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The priest sat still and heard her story through,
Then said, "There's something still for you to do;
Those little thistle-seeds which you have sown,
I bid you go re-gather every one."

The woman said: "But, father, 'twould be vain
To try to gather up those seeds again;
The winds have scattered them both far and wide,
Over the meadowed vale and mountain-side.”
The father answered, "Now I hope from this
The lesson I have taught you will not miss;
You cannot gather back the scattered seeds,
Which far and wide will grow to noxious weeds,
Nor can the mischief once by scandal sown
By any penance be again undone."

Mary E. C. Johnson.

HATEM TOI.

HATEM TOI possessed a mare,
Fleet of foot, of lineage rare,
Black as midnight, strong of limb,
Fond as child could be of him;
Every sheik and chieftain there
Envied Hatem Toi his mare.

Sullah Beg the mare admired;
Sullah Beg the mare desired;
Offered for her shining gold,
Many camels, goats from fold,

All the greed of man could stir,
Should her owner part with her.

Came reply: "I may not sell
Her who serves my need so well.
Born and bred within my tent,
Going where her master went,
Children's playmate, master's friend,
Let her be so to the end.”

Sullah Beg, with anger hot,
Glanced a while, but answered not;
Turned on heel and strode away,
Where was tethered courser gray,
And, in mounting, muttered, "She,
Spite her owner, mine shall be."

Hatem Toi a journey made
From the friendly palm-tree's shade,
Through the barren rocks and sand,
Speeding o'er the higher land,
Free from trouble, grief, or care,
Mounted on his matchless mare.

Moving merrily, mile on mile,
Came he to a deep defile,
Where an aged wretch he found
Prone, exhausted on the ground;
And, dismounting, asked what aid
In his need could best be made.

Quoth the stranger: "Pass, and leave One whose dying none shall grieve. Started I this morn to go

To yon fertile plain below;
But my feet have failed me. I,
Old and wearied, here must die."

"Nay!” cried Hatem. "I am young:
Age has not my limbs unstrung.
Let me lift you on my mare,
Who can well the burden bear.
Light and easy you shall ride,
While I careful walk beside."

Thanked him then the stranger, and
Helped to seat by kindly hand,
Grasped the reins and reined the mare,
Till she reared and pawed the air;
Lashed her sudden till she leapt,
And away from Hatem swept.

Off went wig and caftan straight, There sat Sullah Beg, elate; And, with look of savage joy, This he said to Hatem Toi: "Though no purchase gold may make, Strength retains what wit may take."

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Thine the brute shall freely be

With one favor given to me:

Let no mortal ever wis
How you gained her. Grant me this."
"Ha!" said Sullah Beg and laughed.
"Lose all credit for my craft ?"
"No!" the other said, "not so!
But, lest future tale of woe
May be reckoned as a lie,
And some wretch unaided die!"

Sullah Beg from saddle leapt;
Straight to Hatem Toi he stept;
Gave him reins in hand, and said,
While he reverent bent his head:
"For thy pardon low I bend,

Be my brother and my friend!"
Thomas Dunn English.

ONE OF THE HEROES.

HARK! through the wild night's darkness rings out a terrible cry,

And the woman shudders to hear it in the room up close to the sky;

"Fire!" in accents of terror, and voices the cry

repeat,

And the fire-bells join in the clamor out in the stormy street.

"God grant we are safe, my darling!" she says to the child in her arms,

While the voices far down in the darkness add to the bell's alarms;

Then she thinks of the two little children who are sleeping peacefully near,

And "God pity the poople in danger," she adds with a thrill of fear.

The voices ring louder and louder. She hears the swift tread of feet,

And the sound of engines rumbling below in the stormy street.

"It must be the fire is near us." She listens: a step on the stair;

Then the door is flung wide, and beyond it she sees the red flames' glare.

"Give me the child!" cries the fireman. "There's not a moment to spare!"

The flames like a glittering serpent are writhing up the stair.

"No, I will carry my baby!" and then she points to the bed

Where the light from the hall shines brightly over a golden head.

One little head on the pillow,-one only,-the fireman sees,

With flossy curls stirring about it in the breath of the fiery breeze.

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