the magnetism,” replied James. "But I have no doubt that I shall find one. The teacher of physics says there is no substance that will cut off magnetic attraction; but I think there must be."

James then showed them his new perpetualmotion velocipede. He had had a little model made, but it was not quite completed. Robert wrote this description of it to his father:

"I think he is going to make a machine which will always go on the roads without horses, or steam-engines, or men's feet. It is made in this way: There is a long, hollow magnet, with a halfcircle at each end; a large ball of something funny can roll from one end to the other of the hollow magnet. When the magnet stands upright, the magnetic pole of the earth pulls down the upper end. The ball runs quickly to that end, and changes the magnetism of the magnet, so that what was before a north end now becomes a south end. Then the magnet stands upright again; and thus it turns over and over continually. A seat is arranged between two of these hollow magnets, and is hung just as they hang steam-ship lights, so that they never overturn, no matter how much the vessel tosses. Wont it be jolly to ride on such a thing? You see, you will go up and down, as if you were on a galloping horse-only I don't see how you are going to stop the thing. That is what troubles James, and he is now working over how to stop it."

These were the thoughts that ran through Robert's mind as he heard James explain his perpetualmotion velocipede. The boys could not see why the thing would not work.

Perpetual-Motion James made a great impression upon Robert Temple, who thought that James was a much-abused fellow, both by the boys and by the teachers; for the masters smiled at his notions, and often even punished him for wasting his time. As they came away, both Robert and Philip voted that teachers did not know everything, for James had undoubtedly made a great invention.

In a few days, Robert received a letter from his father, who was a civil-engineer, and constructed

"I am surprised that you have so readily forgotten the principles I taught you. Perpetual motion is not possible in this world. If we should put a water-wheel under Niagara Falls, it would run

until it would wear out; but it is not perpetual motion to use the

force of water or the winds. We might put a steam-engine in a deep mine, and use the heat of the earth to run it, and turn something at the surface of the earth continually; but that is not perpetual motion, for we use the force stored up in the earth. A true perpetual-motion machine must run itself without the aid of anything but what is contained in itself. Perpetual-Motion James's first idea with the magnet and the wheel would be perpetual motion, if it would run; but it will not run, for there is no substance that will cut off the attraction between magnets. I have written to Perpetual-Motion James's father, whom I know well, and told him that his son is wasting his time trying to do impossibilities. He should be learning the first principles of physics."

"There!" exclaimed Robert Temple, as he read his father's letter to Philip. “I'm afraid I 've got He says, Perpetual-Motion James into trouble. himself, that the world is down on inventors." "Well, if the world really is down on inventors," said Philip Brown, "the only way is not to invent. But look at all the useful things that have been invented, and that the world is glad to get, and pays well for. I think, though, that on the whole, I would rather have my lessons, and go on with the rest of the fellows, instead of cooping myself up in a barn, and trying to make something that everybody says wont go, and that never can go!"

Perpetual-Motion James is still at school at Riverside, and Robert Temple and the more intelligent boys have lost faith in his machines; but Perpetual-Motion James continues to work secretly over his velocipede. He can see how to make it go, but how to stop it when it is once in motion still puzzles him. When it goes and stops at the rider's will, we will send word to ST. NICHOLAS.

THERE is a stirring poem in every school collection, called How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix"; and not one of you who is fourteen years old but has read it many times over. For it has the ring and the fire of the true inspired ballad, and a good ballad is like martial music to young ears. And many

as are the noted writers of England, no man or woman of them all is better able to give us poems of this sort than the strong-hearted poet of "How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix." Robert Browning's soul is quick to recognize the true and the brave in human action, and whenever he describes them, his words are seeds of fire. 66 'Hervé Riel," the poem we give you this month, shows this quality of its author as plainly as any of his other ballads, and, in reading it, you will admire not only the simple Breton sailor who does his self-imposed duty so manfully, but also the manful

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poet who honors the grandeur of the poor sailor's act, and that it may not go unrewarded-pays it the tribute of his noble song. Some of you may need to consult your atlases to understand all the allusions-and so will read the poem twice to enjoy it fully. But the story and the poet's way of telling it will alike interest

you, we are sure.

Much of Mr. Browning's other poetry, however, has puzzled older heads than yours to catch its full meaning. But you hardly will find in all literature a more simple, rollicking, and entertaining story in verse than his "Pied Piper of Hamelin," a more touching and tender poem of young life than "Evelyn Hope," or a more ringing and spirited ballad than " Hervé Riel." So, write as he may of deep subjects and in unfamiliar styles, he cannot be solely the poet of grown-up students and thinkers; but-whether he knows it or not—is often a true poet of boys and girls.

ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,

Did the English fight the French,-woe to France!

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal

of sharks pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,

With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signaled to the place:

Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick or, quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!"

See the noble fellow's face,

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock;

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,

Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see! is past,

All are harbored to the last;

And just as Hervé Riel hollos "Anchor!"sure as fate,

Up the English come, too late!

Out burst all, with one accord:

"This is Paradise for hell!

Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville: "My friend, I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content and have, or my name 's not Damfreville!"

Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty 's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—

Since 't is ask and have, I may

Since the others go ashore

Come! a good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"

That he asked and that he got-nothing more!

Name and deed alike are lost:

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it

befell;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack,

In memory of the man but for whom had

gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris: rank on rank,

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank!

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.

So, for better and for worse,
Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

IT was fitting that a poet of Mr. Browning's manly fire and vigor should be mated with a wife who, besides the advantage of a clear, thoroughly trained intellect, possessed the delicate poetic traits and gifts of song peculiar to womanly genius.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was, perhaps, the greatest woman-poet in all English literature. Dainty and exquisitely wrought as are many of her poems, we have selected from them all the one which shows how her strong soul went out to the wretched and oppressed. In "The Cry of the Children," she puts her indignant eloquence into the mouths of little ones whose sufferings left them too wretched for words, and who yet, through her, could reach the hearts of those who oppressed them. It seems almost too terrible to be true that men ever could be willing to profit by the labor of

children, forced, for their very bread, to work from dawn till dark, day after day, in mines and noisy factories. Yet Mrs. Browning's "Cry of the Children "is no flight of fancy, but the simple, cruel truth of not many years ago.

Mrs. Browning's poems and shorter songs treat of many subjects; and throughout your life you will be able to find somewhere among them thoughts that will help you to be stronger and better. But the selections will be best made by yourselves, according to the need or fancy of the hour. If you do not care for them to-day, you may to-morrow. Surely it is a pleasant thing to know that in the realms of literature good friends patiently wait our coming-and among them all, none will give you better greeting than this most true, gentle, womanly soul.

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,

Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries. Could we see her face, be sure we would not know her,

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes. And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime!

It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time."