WORD

WORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice wou'd bring. (Oh, ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl

Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounted a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(Oh, ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank,
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His nobles are beaten one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted and faltered, and homeward gone, The little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying.

The king looked back at that faithful child,
Wan was the face that answering smiled.

They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped, and only the king rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence !)

No answer came, but faint and forlorn

An echo returned on the cold gray morn,

Like the breath of a spirit sighing.

The castle portal stood grimly wide;

None welcomed the king from that weary ride;

For, dead in the light of the dawning day,
The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest
Stood weary.

The king returned from the chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast,

And that dumb companion eying.

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check,
He bowed his head on his charger's neck -
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain!
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying!"

IN

in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried" in that quiet little valley for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity.

He was tall, but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of

his sleeves, and feet that might have served as shovels. His head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along the crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree growing near one end of it. From this place of learning the low murmur of children's voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery path of knowledge.

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot that he was the master, and was even the companion and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday afternoons he liked to go home with some of the smaller ones who happend to have pretty sisters, or mothers noted for their skill in cooking.

On a fine autumnal afternoon the schoolmaster, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he watched the doings of his little school. In his hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails