among their
flowers, which Virgil explained to be flatteries; while a heap of
grasshoppers which had burst themselves in keeping up their shrill,
monotonous chirp, represented, he said, the dedications and addresses
which servile authors used to write in praise of unworthy patrons. In
the middle of the valley lay a great pool of spilt broth, and this
signified the alms which rich men are too selfish to give away in their
lifetime but bequeath to charities in their wills, to be paid out of
money they can no longer use. Next Astulf came upon numbers of beautiful
dolls from Paris, which little girls throw aside because they prefer
their dear old bundles of rags with beads for eyes; and one of the
biggest hillocks in all the place was formed of a pile of knives lost
out of careless schoolboys' pockets.

Now, when Astulf grew old and had boys and girls of his own, they used
to clamber on his knee in the twilight and ask for a story, and oh! how
they wished for the Hippogrif. Sometimes the old knight said that the
Hippogrif was dead, but I have known people to shut their eyes and climb
on his back, and cling to his mane, and go flying over the ocean and the
hills clear through to the other end of the world. For Hippogrif is only
a name for Fancy, and the Valley of Lost Lumber and the River of
Oblivion and the Temple of Immortality exist for every one of us.

Freedom's Silent Host.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are many silent sleepers
In our country here and there,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.
Soft they slumber,
Past forever earthly care.

O'er their beds the grasses creeping
Weave a robe of royal fold,
And the daisies add their homage,
Flinging down a cloth of gold.
Soft they slumber,
Once the gallant and the bold.

Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers,
Brings a waft of violet,
Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose,
On their lowly graves we set.
Soft they slumber,
We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily
Showering the furrows green,
Childish songs that lift and warble
Where the sleepers lie serene
(Soft they slumber)
Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them,
Play the sweet old bugle call,
And because they died in honor
O'er them let the flowerets fall.