without another word or sign of struggle or pain ceased to breathe, entering indeed into a rest of which his last word had been solemnly prophetic.

Ever since morning the grief-stricken people had been waiting and listening for the tolling death bell to announce that all was over. At its first note they came in crowds, breathless, weeping, and lamenting. It was with great difficulty that the soldiers could keep them from tearing Father Junipero's habit piecemeal from his body, so ardent was their desire to possess some relic of him. The corpse was laid at once in a coffin which he himself had ordered made many weeks before.

The vessels in port fired a salute of one hundred and one guns, answered by the same from the guns of the presidio at Monterey, - an honor given to no one below the rank of general. But the hundred gun salutes were a paltry honor in comparison with the tears of the Indian congregation.

Soldiers kept watch around his coffin night and day till the burial; but they could not hold back the throngs of the poor creatures who pressed to touch the hand of the father they had so much loved, and to bear away something, if only a thread, of the garments he had worn.

His ardent and impassioned nature and his untiring labors had won their deepest affection and confidence.

It was his habit when at San Carlos to spend all his time with them, working by their side in the fields, making adobe, digging, tilling, doing, in short, all that he required of them. Day after day he thus labored, only desisting at the hours for performing offices in the church.

Whenever an Indian came to address him, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and spoke to him some words of spirited injunction or benediction. The arbitrariness-or, as some of his enemies called it, haughty self-will-which brought Serra at times into conflict with the military authorities when their purposes or views clashed with his own, never came to the surface in his spiritual functions, or in his relation with the Indian converts.

He loved them, and yearned over them as brands to be snatched from the burning. He had baptized over one thousand of them with his own hands; his whole life he spent for them, and was ready at any moment to lay it down if that would have benefited them more. Absolute single-heartedness like this is never misunderstood by single-hearted people, either high or low.

But to be absolutely single-hearted in a moral purpose is almost inevitably to be a doggedly one-ideaed man in regard to practical methods; and the singlehearted, one-ideaed man, with a great moral purpose,

THE LORELEY

Why I am sad I cannot tell;

A legend of the olden time Rings in my heart like far-off bell, And thrills me with its solemn rhyme.

The day stoops low, the air is chill,

And silent flows the darkling Rhine,

Upon the brow of vine-clad hill

The rays of setting sun soft shine.

High on the rocks a maiden fair

Sits all alone, as angel bright; She sits and combs her golden hair, While day is sinking into night.

She combs her hair with golden comb,

And sings the while a sweet, sad song, Which floats away as the flecking foam Is borne by flowing wave along.

The boatman drifting in a dream

Glides on, and thrills with wildest pain;

The rocks he sees not in the stream,

Enchanted by that plaintive strain.

Old trees, old trees, in your mystic gloom
There's many a warrior laid,

And many a nameless and lonely tomb
Is sheltered beneath your shade.

Old trees, old trees, without pomp or prayer
We buried the brave and the true,
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old trees, with you.

Old trees, old trees, keep watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;

'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard
Over our Southern dead;

Old trees, old trees, we shall pass away
Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay,
Old trees, to guard "our dead."

-FATHER RYAN.