Silently out of the room then glided the glistening

savage,

Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,

Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

V.

THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER.

JUST in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows,

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, "Forward!"

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then

silence.

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the

village.

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his

valorous army,

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of

the savage.

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of

morning;

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows,

advancing,

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.

Many a mile had they marched, when at length

the village of Plymouth

Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors.

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys'

Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily

eastward;

Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather,

Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May Flower;

Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that menaced,

He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence.

Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of

women

Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the

household.

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming;

Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains;

Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at

anchor,

Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter.

Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping

her canvas,

Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.

Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the

ocean,

Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon

rang