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"Shout," said the "British" in a far off voice, "call to him and tell him-tell him-you've found the spy". And he went to sleep.

When Captain Carter and his neighbors searched the man whom the Captain's little daughter had so marvelously discovered in a place where the searching parties had several times made an examination, they found no evidence that could verify their conclusion that their prisoner was a British spy. Everyone felt very sorry that he should have received such bad treatment, and although there was not a man in the community who was not morally certain that he had only escaped by some fortunate accident, his smile was so winning and his manners so delightful that all were glad to be able to release him. At the Carter's farmhouse where he lay for six weeks hovering between life and death he became a sort of family idol, and crept into the hearts of everybody, including the bluff Captain himself, who went regretfully back to his post of duty when the outcome of the young man's wounds was still uncertain.

It was not until the United States of America had been recognized as a nation by the British government, and the name and smile of the suspected spy had become only a fading memory to little Abrigal Patience, that a letter and a packet came all the way from England to the Carter farm. The packet contained a beautiful string of gold beads, and the contents of the letter caused Captain Carter to frown and smile as he read it. His wife had guessed that it was from their late guest, but she was not in the least prepared for what followed. The worthy Captain rose and going to where Abrigal Patience, filled with curiosity, stood at a respectful distance, clasped the beads about her neck. Then turning to his wife, he said, "He says that as our little maid saved him from a necklace he did not want he is glad to be able to give her one that he hopes will prove more acceptable." "Abrigal Patience," he said, solemnly, laying his hand upon her curly head, "I am afraid turned traitor for the sake of a few cherries".

AMY STOUGHTON POPE.

L'AIGLON

Poor little eaglet! struggling to be free,

Tho' close the cage and close the golden bars,-
Yet not too close to hide from thee the stars
That shone o'er France and him France loved ;-to thee
They bring false dreams of what can never be,

Beckon thee on to deeds thou dar'st not do :-
:-

Guides to thy father, for thyself untrue,

Because thou art not such an one as he,

For tho' the cage was once unlocked for thee,

Thy gaolors caught thee near ;—thou couldst not soar Like him who circled Europe o'er and o'er Unconquerable in flight, and strong, and free.

And so they brought thee back again, to die
Within thy cage :-thy wings too weak to fly.

MARGUERITE FELLOWS.

TWILIGHT LOVE

Just in the sweet, green twilight,

As the moon is beginning to rise,
Comes the love that is born of longing,
Comes the love that is spent in sighs.

While the trees are whispering softly
In the silvery, shimmering haze
To the fair earth listening, waiting
For the secrets of olden days,

In the silence that throbs with voices
And the pulses of hearts long stilled,
When the spaces of time Eternal

With the breath of the past are filled,

When the shadow of lasting quiet
Calms thoughts of struggle and strife
And the cry of passion sounds softly
In the peace and the vision of life,

Then in the sweet, green twilight

As the moon is beginning to rise,
Comes the love that is born of longing,
Comes the love that is spent in sighs.
NINA LOUISE ALMIRALL.

THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF THE SENSES IN OUR EXPERIENCE WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD

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We touch the outside world in three different ways; through the spiritual experience, through the mental experience, and through the physical experience. This is an arbitrary division, because experience is always complex; we seldom, perhaps never, touch life in one of these ways alone. We are never conscious of our physical existence, to the absolute exclusion of either the mental or spiritual contact with the world. For the spiritual experience depends much on our mental life, and the mental life closely touches the physical. We cannot exist long in a pure state of emotion; mental activity soon creeps in and gives it a name, and compares it with other similar experiences and interprets it in a more concrete form. The mental activity relates to the physical too, for we cannot long force our mind to do its work uninterruptedly and alone; physical sensations make their way in upon the thought, and the revolving brain becomes conscious of pain in the head from too sustained effort, of heat or cold in the room, of noises from without, and so forth. Each of the senses knits together the three experiences until they are no longer distinct and the most we say is that one or another is predominant.

Let us look for a long time fixedly at a bright star. It will depend on the individual which experience comes first into play, but before we are through, all three are bound together. Perhaps the first to be aroused is the spiritual experience; the poetic beauty and truth of this bright fragment of the great pulsing universe come over us, its delicacy and aerial brilliancy steal in upon our aesthetic sense. But not long do we enjoy this purely emotional contemplation. It is a question whether we really have that experience singly at all. We can say, however, that at first the spiritual experience, if it is so, is predominant. Following this, inevitably comes mental activity, the formless spiritual experience results in definite thought, we interpret the beauty of the star,-a lamp on the road to heaven,

an angel's tear, a flower in the garden of heaven, the eye of God, whatever the interpretation may be. Then the remembrance of other stars and associations connected with them, an effort to place this particular one in its constellation; all these experiences, or corresponding ones, pass through the consciousness until the physical experience overflows all else and we shut the strained eyes, and contemplate ruefully the crick in the back of our neck.

Again, let us listen to a great harmony of voices or of instruments. The listening soul quivers in response; there is tumult or peace in the spirit, but not long does it rule the consciousness; we soon begin to interpret the music as we did the star-shine; we trace out its symbolism and bring forth the living characters and scenes of which it sings. Then perhaps the critical faculty takes hold, we measure the rendering of the music against some standard, we compare it with other sounds, the "voice of many waters", the harmony of the winds, or more delicate sounds like the singing of the birds or the soft dropping of rain. Finally, the music may produce a pleasant or unpleasant weariness, the throbbing in our ears becomes marked. For a time we shall hardly hear the music in its proper meaning, but feel the sound only as so much vibration, and measure the loud passages against the soft, by the tingling of the eardrums, and gradually we may awake to consciousness of fatigue from the cramped position in which the first strain of the music found and chained us.

The fragrance of a flower, the breath of the hills or the salt of the sea links together our three forms of consciousness in the same way. They may enter into our spiritual experience in many ways, although, at first consideration, this sense seems less distinctly connected with that experience than the other two senses mentioned. But while the abstract appeal is less strong through this sense it is nevertheless undoubtedly there. The examples mentioned, for instance, enter often into our patriotism and, too, into a narrower and more selfish love of home. "Oh, to be in England now that April's there!" Not a mere picture follows in the poet's mind of green buds and clear pale skies, but the fragrance of the blossoming trees, the smell of the fresh-turned earth in the new-ploughed fields, and all the other subtle wafts of odors that go to make up the springtime. And the sailor loves the sea not alone because of its tumult and

motion, its changing colors and the music of its waters, but loves too the pungent odors of the sea and the smell of the tarred ropes and the wet decks.

In the sense of taste we approach more distinctly mental and physical consciousness rather than marked spiritual processes; but still, in the essence of taste they are faintly discernible, yet they drift close in upon the mental experience and I doubt whether they are not completely connected with association. I do not know whether in the other instances I have given, the abstract impressions follow the concrete or vice versa. Technically speaking, I suppose the concrete come first and that all our abstract thoughts, feelings and activities are dependent upon it, but the concrete stimulus may give only an unconscious impression at first or be only faintly apparent. But in the sense of taste I think there is less doubt that the physical consciousness is the first to respond to the stimulus. Following comes the mental process; we estimate the pleasure or pain that the taste affords, and compare it with others better or worse. The spiritual experience in this sense is, as I have said, more closely dependent on the mental experience than in any of the others considered. I believe it comes entirely through memory and association and is spiritual only because it becomes a more subtilized form of the really mental activities. The taste of cider, for example, may call up memories of the country home, the low, dark-leaved orchards, the slanting roof of the red farm-house, the faces of the family, the subtle air of home, until we lose these visual pictures and become lost in the experiences of that life on its inner and contemplative side, in distinction from the definite thinking that it recalls, and we glow again with the ideals and passions of that time, and are kindled by the enthusiasm or blackened by the despair of years long since past.

Touch would seem to relate us more closely with the outside world than any of the other sensations, for we are actually related to a thing when we close upon it, beside being related to it in the figurative sense that we are related to a landscape or a bar of music. But the spiritual experience is keenly present in this sense. The rain against our face in the night, the glow of the fire on our return, the pressure of the hand-clasp of a friend, in all these the spiritual meaning rises foremost; the physical experience comes first, but faintly, the spiritual experience fol

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