lows closely. The mental experience walks by its side, and remembered descriptions of the beating of the rain, of the story of the hearthside, of essays on friendship, and other such thoughts come crowding fast.

The organic sensations exercise our physical consciousness almost entirely and do not strongly relate us mentally or spiritually with the outside world. And yet these forms of consciousness are not wholly absent. A strain of the arm recalls a similar case of effort, perhaps a story of some heroism attends the muscular activity, -the story of the Holland boy and the dyke, or the lady-in-waiting who bolted the king's door with her arm. This memory may lead, as in the case of taste, to a subtilized form of mental activity, spiritual only through the aid of memory, and the physical experience may be overshadowed by the suggested patriotism or idealism that may come to us as abstractly as any of the suggestions made by sight or hearing.

I have followed the senses in the order in which they are generally considered,-sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and after these, the organic sensations. Considering them, however, as I have done, in respect primarily to their spiritual appeal, they fall into the order of sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste, and the organic sensations.

These three consciousnesses, the spiritual, mental and physical experience,-constitute the appeals made by the senses between us and the outside world; we are connected with that world at every point by the three-fold consciousness, and those consciousnesses are made one.

JULIA POST MITCHELL.

A SPRING FANCY

Days come and go like dreams, idle waking dreams,

Out of the realms of the morning clouds, with their shadowy, mystical gleams,

Out of the shining mist they come, into the golden haze,

Like silent phantoms of unreal forms,-the listless, forgetful days.

Days come and go like dreams, beautiful, fanciful dreams,

Full of the song of enchanted birds, and the music of rippling streams,
When the long, dim aisles of the forest are wrapped in purple haze,

And the real and the present seem far away,-in the pensive, spring-time days.

Days come and go like dreams,-changing, vanishing dreams,
Out of the pallid night of the past, tinted with sunrise gleams,

For a moment touched with a radiant light, then lost in the gathering haze, As the cold night shadows, with phantom-like arms enfold the passing days. GERTRUDE ROBERTS.

IN ARCADIA

I had decided to spend my summer vacation at Tilden, around which, in my dreams, was a halo of quiet and hills, and woods, of long walks, of fishing, of birds and flowers, and-Hester.

That first night in Tilden I went to bed, feeling that at last I had found Arcadia, and being naturally an unselfish mortal, it occurred to me to rejoice that Hester, also, was enjoying the blessed privileges of Arcadia. I am always devoted to unity of place where she and I are concerned and I was particularly glad that Arcadia should hold us two and no others, at least no others of consequence. Therefore, I went to sleep happy, despite the sound of revelry by night, by which the mosquitoes manifested their interest in me as a new victim.

Alas, for dreams and Fools' Paradises! I was doomed to see the glory of my halo fade away, though its bare outline remained intact. Tilden contained quiet: in my most visionary moments I had never conjured up anything so hopelessly, agressively tranquil. There were hills, too, fine ones, whose only fault lay in their ubiquity and their excessively perpendicular nature; there were woods which I should have enjoyed ungrudgingly had it not been for the birds and flowers which had their habitation therein. Long walks were mine in abundance,everything I had dreamed of was there except the fishing, which, unregretted, failed to materialize. Above all, Hester was there, and yet I was not happy.

All this, however, I did not dream of when I set out that first morning to find Hester. The air was as sweet, the hills as blue, the whole world as radiant as one could expect even in Arcadia. The first shadow crossed my path when Hester's kindly landlady explained that that young woman had gone "over yander", indicating a direction across the fields with her long, bony forefinger. Nothing daunted, however, I proceeded to follow her and "over yander", indeed, I found her. She was sitting on a

At my

stump, peering up at a tree, opera-glasses in hand. approach she lowered her glasses, with a preoccupied air. "Oh, good morning, I heard you had come. Can you see that woodpecker?"

The temperature of my morning exhilaration went down several degrees. She had showed neither surprise nor pleasure at my advent. And why on earth should I be expected to see a woodpecker?

"Look, look!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. I looked, but did not see. I am blind as a bat without my glasses and, moreover, labor under the disadvantage of not knowing a woodpecker from a bluebird.

"Isn't he perfectly dear?" asked Hester in evident ecstacy. In her excitement she laid her hand on my knee but removed it instantly. I really didn't object to its being there and started to express my willingness when I was silenced by a look. I supposed she meant to rebuke my temerity and respected her girlish modesty.

"I thought I heard a vireo," she said.

In the light of further experience, I know now that the odds were greatly in favor of her having heard the vireo and not my remark.

"There goes that dear, downy woodpecker. I am so glad I saw him," and she sighed ecstatically as she rose from the stump. "I do just love 'em," she added fervently.

"Lucky they," said I with an ardent glance. Of course one can't be sure of one's glances, but mine felt ardent, at any rate. "I beg pardon, Mr. Graves, did you speak? I was watching that sparrow and did not notice."

"O no, I didn't speak," I replied with concentrated essence of irony.

"I wish I could remember whether it is a tree or song sparrow that flips his tail. Can you, Mr. Graves ?"

Mr. Graves did not recall and marched on beside her in icy silence. How under the canopy was a man to make love to a girl who was absorbed in tails that flipped or flipped not? I stopped to gather some little starry white flowers at my feet, and gave them to Hester, with an expression meant to be profoundly eloquent. The eloquence passed in greater insignificance than could possibly appertain to the sounding brass of the hymn.

66

'Why that is pyrola. I don't know which variety. Didn't you pick any leaves ?"

I was obliged to confess that I had not; moreover, I had gathered all the blossoms and could not find the spot again.

"Never mind," said Hester in the tone of mingled resignation and forced cheerfulness which is so painful to the erring. "Next time, please remember, Mr. Graves, that leaves are very important in analysing. Where are my glasses? Oh, thanks." For five minutes she gazed into the depths of a beech tree and then turned away with a sigh. "Lost him," she said pensively. "You weren't quick enough. I think I had better carry the

glasses myself."

I started to explain that she had left the glasses on the stump in her rapture over the dear, downy woodpecker, but I left my sentence unfinished, for I saw the rapt expression return to her face which I was now sufficiently experienced to interpret. This time it was a scarlet tanager, so Hester informed me. There was one redeeming feature about this bird, for he gave me an opportunity to look at Hester as long and hard as I chose, longer and harder than the usages of society permit and I was grateful for the privilege. Unfortunately my gratitude was marred by the intense desire within me to have her look at me as she looked at that abominable bird.

So the morning passed and at length we set our faces toward the town. Weary and angry, I strode along beside Hester. Why had I ever come to this wretched place, this miserable haunt of the scarlet tanager and the dear, downy woodpecker and all the rest of them, except to tell Hester that I loved her? Here was I and here was Hester, and here too were the birds. As I look upon that morning it seems to me I characterized those birds by a forcible epithet just then, but it does not matter now. Hester chatted gaily, counting her triumphs on her fingers, and I listened in gloomy silence. Clearly it was unbefitting for a martyr to speak of his sufferings. Evidently Hester didn't care. I might as well pack up and go home to the city.

As we parted, Hester informed me that she was going birding all the afternoon with the minister and in the evening she must write up her bird notes and consult her books, but to-morrow I might go with her to Bascom's Woods if I cared to. She had heard there were a great many warblers there. In conclusion

she gave me a smile which made me think that not all the glory had departed from Arcadia. I would remain another day. But who in thunder was the minister?

That night I slept the sleep of the weary, pleasantly oblivious to the mosquito orgies which went on in my apartments, a species of festivity from which I was fortunately absent in spirit, though very much present in the flesh.

On the morrow I rose refreshed, in spite of the unpleasant nocturnal visions of gigantic scarlet tanagers, with eyes like opera glasses and tails which flipped incessantly up aud down. I accompanied Hester to Bascom's Woods where we found warblers, indeed, and other ornithological treasures, which proved, if possible, even more absorbing than scarlet tanagers and woodpeckers. was perpetually bidden to "hush", "look", "listen", and every moment Hester grew more radiantly happy, I grew more abjectly wretched. On the way home from Bascom's Woods I resolved to speak to the stage driver about coming for my trunk. On the whole, however, it seemed best to wait another day.

So passed a week of such days. I grew to abhor every feathered creature. Even flowers I found occasion to envy, but I did not hate them as I did the birds. I longed sometimes to ask her to investigate me, study my special characteristics, identify me as she did the birds. Yet still I lingered in Arcadia because Arcadia held Hester, and daily I walked with her, listening, hushing, looking, simultaneously or alternately at her command.

There were redeeming features in the miseries of Arcadia. One was the triumphant routing of the mosquitoes. My friendly landlady tacked cheese-cloth over the windows of my room which kept out the larger insects along with the breeze. At first it pleased my sense of poetic justice to consider that the smaller members of the tribe, though entering freely as ever, could never reënter after they had partaken of me and were no longer small, but it was soon forced upon me that if they could no longer come in through the cheese-cloth, neither could they go out through it. After that I held nightly tourneys in which all alone and single handed I vanquished my enemy, and wished devoutly that I could thus slay the sparrows and vireos and all the rest, those enemies whom I could not meet in fair and open conflict.