Pondering much and much contriving
How the tribes of men might prosper.
Most beloved by Hiawatha
Was the gentle Chibiabos,
He the best of all musicians,
He the sweetest of all singers.
Beautiful and childlike was he,
Brave as man is, soft as woman,
Pliant as a wand of willow,
Stately as a deer with antlers.

When he sang, the village listened;
All the warriors gathered round him,
All the women came to hear him;
Now he stirred their souls to passion,
Now he melted them to pity.

From the hollow reeds he fashioned Flutes so musical and mellow,

That the brook, the Sebowisha,

Ceased to murmur in the woodland,

That the wood-birds ceased from singing, And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,

Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,

And the rabbit, the Wabasso,

Sat upright to look and listen.

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos, Teach my waves to flow in music, Softly as your words in singing!"

Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, Envious, said, "O Chibiabos,

Teach me tones as wild and wayward,

Teach me songs as full of frenzy!"

Yes, the robin, the Opeechee,
Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos,

Teach me tones as sweet and tender,
Teach me songs as full of gladness!"
And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,
Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos,
Teach me tones as melancholy,
Teach me songs as full of sadness!"
All the many sounds of nature
Borrowed sweetness from his singing;
All the hearts of men were softened,
By the pathos of his music;
For he sang of peace and freedom,
Sang of beauty, love, and longing;
Sang of death, and life undying
In the Islands of the Blessed,
In the kingdom of Ponemah,
In the land of the Hereafter.
Very dear to Hiawatha
Was the gentle Chibiabos,
He the best of all musicians,
He the sweetest of all singers;
For his gentleness he loved him,
And the magic of his singing.

HENRY WADsworth Longfellow.

SILAS MARNER AND THE BABY.

MARIAN EVANS, at the beginning of her literary career, adopted the penname "George Eliot," and under that signature all of her writings were published. Miss Evans was born near Nuneaton, England, Nov. 22, 1819. From the age of five to that of thirteen she attended school. After that she was taught by special instructors in German, Italian, and music. Of the art of music she was passionately fond. In the year 1851 she became assistant editor of the Westminster Review. Her first highly successful book was the novel, "Adam Bede." This was followed by a number of important works of fiction, a volume

of miscellaneous essays, and the "Spanish Gypsy," a poem. Her work in fiction places her in the front rank of novelists.

She was married to Mr. John Cross, May 6, 1880. Her death occurred Dec. 22, of that year.

[A lonely English weaver has found near his home an infant girl deserted by the mother. He has adopted the child for his own.]

By the time Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for Silas's patience, but for his watchfulness and penetration.

Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly Winthrop told him punishment was good for Eppie, and that, as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little now and then, it was not to be done.

"To be sure, there's another thing you might do, Master Marner," added Dolly, meditatively: "you might shut her up once in the coal-hole. That was what I did with Aaron; for I was so silly with the youngest lad I could never bear to smack him. Not that I could find it in my heart to let him stay in the coal-hole more than a minute, but it was enough to colly him all over, so that he must be new washed and dressed, and it was as good as a rod to him — that was. But I put it upon your conscience, Master Marner, there's one you must choose either smacking or the coal-hole — else she'll get so masterful, there'll be no holding her."

Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last remark; but the force of his mind failed before the only two methods open to him; not only because it was painful to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled at a moment's contention with her, lest she should love him the less for it.

Let even an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be master? It was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morning when circumstances favored mischief.

For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he was busy: it made a broad belt round her

waist, and was long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed and sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt any dangerous climbing.

One bright summer's morning Silas had been more engrossed than usual in "setting up" a new piece of work, an occasion on which his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an especial warning of Dolly's, had been carefully kept out of Eppie's reach; but the click of them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear, and, watching the results of that click, she had derived the philosophic lesson that the same cause would produce the same effect.

Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the noise of the weaving had begun; but he had left his scissors on a ledge which Eppie's arm was long enough to reach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and toddled to the bed again, setting up her back as a mode of concealing the fact.

She had no distinct intention as to the use of the scissors; and having cut the linen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she had run out at the open door where the sunshine was inviting her, while poor Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It was not until he happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst upon him: Eppie had run out by herself had perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit.