were directly inspired by personal friendships. Loyalty to his country and his friends evokes the sweetest music:

"It's an owercome sooth for age an' youth,

And it brooks wi' nae denial,

That the dearest friends are the auldest friends,

And the young are just on trial.»

While his deepest feelings are expressed in 'Underwoods,' his tenderest are found in 'A Child's Garden of Verses.' Its simplicity, and the delicate truth with which it images a child's fancies, have made it a classic of childhood. The conscious artist is never evident in it. It seems to be the spontaneous expression of a child's mind.

The place that Stevenson will take in literature is surely not to be made evident so long as the glamour of his personality remains over those who were his contemporaries. And with this personality so fully interwoven with his works, it seems hard to believe that the glamour can soon fade away. It is easy to imagine that, like Charles Lamb, he can never become wholly a "figure in literature," but will remain vividly present to many generations of readers as a gifted child of genius who is to be fervently loved.

Robert Bridges,
(Drack.)

BED IN SUMMER

From Poems and Ballads. By permission of the authorized publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons

TRAVEL

From 'Poems and Ballads. By permission of the authorized publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons

I

SHOULD like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;-

Where in sunshine reaching out,
Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar;

Where the Great Wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum,

Cities on the other hum;

Where are forest, hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as a spire,

Full of apes and cocoanuts

And the negro hunters' huts;-
Where the knotty crocodile
Lies and blinks in the Nile,
And the red flamingo flies
Hunting fish before his eyes;—
Where in jungles, near and far,
Man-devouring tigers are,
Lying close and giving ear
Lest the hunt be drawing near,
Or a comer-by be seen
Swinging in a palanquin; —
Where among the desert sands
Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,
Grown to manhood ages since,
Not a foot in street or house,
Not a stir of child or mouse,
And when kindly falls the night,
In all the town no spark of light.
There I'll come when I'm a man,
With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom
Of some dusty dining-room;
See the pictures on the walls,
Heroes, fights, and festivals;
And in a corner find the toys
Of the old Egyptian boys.

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

From 'Poems and Ballads. By permission of the authorized publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons

WHE

HEN I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, through the hills.

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant Land of Counterpane.

NORTHWEST PASSAGE

From Poems and Ballads. By permission of the authorized publishers,

XXIV-872

Charles Scribner's Sons

I. GOOD-NIGHT

THEN the bright lamp is carried in,

WHE

The sunless hours again begin;
O'er all without, in field and lane,
The haunted night returns again.

Now we behold the embers flee
About the firelit hearth; and see

Our faces painted as we pass,
Like pictures, on the window-glass.

Must we to bed indeed? Well then,
Let us arise and go like men,
And face with an undaunted tread
The long black passage up to bed.

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!
O pleasant party round the fire!
The songs you sing, the tales you tell,
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!

II. SHADOW MARCH

All round the house is the jet-black night:

It stares through the window-pane;
It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,
And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum,
With the breath of the Bogie in my hair;

And all round the candle the crooked shadows come,
And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,
The shadow of the child that goes to bed,—
All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp,
With the black night overhead.

III. IN PORT

Last, to the chamber where I lie

My fearful footsteps patter nigh,

And come from out the cold and gloom
Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about
To keep the coming shadows out,
And close the happy door at last
On all the perils that we past.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed,
She shall come in with tiptoe tread,
And see me lying warm and fast
And in the Land of Nod at last.

"IF THIS WERE FAITH »

From 'Poems and Ballads. By permission of the authorized publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons

The iniquitous lists I still accept

With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood,
And still to battle and perish for a dream of good:
God, if that were enough?

If to feel, in the ink of the slough
And the sink of the mire,

Veins of glory and fire

Run through and transpierce and transpire,
And a secret purpose of glory in every part,
And the answering glory of battle fill my heart;

To thrill with the joy of girded men

To go on for ever and fail and go on again,

And be mauled to the earth and arise,

And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the

eyes:

With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night

That somehow the right is the right

And the smooth shall bloom from the rough:

Lord, if that were enough?