that fixed and earnest gaze of one who saw what none else might see,

and he replied,

"Ask me not, O king, of things that had better be left untold.” Then when Agamemnon pressed him sore, he added, "A heavy burden have I to lay upon thee. It is no light cause that has bound the winds and kept the army here, wasting its strength in ignoble ease. The wrath of the hunter goddess has been called forth, and nought but an awful sacrifice, which men shudder to hear tell of, can allay it, and send on the army rejoicing."

At this Agamemnon was deeply moved, and he sware a binding oath that whatsoever victim the divine wrath might claim should be granted.

"Thou hast said it," answered the prophet. "Thou art the guilty one before the army. Thou hast incurred the resentment of Artemis. She, the lady of the golden bow, now lays upon thee this burden. In the days of old, in thy early youth, thou wast one day hunting upon the mountains. A beautiful stag sprang forward before thee, which thou didst pursue all the day long, until it sank down weary at thy feet. Its dappled coat was streaked with foam; tears streamed down from its dark gentle eyes, and frequent sobs were poured forth from its panting and all but broken heart. But thy soul knew not pity. Thou didst mercilessly slay it with the ruthless spear. That stag was sacred to Artemis, and she, the guardian of this spot, mindful of that deed of cruelty, has now kept back the winds against thee. In one way only can her wrath be appeased. Thou must summon hither thine own virgin daughter, thy first born, the child of thy might, the light of thine eyes, the joy of thine house. Her must thou offer before the army in sacrifice to the offended majesty of the goddess. This if thou wilt do, a favouring breeze will quickly waft thee across the broad sea, and when the times are fulfilled, and the will of Zeus is accomplished, thou shalt sack Priam's well-built city."

A deep horror fell upon Agamemnon's soul when he heard these dreadful words. He vowed that he would never do this thing, and at once commanded Talthybius the herald to proclaim to the host to disperse each to his own place. But then the dark-browed chiefs rose against him with fierce remonstrances, and with them was his own brother, Sparta's lord, who called to his mind the oath that he had taken, and Zeus, the guardian of oaths, that surely he would cross the broad sea and not return again until he had avenged the wrong and the

sighs of Helen. And they all pressed him sore and gave him no rest, and at length they wrung from him the reluctant consent to do what the goddess required of him. Therefore he wrote a letter to Clytemnestra, his queen, charging her to send without delay to the army Iphigeneia, his eldest born, saying he had promised to give her in marriage to Achilles, Peleus' god-like son, and that the nuptial rites were to be celebrated before the armament should set sail.

Full of joy, they quickly came, the Queen and the maiden, ah! little knowing what lay before them. They came expecting the nuptial rites, provided with the dower gifts. There was she, the pure and guileless virgin, clad in the bridal robes, her head tired with the nuptial crown, like an unconscious victim decked for the sacrifice, the destined bride of Artemis. Thus like an unsuspecting bird she fell into the snare. Vain was her own beauty, and vain her royal descent to rescue her from this her fearful doom. The afflicted father wept, but vain also were his tears, for the whole army clamoured for the sacrifice. For men were weary of their stay at Aulis, and longed sore to behold the fields watered by Simois and Xanthus, and to commence the strife on the broad plains of windy Troy.

But Achilles when he saw her beauty and heard her complaints was deeply moved. And when he thought of her as his destined bride, albeit falsely so destined, the fire of love was kindled, and he took her part, and swore that the sacrifice should not be, but that to his cost should any one attempt to lay hands on her. Then the other chiefs opposed him, and there was fierce contention and strife in the army, and perhaps blood would have been shed. For the confederate kings threatened to stone him with stones, and to slay Agamemnon himself and all his, unless the maiden were given up to their will.

Then her own spirit was moved within her, and she showed that she was sprung from a goodly stock, and that right royal blood flowed in her veins. When the crafty Ulysses drew near with his company to seize her, and bear her, if necessary by force to the altar, and Achilles' hand was already upon his sword, for he burned to defend her to the last, then she stood forward, now resolved to die, a willing victim, to save her father's honour, to provide for the success of her country's enterprise, to stay the enmity that had already started up among brethren in arms.

So she willingly gave herself up to Ulysses and went with him, charging her mother not to lament for her, or for her put on the gar

ments of mourning, for was she not to die gloriously? Would not her death let loose her country's ships against the guilty Troy, that they might exact a due recompense for the sin of Paris? Thus through her the fair daughters of Achaia might henceforth sport at will on the brink of the softly-flowing streams, or in the green meadows, or on the grassy slopes of the hills, freed from the fear of being carried off by any strange adventurer.

They conducted her to the altar, they crowned her with flowers, they scattered the lustral offerings upon the bright flame. Her father veiled his face with his robe, unable to look upon the sad sight, and wept silently. Sorrow and pity struggled with shame in her uncle's breast, as he thought of himself the unwilling cause of that untimely death. Even the stern kings looked on with hearts half-relenting. The priest drew near; he took from his side the bright sharp knife. Iphigeneia prayed Artemis to grant to the Achæan host good fortune and victory over Troy. A wild scream burst from her mother's lips, but none regarded it. The knife was raised-but holy Artemis pitied the fair victim, and scorned to stain her own pure altars with such noble blood. As the knife fell she snatched away the maiden, and bore her off as a goddess can, far from mortal sight, even to her own temple in a far distant land, where she might wait upon her altar. And in her room she substituted a dappled stag from the mountains, such a one as it was her delight ever to chase. It received the blow destined for the maiden.

Her indeed the chiefs saw no more, but a favouring breeze filled the sails and crested the tops of the waves, and ere night the Achæan ships were swiftly skimming the plain of the Egean on their way to Ilium. The moon arose cheering their hearts with her soft light. The stars beckoned them onwards on their way with kindly greeting. The fresh breeze whistled softly around them, and the waves roared as the dark prows dashed through them. Then were the hearts of all the heroes gladdened as they thought of that brilliant feat of arms that was before them, and the renown which should be theirs through ages yet to come.

S. C. A.

TELLING THE BEES.

FORTH from her dead the aged dame went calmly
And self-contained, with chastened bearing,
As age meets sorrow, but meekly bowing
The burdened frame nearer to mother earth,
For she a task had to fulfil, sacred

As the last touch her trembling hands had spent
On the old mate of nigh on fifty years,
Who lay in peace, composed to endless rest:

The ruddy goodman who a blushing lass
Had led her first along that narrow path,
Sweet-william bordered, to the homestead door,
And given each store into her hand, and then
Round garden plots where cabbage roses,
Lavender, and rosemary, and marigolds,
And lady lilies stooped fragrance-laden,

Had drawn her tired half and half shamefaced

Past men and maids in the sweet hay swathes deep
Down to the paddock fence where the thatched hives,
A goodly row stood treasure-garnered full,
Where scarlet clover, and buttercups, and tangled vetch,
Grew a sweet medley 'neath the linden's shade,
And tapped each hive with boisterous glee, to tell
The bees, he'd wedded his sweet Kate that day;
That they offence not take, nor vengeful prove
To the new housewife, ay, and kindly give
Their mete of sugared store, nor slighted leave
The honey-yielding haunts, the beanfields, broom,
And heather-covered moors beyond the bounds.

And many times since then, when Jamie died,
One harvest-tide, and Will her cripple boy,
And Rose and Kate married, and Rob and Dick,
And sweet wee Moll, her youngest born, the flower
Of the whole flock, drooped low, just as her sum
Of teens had ebbed, Midsummer Eve 'twas now
Full twenty years ago, she had come out
And whispered "Bees, she gone, she's gone."

And now once more she walks as in a dream,
Until the hum of honey gatherers strikes
Her duller ear, then lifts her head as wont,
Calling the swarms with the familiar sound,
And taps with the bright key sheathed to her side

Each hive, and croons with sorrow-steadied voice;
'Bees, bees, awake,

Your master's dead,

Another you must take;"

For fear the dear old friends o'er night would leave
Her in her loneliness, or struck with death
Be found scattered at dawn: then creeping back,
Wearied with the sad task, spent her still watch
Beside her dead till morn, with peaceful mind.

SILBER.

THE BURNING BUSH IN HOREB.

IN contemplating the greatness of the task assigned to Moses at the time of this manifestation of Divine Power, we are apt somewhat to overlook the greatness of the manifestation itself, and the importance of some of the lessons it teaches. The brevity of the account at first inclines us to imagine that the whole incident was instantaneous; thus losing much of its significance; or to forget that in the Bible, unlike any other book, there is no aiming at dramatic effect; no incident is related merely to throw another into greater prominence; no conjunction of circumstances is introduced as the back-ground for the display of a leading idea. So that with the story of the Burning Bush before us, we may be sure that it is the vehicle of a divine message to ourselves no less than it was to Moses.

First it reminds us that GOD awaits us at unexpected corners of our lives, to give us that life-task which is surely assigned to every one-whether it is performed or not; and that it is our attitude in the small affairs of every day, and not our attitude in the few crises of a lifetime, that can prove us faithful to our high vocation as "servants of the Most High GOD." For it cannot be too carefully remembered that the appearance of a light in a bush was not too startling a phenomenon to have been passed by, if Moses had never accustomed himself to regard the things amongst which he spent his life. The meek shepherd tending his flock, though conscious of beholding an unusual sight, had no idea that it so intimately concerned himself; and however natural his conduct may appear to us now, knowing the events which followed, it was not essentially the ordinary conduct of any one who witnessed a marvellous thing.

1 See English Folklore, by Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A. Oxon.