THE BOY. [Reflectively.] I'd have Harold and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and Martha-I 'd have Martha, to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady.

THE ARTIST. Then I'm sure I should like her, and when I come to-what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo-something, did you say?

THE BOY. I-don't know; I'm afraid it has n't got a name-yet.

THE ARTIST. [Softly.] "The poet says, dear city of Cecrops, and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?"That's from Marcus Aurelius, you don't know him, I suppose; you will some day.

THE BOY. Who's he?

THE ARTIST. Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome.

THE BOY. [Disconsolately.] O dear, what a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I 've never even been there! But I think I'd like my city best.

THE ARTIST. And so would I. But Marcus Aurelius would n't, you know.

THE BOY. Then we won't invite him, will we?

THE ARTIST. [Decisively.] I won't if you won't. [Paints for a few minutes.] Do you know, I've met one or two fellows from time to time who have been to a city like yours,-perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it-only broken hints, now and then; but they 've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care

about anything in particular-and everything 's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose.

THE BOY. Of course. Don't see what they ever came away for; I would n't,-to be told you 've broken things when you have n't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog sleep with you. But I 've known people, too, who 've gone there. THE ARTIST. [Surprised.] Yes?

THE BOY. Well, there 's Lancelot, the book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur,-and Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stories who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!

THE ARTIST. And the men who never come off, who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,— or break down or get bowled over in the mêlée,—and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom,-some of them 'll be there, I hope?

THE BOY. [Hesitatingly.] Yes, if you like, if they 're friends of yours, we 'll ask them, of course.

THE ARTIST. What a time we shall have! and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be! [Packing up his traps.] I've enjoyed our conversation very much. [Shaking hands with THE BOY.] That was an interesting subject you started, and we have n't half exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope.

THE BOY. Of course we shall.

THE ARTIST. In Rome, perhaps?

THE BOY. Yes, in Rome, or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere.

THE ARTIST. Or else in that other city,-when we 've found the way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and into the shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house, and we 'll live like princes and good fellows.

THE BOY. Oh, but you 'll stay in my house, won't you? I would n't ask everybody; but I'll ask you.

THE ARTIST. [Considering for a minute.] Right! I believe you mean it, and I will come and stay with you. I won't go to anybody else, if they ask me ever so much. And I'll stay quite a long time, too, and I won't be any trouble. And now, good-by.

THE BOY. [Downheartedly watching the artist walking down the road.] I wonder why it is when a fellow finds one who understands him he always has to go away. I wonder-I wonder whether he is Lancelot! Well, anyway, I'll know when we meet in my city. [Turns towards home.]

THE END

NOTE. This story, "The Roman Road," is only one little part of the beautiful book, "The Golden Age," by Kenneth Grahame, a very treasure trove of exquisite bits of literature.

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE *

FIRST CHILD.

By HENRY Van Dyke

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,

And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in

light,

'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,

And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

SECOND CHILD.

This is the carol the Robin throws

Over the edge of the valley;

Listen how boldly it flows,

Sally on sally:

THIRD CHILD. [Sings the Robin's song. Or it is very effective if a whole class takes up the song and lightly and sweetly sings it. Have a different child or class sing each bird song.]

Tirra-lirra,
Down the river,
Laughing water
All a-quiver.

Day is near,

*By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers. Music by Theresa Joseph.

are break-ing, Time for wak-ing. Tup, Tup,

Do you hear?

All clear, wake

up!

1111

FOURTH CHILD.

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,

And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond fields of dew,

While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world

were new.