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And though she will never deign reply,

I could tell her hull with the glance of an eye.

Now, I wonder where Nautilus can be bound;
Or does she always sail round and round,
With the fairy queen and her court on board,
And mariner-sprites, a glittering horde?
Does she roam and roam till the evening light?
And where does she go in the deep midnight?
So crazy a vessel could hardly sail,

Or weather the blow of a fine stiff gale."

O, the selfsame hand that holds the chain
Which the ocean binds to the rocky main-
Which guards from the wreck when the tempest raves,
And the stout ship reels on the surging waves —

Directs the course of thy little bark,

And in the light or the shadow dark,
And near the shore or far at sea,

Makes safe a billowy path for thee!

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EARLY DWELLERS IN BRITAIN.

FROM things which have been found in old graves and elsewhere, both in Britain and in other lands, it seems most likely that people once lived in Britain who must have been mere savages, without the use of metal, people who lived wholly by hunting and fishing. They had arrows and spear-heads of flint, and axes and hammers of stone. Think what trouble it must have been to do the commonest things with such tools. After them came a time when men had the use of bronze, and, last of all, the use of iron as we have now. You may have seen or heard of buildings, if we may call them buildings, made of great rough stones, which are called cromlechs. These have often been mistaken for altars, but they really are graves. Huge uncut stones were piled up without being joined by any mortar, and they were covered over with earth and smaller stones, so as to make a tump or barrow. These cromlechs, it seems most likely, are the graves of the first dwellers in the land, who had no use of metal. Of these very early times we can find out nothing, except from graves and such like remains, as of course we have no books that were written then. But there is every reason to think that the people who made these great and strange works were the oldest people who lived in these islands, before the Celts, that is the Welsh and Irish, came into the land. E. A. FREEMAN.

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Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

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TROUT FLY-FISHING.

BUT of all places commend me in the still of the evening to the long placid pool, shallow on one side, with deeper water and an abrupt overhanging bank opposite. Where the sun has shone all day, and legions of ephemera sported in its declining rays; the bloom of the rye or clover scenting the air from the adjoining field! Now light a fresh pipe, and put on a pale Ginger Hackle for a tail fly, and a little whitewinged Coachman for a dropper. Then wade in cautiously—move like a shadow-don't make a ripple. Cast slowly; long, light; let your stretcher sink a little. There, he has taken the Ginger-lead him around gently to the shallow side as you reel him in, but don't move from your position-let him tug a while, put your net under him, break his neck and slip him into your creel. Draw your line through the ringscast again; another, and another. Keep on until you can see only the ripple made by your fly; or know when it falls by the slight tremor it imparts through the whole line down to your hand-until the whip-poorwill begins his evening song, and the little water-frog tweets in the grass close by. Not till then is it time to go home.

And so my friend asked me if it was not very lonesome fishing by myself. Why, these little people of

the woods are much better company than folks who continually bore you with the weather, and the state of their stomachs and livers, and what they ate for breakfast, or the price of gold, or the stock-market, when you have forgotten whether you have a liver or not, and don't care the toss of a penny what the price of gold is, or whether this or that stock is up or down. Lonesome! It was only just now the red squirrel came down the limb of that birch, whisking his bushy tail, and chattering almost in my face. The mink, as he snuffed the fish-tainted air from my old creel, came out from his hole among the rocks and ran along within a few feet of me. Did he take my old coat to be a part of this rock, covered with lichens and gray mosses? I recollect once, in the dim twilight of evening, a doe with her fawns came down to the stream to drink; I had the wind of her, and could see into her great motherly eyes as she raised her head. A moment since the noisy kingfisher poised himself on the dead branch of the hemlock, over my left shoulder, as if he would peep into the hole of my fish-basket. The little warbler sang in the alders close by my old felt hat, as if he would burst his swelling throat with his loud, glad song. Did either of them know that I am of a race whose first impulse is to throw a stone or shoot a gun at them? And the sparrow-hawk on that leafless spray extending over the water, sitting there as grave and dignified as a bank president when you ask him for a discount; is he aware that I can tap him on the head with the tip of my rod? These are some of the simple

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