Stir not, and seek not to fly-
Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
Thank Montepulciano for giving

Your death in such delicate sips;
'Tis not every monk ceases living

With so pleasant a taste on his lips;

But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss.
Take this! and this! and this!

Cover him over, Pietro,

And bury him in the court below

You can be secret, lad, I know!

And, hark you, then to the convent go

Bid every bell of the convent toll,

And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.-J. E. SAGEBEER.

It was just at the dawn of day, when the first rays of inorning were breaking over Europe and dispelling the darkness of the middle ages. France and England were engaged in a desperate struggle, the one for existence, the other for a throne. All the western part of France had avowed the English cause, and the English king had been proclaimed at Paris, at Rouen and at Bordeaux, while the strongly fortified city of Orleans, the key to the French possessions, was besieged. The thunder and lightning of the battlefield are bad enough, but the starvation and pestilence of a besieged city are infinitely worse. The supplies of Orleans were exhausted; the garrison was reduced to a few desperate men, and the women and children had been abandoned to the English. But far away on the border of Germany, in the little village of Domremy, the Nazareth of France, God was raising up a deliverer for Orleans, a savior for the nation.

The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty that never fails

to win respect and love. Her standard was a bauner of snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing devotion to the will of God, to the rights of France and her king. Without a single opposing shot she passed under the very battlements of the besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and food for starving people.

It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved children and the wails of heart-broken mothers, stirred them to such a mad frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap of death.

And now the attack was planned and the lines were formed; and then as the crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the French. Broadsword and battle-ax clashed on shield and helmet, while the wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, and once more urged

them on. As when the archangel Michael, leading the heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of hell, then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the Maid of Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, and Orleans was free and France was safe.

And now her work was done.

led the way to

Would that some kindly voice had bade her now go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she who had raised the siege of Orleans and Rheims, could not escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne. Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible they loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and night.

Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of evidence against her they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty court of Paris,-a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed through the halls of heaven and made the angels weep; but there was no rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight against his will, when

fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down." and mercy from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to save the maid of Domremy, the savior of Orleans.

Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the fagots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven.

WHIMS.-A. V. BOWER.

"I've often told you

That thread will not do;

So go change it quick,

For that is too thick.

Get fifty or none;

The machine will not run."

So he journeyed back with a fallen crest;

For the merchant had said, after looking his best,
That fifty of white they had none in the store,
And had given him forty to fill the score.
Oh! tell me of men more quick to deceive
(Nor think what they say that they always believe,)
Than men behind counters. And quickly he guessed
The why he came back, and pulled down his vest.
With a chuckle and squint-"Here is fifty in black,
Take the stamp off of this and put it on that."
His visage grew bright.

In the darkness was light.

But he thought to himself as he journeyed toward home:"Will my wife know the difference; will she know what I've done?"

But the doubt soon had flown. 'Twas a soothing relief,
When she picked up the spool in an earnest belief
That for once she had won. And she sewed and she sung
A tune to the wheel, till the thread was half gone.

Oh! cruel deceiver, the secret forbear;

For confidence dwells in the heart that is there.

"Well, how does that sew?"

"Why, splendid; I know

Just the number it takes such a garment to sew."

Then the whole was revealed! Let the curtain be dropped. Suffice it to say-that the sewing was stopped.

THE END OF THE WAY.

The following beautiful lines were written by a young lady in Nova Scotia, who was an invalid for many years.

My life is a wearisome journey;

I'm sick with the dust and heat;
The rays of the sun beat upon me;
The briars are wounding my feet;
But the city to which I am journeying
Will more than my trials repay;
All the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.

There are so many hills to climb upward;
I often am longing for rest;

But he who appoints me my pathway
Knows just what is needful and best:
I know in his word he has promised
That my strength shall be as my day;
And the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.

He loves me too well to forsake me,

Or give me one trial too much;

All His people have been dearly purchased,
And Satan can never claim such.

By and by I shall see Him and praise Him
In the city of unending day;