orious bird. The little old man sat with his feeble hands together,
and his head raised; it was the first time for years that he had ever
sat _so_; the young man played, and there was a heavenly joy in his
soul; he knew not whether he was in heaven or earth; all his pain was
gone. It was a blissful moment; the next, and all was still in the
chamber--wonderfully still. The lamp continued burning, a soft breeze
blew in from the half-opened window, and just stirred the little old
man's Carmelite frock, and lifted the young man's dark locks, but they
neither of them moved.

"That glorious bird has done his singing for this morning," said the old
doves; "he will now sleep--let us set off; all our friends and neighbors
are off already; we have a long journey before us." The parent doves
spread their wings; they and their elder ones were away, but the younger
stayed as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the
glorious bird that had just been singing: his family wheeled round the
cypress, and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late.
The sun was rising above the sea, and all the doves of Carmel were ready
for flight. The younger dove then spread its wings also for this long
journey, bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music
which affected him so greatly.

The turtle-doves went forth on their long journey. The young musician
and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer.

[Illustration]

THE DYING CHILD

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.

Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.

Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!

Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mot