A necklace to sell that would please women well

Of gold and amber beads.

35 And he came to the hall with that chaplet of beads The maids and my mother were there

And they chaffer'd and gazed-they felt, they apprais'd
And he wink'd at the maiden fair.

36 A quiet wink-he went back to the ship
And she took the wink he tipp'd

She seized my hand, as it had been planned
And out of the door she slipp'd.

37 She found in the vestibule as she pass'd
The tables and goblets array'd

And to court every one of the banqueters gone-
Their respects to my father paid;

And the maiden ups and she cribs three cups
Which are safe in her bosom laid.

38 I followed her steps, poor innocent child,
And down went the westering sun,

And the ways grew dark as we neared the bark,
And the day and I were done.

39 The Phonics embarked us - we went on board
And sail'd the watery path,

And Zeus with a gale did swell our sail
And we forged ahead like wrath.

40 Six days we sailed both night and day,
But when the seventh grew light

The goddess who pours her arrows in showers
The false handmaiden did smite.

41 She fell in the hold with a sudden thud
Like the thud of a diving gull,

And the sailors did cast her corse on the vast
And the seals and the fishes were full.

42 And I was left with my bosom cleft
And they brought me to Ithakee
To Laertes sold for a piece of gold
So saw I this same countree.

43 And now my friends, as the ballad ends, If I have committed a sin,

Don't vilipend me for making so free-
The sinner is Dr. Maginn.

A SONG

Reprint from WILLIAM CORY'S Ionica
Oh, earlier shall the rosebuds blow,
In after years, those happier years;
And children weep, when we lie low,
Far fewer tears, far softer tears.

Oh true shall boyish laughter ring,
Like tinkling chimes, in kinder times;
And merrier shall the maiden sing:
And I not there, and I not there.

Like lightning in the summer night
Their mirth shall be, so quick and free;

And oh the flash of their delight

I shall not see, I may not see.

In deeper dream, with wider range,

Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine: Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change,

The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.

GREECE AND THE GREEKS OF
TO-DAY

By WALTER MILLER

The son of a great man occupies a position but little to be envied. The name he bears provokcs a continual comparison between his own services and accomplishments and those of his more illustrious sire; and whatever merit he may himself possess, it usually fails of due appreciation because of the memory of the greatness that people are wont to associate with his name. Such also is the unenviable lot of the people which to-day occupies the classic land of Hellas. By comparison, the immortal creations of their forefathers, once the first among the nations, preeminent in knowledge and preëminent in military glory, have always cast a deep shadow over the deeds of modern Hellenism, and the halo that we place about the head of the Hellas of old stands very effectively in the way of an unprejudiced estimate of the Greece of to-day.

Glorious Hellas that she was and is, the home and source of our boasted twentieth century

civilization, the mother of art and lettersHellas, whose perfection in sculpture and painting, in history and poetry, the world can scarcely hope again to attain; the land that has been the light of the world in literature, art, philosophy, science, politics—every thing, indeed, except religion, and that came to us by way of Greeceis now thought of only as a ravishing dream, a thing that is totally past, dead and gone, leaving no living scions to mark the position she once occupied.

But ancient Greece is not dead. She survives not only in her own immortal literature, in the masterpieces of all modern literatures, and in the institutions of modern empires and republics, but also in her own living sons and daughters, occupying the same territory, treading the same ground beneath their feet, breathing the same clear air, looking upon the same mountains and waters, listening to the murmurings of the same sea that once beat in rhythmic cadence to the heroic verse of Homer, speaking the same language, governed by the same passions, and occupied with the same pursuits as in the days of Pericles or Paul.

Even the size of the country is the same as it used to be. The kingdom over which George I

is now reigning is bounded by practically the same lines as marked the confines of that Greece in behalf of which Demosthenes poured out his eloquence and his life. But then, as now, the Greeks themselves spread far beyond those bounds and filled all the islands of the sea, the coast from Sicily on the west and Africa on the south to the furthest shores of the Black Sea, and most of Macedonia. And the principal products are about the same: namely, figs, olives and olive oil, grapes (including wine and currants), oranges and lemons, wheat and barley; and they are cultivated and harvested in the same way and with the same tools as in the days of Lycurgus or Solon.

Above all, the people are the same. At the time of the late, unblest war between Greece and Turkey, our own newspapers often thoughtlessly referred to "that mongrel race of degenerates that call themselves Greek." The error is nothing new. Ever since the days of the keenly critical but extremely one-sided Fallmerayer and his historical fable, it has been fashionable to deny that a single drop of genuine Hellenic blood flows in the veins of the Greeks of to-day, and to declare that their composition is a confused conglomeration of barbarian races gathered