herd's cottage, and the shepherd flew--not into the hall,
thither he could not come--but into the servants' hall, among the
smart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty
menials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at
table with them. But in the hall the baron's daughter flew to the
place of honour at the end of the table--she was worthy to sit
there; the pastor's son had the seat next to her; the two sat there as
if they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of the
oldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place of
honour; the flute was just, and it is one's duty to be so. The
sharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, and
who was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,
but not he alone.

The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange
events took place. A rich banker's family, who were driving in a coach
and four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it
with their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up
higher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a
dangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was
a good thing, for then it was put back into its owner's pocket--"its
right place."

The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thus
originated the phrase, "to pocket the flute." Everything was again
in its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlar
and the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There they
were on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert said
that they were painted by a master's hand, they remained there and
were restored. "Everything in the right place," and to this it will
come. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.

A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

Al the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for
the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster
serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded
camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the
lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The
turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the
sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were
mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than
them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his