ful and difficult that a poet could imagine for his medium. They are so ingenious that any idea of them can be secured only from reading them. The first one uses but two rhymes throughout, but with a varied arrangement that breaks the monotony of others where such a small detail is not carried out,—a b a b ba baab babb. The one on Aurora is even more ingenious. Here, not only are there but two rhymes in the twelve lines, but every other time that a rhyme occurs it is same word. The concluding couplet is a perfect rime-riche.

The sonnet sung by "Zelmane in Love Gloom" contains but two rhymes, effected by repeating but two words, "darke" and "light":

Since that the stormy rage of passions darke –
Of passions darke, made darke by beauties light,—
With rebell force hath clos'd in dungeon darke
My mind, ere now led forth by reason's light;—
Since all the things which give my eyes their light
Doe foster still the fruites of fancies darke,
So that the windowes of my inward light
Doe serve to make my inward powers darke.
Since, as I say, both mind and senses darke
Are hurt, not helpt, with piercing of the light;
While that the light may show the horrors darke,

But cannot make resolved darkness light;

I like this place, where at the least the darke

May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.

But most skilful of all is the sonnet in which all the lines end

in words rhyming with "bright":

How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright
Become the cause of my darke ougly night!

Or how do I, captived in this dark plight,

Bewaile the case, and in the cause delight!
My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright

With sense possest and claimed by reason's right;
Betwixt which two in one I have this fight,
Where, whoso wins, I put myself to flight.
Come cloudie fears, close up my dazzled sight;
Sorrows, suck up the marrow of my might;
Due sighes, blow out all sparks of joyfull light;

Tyre on, Despaire, upon my tyred sprite.

An end, an end my dulled pen cannot write

Nor mazed head think, nor faltring tongue recite.

If a remark that was quoted from the article by De Marchi be remembered, it becomes at once evident that all these complicated and unusual forms are directly referable to the Italian literature of the Cinque Cento; thoughts were failing, and a poet who

wanted to do something attractive, not having the fountain of beauty in himself, worked out conceits and intricate, unusual forms. De Marchi declares that the conclusion of a sonnet became only an epigram, a clue, or a solution to the extravagant conceits expressed in the preceding lines. Certainly, these last sonnets that have been quoted from Sidney are of exactly the same kind.

Some Italian principles he applied to other forms. The corona was distinctly Italian, beautiful in effect, a true poetical ornament to a poem. There is no instance in Sidney of its use in any Italian form of stanza, but he does use it with a French form. In the Arcadia (p. 221) is a poem designated by the text itself as "a dizaine," which "was answered unto him in that kind of verse which is called the crowne." As was pointed out in a quotation from Sannazaro, the effect of this repeated last line of each stanza at the opening of the succeeding one, is capable of the most beautiful effects. Used as in both the instances by the Italian and the Englishman in a dialogue, the effect is analogous to the antiphonal chanting of a choir.

In the handling of this, as in the handling of all other matters of form and style, Sidney proves himself a master. Attention here has been paid generally only to the form of the lyrics, but a hundred touches, lines, turns of phrase, styles of thought, are reminiscent of some verse, stanza, thought in Italian, or parallel. The whole atmosphere of the Arcadia is Italian, and it seems especially so to one who turns to it after having been in the Italian Arcadia of Sannazaro and "En los compos de la principal y antigua ciudad de Leon, ribera del rio Ezla" of the Spanish Montemayor. It is the kind of thought, the taste, and mode of expression of Sidney more than anything else, that make him the best of Italianate Englishmen. There is an estheticism about these poems, an artistic feeling, an appreciation of the beautiful and a love for its manifold manifestations that place Sidney in the class with the artists of the only country who, up to this time, had produced artists, Italy,—the Italy of the moral Dante, the story-telling Boccaccio, and the lyrist Petrarch.

Central High School, St. Louis, Mo.

CLARENCE STRATTON.

A COUNTRY CHILD

I. DINNER

The south window is full of geraniums. There is the sill, and there is the shelf above it. The leaves are big and green, and all turned toward the window-panes, as if they were trying to look out. The sill and shelf are broad, and there are so many leaves we can hardly see up the road to the church. The sun shines through wherever it can, and makes bright places on the floor.

The floor isn't quite dry yet. It smells the way it always does when it is mopping day. There is a big fire in the kitchen stove, and dinner will soon be ready. Bertha has the plates and things all on. She is our hired girl.

My mother's face is red. She says to Bertha: "I declare! if it keeps on gettin' warm, we'll soon have to move the stove out into the woodshed. S'posin' you pull down that curtain."

Bertha gives two or three pulls on the cord that makes the curtain go up and down. The curtain is almost as green as the leaves. There are little holes and torn places in it, and the sun shining through makes them bright and warm-looking. Some of them are so big that the light shines through on to the geraniums and on to the floor.

My mother opens the oven door and takes something out. Now I smell baked beans and Indian pudding instead of the floor. Bertha begins to mash the potatoes. She keeps talking about how much the men eat. She says: "Seems's if you never could get 'em filled up. They eat as though they'd never seen vittles before in all their lives."

My mother goes out to the woodshed door, and calls them to dinner. She says: "Din-ner-r-!" She makes the last part high and long, and I like it. I try to set some of the chairs around. I don't wear dresses any more.

I hear them coming, and I run to open the woodshed door. My father comes in first, and then August and Christian, and then my brother. It is Saturday, so my brother doesn't have to go to school. August and Christian are our hired men. They

throw their hats down on the floor, under the geraniums. Their boots and pants look dusty. They are putting in the wheat this week.

My father goes to the sink and washes. The others stand near the geraniums until he gets through, and then they wash, too. They take water out of the rain-water pail with the dipper, and when they are through they go to the woodshed door with the washdish and throw the water out. Christian makes a great noise blowing and snuffing when he is at the sink. Before my brother washes, he has to pump the pail full of water again. The pump always has to have a little poured in first, or it won't pump.

My mother says to my brother: "Now, see that you get the dirt off your hands before you wipe them on my towel!"

My brother says: "Aw, you needn't be so 'fraid o' your old towel. I won't hurt it."

We all sit down at the table. Bertha helps me into my highchair. I sit between her and my mother. I have a pewter plate with letters and numbers all around the side. I know the letters, and I can count. I know lots of states and capitals, too, and I can read little words.

My father passes things, and my mother pours the cups full of coffee. We are all hungry. No one says very much, except Bertha. She always talks a great deal, and sometimes my father sniffs. He says she contradicts herself. August and Christian don't say anything at all. They take big mouthfuls, and drink their coffee in gulps with loud noises. When Christian sits down to dinner, he always lets out his belt.

We all have a second helping, and the men pass their cups for more coffee. Then my mother dishes the Indian pudding. Mine is soon gone, and I ask for more.

My father says: "What! more? Gracious me! who ever saw such a boy to eat?" My father's hair and whiskers are gray. He doesn't have a moustache. My mother's hair is black, and her eyes are almost blue.

The men push back from the table. My mother says to me: "Before they go, run in and get your pictures again. Christian and August ain't seen them yet."

I bring the pictures from the front room. My father brought them from the village yesterday afternoon. I have a dimpled chin and long curls, and am sitting on a nice chair with tassels and fringe on the arms. The fringe is fastened on with big, shiny tacks.

Christian says: "Ay mos' say dese ban pooty gude pictsurs. Dey lookin' yoost like yu." He begins to buckle up his belt tighter.

My mother says: "Run and get your real little baby picture, in the parlor, and let's see whether you have changed."

I have to run against the parlor door with my hands out, to get it open. I get the album from the stand. We all look at the baby picture. I have a little red dress on, and my arms are bare. My cheeks are so fat they stick out, and my eyes are round and black and shiny, and I have hardly any hair. We all laugh, and then look at the says: "All bot' o' dem iss mighda fine. best vhat I efer seen alretty yet.'

other picture. August Ain'd ut, Bert'a? De

August and Christian get up and get a drink out of the wellwater pail in the sink. Then they stand by the geraniums and get out their tobacco-boxes and take a chew. They stoop over and pick up their old slouch hats, and go out. stained and dusty.

The hats are all

My father goes into the front room and sits down in his rocking-chair by the west window, and begins to read the Patriot. I set the chairs back, and go outdoors. My mother and Bertha clear the table, and my mother comes and shakes the cloth out of the woodshed door. The neighbors up the road can always tell when we are through dinner, because they can see the cloth. They begin to wash dishes. I can hear the clashing and splashing, and Bertha talking, and once in a while my mother singing.

II. THE CIRCUS

My brother says: "Darn it! I wisht they'd begin. Seems 's if we'd been waitin' 'bout an hour."

We are sitting on a board seat in a great, big, light place, with tall poles and ropes everywhere, and cloth instead of ceiling and walls. My father and mother and Bertha are all here.