efell, I shall not say.
They never saw--that Spanish host--they never saw their native land,
their sovereign liege, their loved ones' faces again; they sleep, and
they are dust among those mighty mountains in the West. Where is the
grave of the Father Miguel, or of Don Esclevador, or of any of the
valiant Spanish exiles, it is not to tell; God only knoweth, and the
saints: all sleep in the faith, and their reward is certain. But where
sleepeth the Jew all may see and know; for on that awful mountain-side,
in a spot inaccessible to man, lieth the holy cross of snow. The winds
pass lightly over that solemn tomb, and never a sunbeam lingereth
there. White and majestic it lies where God's hands have placed it,
and its mighty arms stretch forth as in a benediction upon the fleeting
dust beneath.

So shall it bide forever upon that mountain-side, and the memory of the
Jew and of all else human shall fade away and be forgotten in the
surpassing glory of the love and the compassion of him that bore the
redeeming burden to Calvary.

THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH

There was none other in the quiet valley so happy as the
rose-tree,--none other so happy unless perchance it was the thrush who
made his home in the linden yonder. The thrush loved the rose-tree's
daughter, and he was happy in thinking that some day she would be his
bride. Now the rose-tree had many daughters, and each was beautiful;
but the rose whom the thrush loved was more beautiful than her sisters,
and all the wooers came wooing her until at last the fair creature's
head was turned, and the rose grew capricious and disdainful. Among
her many lovers were the south wind and the fairy Dewlove and the
little elf-prince Beambright and the hoptoad, whom all the rest called
Mr. Roughbrown. The hoptoad lived in the stone-wall several yards
away; but every morning and evening he made a journey to the rose-tree,
and there he would sit for hours gazing with tender longings at the
beautiful rose, and murmuring impassioned avowals. The rose's disdain
did not chill the hoptoad's ardor. "See what I have brought you, fair
rose," he would say. "A beautiful brown beetle with golden wings and
green eyes! Surely there is not in all the world a more delicious
morsel than a brown beetle! Or, if you but say the word, I will fetch
you a tender little fly, or a young gnat,--see, I am willing to undergo
all toils and dangers for your own sweet sake."

Poor Mr. Roughbrown!