unto Thy lighter day.

Oh, Thou, Who lent to death Thy deity,
Pity Thy brave that hie

Less meekly to the throes of Calvary,
That, weak with anger, cry
Crudely beneath the sky.
Who die for love, unfearful of the price,
And for a dream fling all the earth
away-

These touch diviner issues. Say
not Nay

To Thy rude saints in their self-sacrifice.

Ye true that stand in conscience sternly strong,

That work, and watch, and wait, and hope so long,

Keep silence cheerful; yea, with zeal endure;

Pursue the quest with purpose proud and pure.

And you, grown grave, that, pale with sudden sorrow,

Wait life's more mute tomorrow, Weep patiently, yea, suffer to the end With royal patience. He hath fate for friend

Who, faithful, follows the eternal

lure

In his own soul, whose loves are that high brood

Faith, wisdom, temperance, mercy, fortitude.

To Heaven be praise, Whose cause in honor stands,

For shining hearts, and sad and eager hands;

For lives, that moved on soft luxurious floors,

That bravely break on adamantine doors;

For heads, that knew but down, that sleep on stones;

For delicate feet that speed where anguish moans;

languid breath,

death;

The Poetry Review.

James A. Mackereth.

In recent weeks a bright light has been shining in the west of a world of sorrow and of glory. Its brilliance increases. It has seemed like a heavenly fire, and its effulgence has spread over the earth, lightening obscure paths upon which harassed men in search of a great ideal have been arduously pressing their way. It has needed but a little imagination on the part of those who have perceived this shining light, its significance and its splendor, to see also a scintillating halo flashing round the head of that noble statue of "Liberty Enlightening the World" that towers up at the entrance to New York harbor, to see the fire of justice and truth burning from the torch that the figure of Liberty holds aloft. I think that, perhaps more than the Americans themselves, all who have visited the United States must be led at this present moment to profound reflection on the significance of that great statue, the old significance and the new. It is tremendous. In the days of peace the visitor to those hospitable American shores could hardly look upon that work for the first time without experiencing a deep emotion. There is something that thrills about that view of Liberty at the gates of the freest people. And today we cannot fail to recall that the statue was France's gift to the United States. That is something to remember now, one of the little crumbs of history about which three years ago perhaps not one person in four or five on the deck of an ingoing liner knew or seemed to

care.

Those were careless days, if happy in their way. Now we see that at the first moments of her entry into the war the United States thinks first of all of the civilization of the world and her own situation and responsibility in regard to it; next she thinks of France, then of the other Allies and Britain with them. She is right in this order of thinking, although there may be a few of the more superficial egotists in our islands who may wonder as usual why Britain does not come first, since it is on her that the burden of the war is now chiefly falling. But certainly America is right. If you spend a little while in any part of that great country that stands between the Atlantic and the Pacific you will come to a new understanding of the affection that it has for France and all that is French; and then if you will read only a little of the elementary history that has been forgotten, and consider anew the nature of these people now, you will see why it is so. The significance of this marvelous statue increases with every thought. It is America as nothing else has ever indicated her; and now it is the new America that leaps from isolation in her own western continent and flings herself afar upon the enemies of the old world from which she rose. I remember well the subtle emotion that crept within me the first time that I saw this work. It was not in the sunlight of morning or in the blue dusk of an American evening, as I had hoped, for I was looking forward to the view. I saw