High on the roof of the church, a preacher who

speaks to the purpose,

Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irre

sistible logic,

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the

hearts of the heathen.

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of

the Indians;

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner

they try it the better,

Let them come if they like, be it sagamore,

sachem, or pow-wow,

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or To

kamahamon!"

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully

gazed on the landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind,

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel

blue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like

those on the landscape,

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he

proceeded:

"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies

buried Rose Standish;

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by

the wayside!

She was the first to die of all who came in the

May Flower!

Green above her is growing the field of wheat

we have sown there,

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the

graves of our people,

Lest they should count them and see how many

already have perished!"

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them

Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding;

Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commen

taries of Cæsar,

Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Gold

inge of London,

And, as if guarded by these, between them was

standing the Bible.

Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish

paused, as if doubtful

Which of the three he should choose for his

consolation and comfort,

Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligeFinally down from its shelf he dragged the

ponderous Roman,

Seated himself at the window, and opened the

book, and in silence

Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumbmarks thick on the margin,

Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle

was hottest.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurry

ing pen of the stripling,

Busily writing epistles important, to go by the

May Flower,

Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at

latest, God willing!

Homeward bound with the tidings of all that

terrible winter,

Letters written by Alden, and full of the name

of Priscilla,

Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan

maiden Priscilla!

•

II.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurry

ing pen of the stripling,

Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart

of the Captain,

Reading the marvellous words and achieve

ments of Julius Cæsar.

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,

Heavily on the page: : "A wonderful man was

this Cæsar!

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here