off their hands and feet, what shall be done to him, when right is
done throughout the land?"

Then Procrustes' countenance changed, and his cheeks grew as green as a
lizard, and he felt for his sword in haste; but Theseus leaped on him,
and cried:

"Is this true, my host, or is it false?" and he clasped Procrustes round
waist and elbow, so that he could not draw his sword.

"Is this true, my host, or is it false!" But Procrustes answered never a
word.

Then Theseus flung him from him, and lifted up his dreadful club; and
before Procrustes could strike him, he had struck and felled him to the
ground.

And once again he struck him; and his evil soul fled forth, squeaking
like a bat into the darkness of a cave.

Then Theseus stripped him of his gold ornaments, and went up to his
house, and found there great wealth and treasure, which he had stolen
from the passers-by. And he called the people of the country, whom
Procrustes had spoiled a long time, and divided the spoil among them,
and went down the mountains, and away.

KINGSLEY: "The Heroes."
(Adapted)

"BOB WHITE"

I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodding there to greet you;
I know that you are out for play--
How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates, you and I,
"Bob White," would make together!

There, you are gone! but far away
I hear your whistle falling.
Ah! maybe it is hide-and-seek,
And that's why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide
We'd be such merry rangers;
What! silent now, and hidden too!
"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
In yonder rainbowed thicket,
While winds are playing with the leaves,
And softly creeks the cricket.
"Bob White! Bob White!"--again I hear
That blithely whistled chorus;
Why should we not companions be?
One Father watches o'er us!

GEORGE COOPER

RADISSON AND THE INDIANS

The tribe being assembled and having spread out their customary