hills, its white houses, and its rocks, and encircling a sea bluer than the heavens above, resembled a great vase of vert antique whitened with foam, whose brim and handles are festooned with ivy leaves and branches.

It was the season when the fishermen, who hang their cabins over the rocks and stretch their nets out upon the sandy beach, push off from the shore during the night in perfect confidence, and go out two or three leagues into the sea to fish.

Some carry with them torches made of resin which they light in order to deceive the fish. The fish come to the top of the water, believing it to be the break of day. A boy, crouched upon the prow of the boat, inclines the burning torch toward the water, while the fisherman, whose eye penetrates to the very bottom of the gulf, searches for his prey and catches it in the net. These lights, red as the fire of a furnace, are reflected in long, undulating waves on the surface of the sea, like the last faint glimmerings of the moon. The undulation follows the movement of the billows and prolongs the glare from wave to wave, reflected from one to the other.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines.
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands
Under the hollow wind.

36

FIFTH READER

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night wind

That lifts their tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp —
and away

A moment

Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs,

Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms;
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A NEW DAY

The year's at the Spring,
And day's at the Morn;
Morning's at seven;

The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;

God's in His heaven,

All's right with the world.

- ROBERT BROWNING.