storic Middlesex, "Sam Lawson, the good-natured, lazy
story-teller, in Oldtown Folks, put his blacksmith's shop. It was
removed when the church was built."

The present Eliot Oak stands east of the Unitarian meeting-house, which
church is on or near the spot where Eliot's first church stood. It
measured, January, 1884, seventeen feet in circumference at the ground;
fourteen feet two inches at four feet above. It is a fine old tree, and
it is not improbable--though it is unproven--that it dates back to the
first settlement of Natick.

"Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
With sounds of unintelligible speech,
Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed
Thou speakest a different dialect to each.
To me a language that no man can teach,
Of a lost race long vanished like a cloud,
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
Seated like Abraham at eventide,
Beneath the oak of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indian, Eliot, wrote
His Bible in a language that hath died.
And is forgotten save by thee alone."--_Longfellow_.

* * * * *

HIS GREATEST TRIUMPH.

By Henrietta E. Page.

Yet slept the wearied maestro, and all around was still,
Though the sunlight danced on tree-top, on valley, and on hill;
The distant city's busy hum, just faintly heard afar,
Served but to lull to deeper rest Euterpe's brilliant star.

Wilhelmj slept, for over-night his triumphs had been grand,
He had praised and feted been by the noblest in the land,
And rich and poor had vied alike to honor Music's king,
Making the lofty rafters with the wildest plaudits ring.

Now, brain and hand aweary, he had fled for peace and rest,
And he should be disturbed by none, not e'en a royal guest.
The porter nodded in his chair: I dare not say he slept:
But sprang upright, as through the door a fairy vision crept.

A tiny girl with shining eyes, and wavy golden hair,
Tip-toed along the corridor, and close up to his chair,
And a bird-like voice sweet questioned, "Wilhelmj, where is he?
I've brought a little tribute for the great maestro,--see!"

Her looped-up dress she opened, displaying to his view
A mass of brilliant woodland flowers, wet with morning dew;
Placing his finger on his lip, he pointed out the door;
She smiled her thanks, and softly went and strewed