THE WANDERING JEW.

Sweeter than softest music
Of earth or sea or sky

Is the stifled gasp of dying

To him that may not die;

-To him that, wan and deathless,

Must watch, dumb-souled with pain, The nations rise and crumble

Till Christ shall come again.

The marble courts of Princes
My casque-plumes, sweeping low,
Brushed in their deep obeisance
A thousand years ago.

Mine was the robe of purple,
That speaks a king's right hand,
And when the war-gong thundered
Mine was the chief command.
Where axe on helm was crashing
I led, and prayed to die,

Bowed to the glittering broadsword;
The broadsword passed me by.

Within a sun-scorched city,

Lost in the desert sand,

Crazed with the rack of famine,

Dank from the Scourge's hand,

I crawled amid the stricken

And, palsied arm on high,

Prayed for the Scourge to take me,

But lo, it passed me by.

Far in a clanging workshop

-The West's full-furnaced Hell

Where great earth-shaking hammers

Obedient rose and fell,

Amid the soot and turmoil,

Choked by the hissing air,

Toiling with molten rivers
I braved the white-hot glare.
Reckless of mighty engines,
And chains that burst and fly
I prayed for them to whelm me,
But lo, they passed me by.

And so, throughout the aeons
That roll unceasingly,

Quelled by the hand of heaven
I bow to its decree.

Toiling where toil is granted,
Wrapped in a leaden calm,
Broken of soul and weary,
I drift from pole to palm,
Straining with heavy eyelids
To catch the fire unfurled
That tokens in its gleaming
The sunset of the World.

E. Lyttleton Fox.

"BY THE AID OF GOD."

HORSE racing and religion are commonly reputed to

I

belong at opposite poles of the moral universe. was therefore somewhat surprised when Rodney, the stable boy, brought in another applicant for the position of jockey, to have him gravely tender me a soiled and crumpled paper, announcing "Its a c'tificate o' church mimbership, sor."

I scrutinized the pious candidate. He was a wizzled little cub, with a simian countenance, and a drawn, anxious look in his bead-like eyes, such as often results from a bad conscience or strict training for weight.

"Name?" I asked.

"Dennis Rowe, sor."

"Age?"

"Thirty-six, sor, be the grace o' God." "Weight?"

"Ninety-siven, sor, Hiven be praised."

"What do you know about riding, Rowe?"

"Faith, sor, an' didn't I win the Darby tin year ago-glory be-and its jist now I landed. Things is goin' tarrible bad in the auld country, sor."

I hesitated. The new comer had no vouchers. On the other hand there was no one else in sight, and I wanted to see what "Bright Eyes" could do in the "Suburban" next day. She had no chance to win, a 20 to I shot, so there was at least nothing to be risked.

Just then, Symonds, my partner, came in, and after learning the state of affairs, he laughed boisterously. "Sure," he roared, "give him a try to-morrow, anyhow. It'll be fun for the field, and I knew a preacher once that could drive a horse like Hell.'

After we had finished the bargain, Rowe asked to see "Bright Eyes," and try her out a little. Rodney led her into

the paddock.

She was a shapely creature, mahogany bay, with black points, well drawn out, and firmly knit. She was built for

a champion, but she was a quitter, and always managed to get tired at the quarter. Symonds was in despair, and advocating sending her back to the farm.

Rowe's wrinkled face lighted a little when he saw her. "Oi' sor, a good un. The very picture of 'is Lordship's

'Kitten.' It's a fine child she is."

I rather liked his style as he took her gently up the stretch, knees rather higher than the American type, and less weight on the neck, for that favored the mare's forward quarters, which were a trifle weak.

She traveled evenly, and Rowe returned beaming with satisfaction.

"Thanks to the saints," he ejaculated, "she's like a cat, and all she wants is to hunt the laziness out of her."

It was my opinion that such a task was quite too much, but I did not discourage him.

Early next morning I found Rowe working out Bright Eyes, and she did perform better than I had ever seen her. I was tempted to place a little money, but the odds were too great, and I quailed.

Two o'clock arrived at last, and I pitied Rowe's hopes when I saw the rest of the field. There was Smith's "Colonel," fiddling around as if crazy for the fray, and Grayson's "Lavender," and half a dozen others, who seemed to look at Bright Eyes and smile. For all that, she acted livelier than I expected, and Rowe was as sure as ever.

In looking her over for the last time, I noticed a drop of blood on her neck. At the time I thought it an accidental scratch, but now I suspect it was something else.

The little cavalcade sidled mincingly up the track, and after scoring a few times ineffectually, the white flag went down. It was a clean start.

Somehow Rowe had maneuvered Bright Eyes into second place, and was clinging at the heels of the "Colonel," who

was trying to distance the field. At the quarter, there was standing room between these two and the rest of the pack.

Symonds grew excited and darted along the fence toward the last turn, exclaiming, "If that boy wins, I'll go to church with him to-morrow."

The Colonel and Bright Eyes skimmed the back stretch, leaving the rest of the field as if it were standing still, or hurrying in the other direction.

I never saw a horse so changed.

She was running close, and her ears were laid back in a way that meant business for the Colonel.

And now they were slowing at the turn. Bright Eyes was an even length behind. Just as they turned into the home-stretch, the Colonel left an opening toward the rail, and like a shot, Rowe sent the mare into it. As she came up, to the wonder of the grand stand and to my delight, the Colonel became tangled and reeled. It was only an instant, but that instant sent Bright Eyes a length to the good, and brought her in winner by a nose, in the fastest drive I ever hope to see.

While we were unsaddling her in the stable, amid the rejoicings of the rubbers, Symonds rushed in, breathless with hurrying.

"I was at the turn. You little religious-damned rascal! Why boys, he caught the Colonel off his gait, slashed him a crack, and bumped him—just right—and the stewards never blinked."

I looked severely at Rowe.

"By the aid o' God, sor," he mumbled.

"With the help of the Devil!" roared Symonds.

Bradley A. Welch.