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But calm in power it raised its noble head,
And, with a kingly glory round it shed,
Moved onward to that slender, graceful boy.

11. Nearer it came; upon the martyr's cheek The hot breath of the forest-monarch burned, Till once-but once-that brave young heart grew


When lo! with startled look, all mild and meek,
Back to its den the moaning lion turned!

12. Then rose that mighty multitude, and loud
Upswelled a shout of mingled joy and rage,
As some their gladly tearful faces bowed,
While others stood apart and, stormy-browed,
Chafed like the maniac in his iron cage.

13. But o'er that tide of sound which rudely gushed
Till Tiber all her slumbering echoes woke,
A clear young voice rang out, the din was hushed,
And while his brow, uplifted, brightly blushed,
With gentle grace the young Pancratius spoke:

14. "Patience, sweet friends," he cried, "bear yet awhile, For see, yon panther thirsts for liberty. 'Twas he that freed my father from his toil; Oh, may he not "—and here a glorious smile Parted his bright lips-" set Pancratius free?"

15. He paused—and men gazed wonder-stricken how
Such thirst could be for that which mortals dread;
Yet, with a gloomy satisfaction on each brow,
The fatal sign was made, and, cageless now,

A panther bounded forth with noiseless tread.

16. Joyous in liberty, it frisked and played,

And turned its shining neck in conscious pride;
Now in the yielding sand its form was laid;
Anon, with cat-like glee, low murmurs made,

And shook the dusk sand from its glittering hide.

17. At length it rose--its keen quick glance had caught
The youthful martyr, as he stood apart,
With all a mother's tender lips had taught
And all a Saviour's tender love had wrought,
In that dread moment stealing o'er his heart.

18. Earnest the Christian prayed, and, breathless, men
Beheld the look that crouching panther wore;
There was a pause-the echoes slept again-
And then-oh, just and righteous Father! then

One bound-one stroke-Pancratius dies no more!

Eleanor C. Donnelly was born in Philadelphia in 1848. She is the author of many short stories, but is best known as a writer of religious poetry.

Pancratius, or St. Pancras as he is called in English, suffered martyrdom when only fourteen years old, during the reign of the emperor Diocletian. The story of his martyrdom is beautifully told in Cardinal Wiseman's "Fabiola."

Explain the expressions: "robe of pride" (2); "starry-eyed" (2); "the swaying tide of jeweled forms" (6); "that tide of sound which rudely gushed till Tiber all her slumbering echoes woke" (13) ; "yon panther thirsts for liberty" (14); "the echoes slept again " (18); "Pancratius dies no more (18).

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The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.

A more glorious victory cannot be gained over another than this, that when the injury began on his part, the kindness should begin on ours.

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Hunting the Honey-bee.

1. It is not every novice that can find a bee-tree. The sportsman may track his game to its retreat by the aid of his dog, but in hunting the honey-bee one must be his own dog, and track his game through an element in which it leaves no trail. It is a task for a sharp, quick eye, and may test the resources of the best woodcraft.


2. One looks upon the woods with a new interest when he suspects they hold a colony of bees. What a pleasing secret it is a tree with a heart of comb-honey; secret chambers where lies hidden the wealth of ten thousand little freebooters, great nuggets and wedges of precious ore gathered with risk and labor from every field and wood about. ·

3. But if you would know the delights of bee-hunting and how many sweets such a trip yields besides honey, come with me some bright, warm, late September or early October day.

4. So, with haversacks filled with grapes and peaches and apples and a bottle of milk,-for we shall not be home to dinner,—and armed with a compass, a hatchet, a pail, and a box with a piece of comb-honey neatly fitted into it,

we sally forth. After a refreshing walk of a couple of miles we reach a point where we will make our first trial -a high stone wall that runs parallel with a wooded ridge, and separated from it by a broad field.

5. There are bees at work there on that goldenrod, and it requires but little maneuvering to sweep one into our box. Almost any other creature rudely and suddenly arrested in its career and clapped into a cage in this way would show great confusion and alarm. The bee is alarmed for a moment, but the bee has a passion stronger than its love of life or fear of death, namely, desire for honey, not simply to eat, but to carry home as booty. "Such rage of honey in their bosoms beats," says Virgil. It is quick to catch the scent of honey in the box, and as quick to fall to filling itself.

6. We now set the box down upon the wall, and gently remove the cover. The bee is head and shoulders in one of the half-filled cells, and is oblivious to everything else about it. Come rack, come ruin, it will die at work. We step back a few paces, and sit down upon the ground so as to bring the box against the blue sky as a background.

7. In two or three minutes the bee is seen rising slowly and heavily from the box. It seems loath to leave so much honey behind, and it marks the place well. It mounts aloft in a rapidly increasing spiral, surveying the near and minute objects first, then the larger and more distant, till having circled above the spot five or six times, and taken all its bearings, it darts away for home. It is a good eye that holds fast to the bee till it is fairly off. Sometimes one's head will swim following it, and often one's eyes are "put out" by the sun.

8. This bee gradually drifts down the hill, then strikes off toward a farm-house half a mile away where I know

bees are kept. Then we try another, and another; and the third bee, much to our satisfaction, goes straight toward the woods. We can see the brown speck against the darker background for many yards.

9. Our bees are all soon back, and more with them, for we have touched the box here and there with the cork of a bottle of anise-oil, and this fragrant and pungent oil will attract bees half a mile or more. When no flowers can be found, this is the quickest way to obtain a bee.

10. It is a singular fact that when the bee first finds the hunter's box its first feeling is one of anger. But its avarice soon gets the better of its indignation, and it seems to say, "Well, I had better take possession of this and carry it home.” So it settles down and fills itself.

11. It does not entirely cool off and get soberly to work till it has made two or three trips home with its booty. When other bees come, even if all from the same swarm, they quarrel and dispute over the box. A bee will usually make three or four trips from the hunter's box before it brings back a companion. I suspect the bee does not tell its fellows what it has found, but that they smell out the secret: it doubtless bears some evidence with it upon its feet or proboscis that it has been upon honeycomb and not upon flowers, and its companions take the hint and follow.

12. No doubt there are plenty of gossips about a hive that note and tell everything. "Oh, did you see that? Peggy Mel came in a few moments ago in great haste, and one of the up-stairs packers says she was loaded down with apple-blossom honey, which she deposited, and then rushed off again like mad. Apple-blossom honey in October! Fee, fi, fo, fum! Let's after!"

13. In about half an hour we have three well-defined

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