except the hunter's urging voice-running as smoothly as the rocking of the billows on the ocean as the storm goes to sleep. The timber comes into view on the other side. "Heakle, Heakle! Here you come! Hurrah! Now, Bruno! Don't let Heakle get him! Don't let Heakle get him, old boy! Make him miss his jump, Bruno !" There! The wolf's tail drops, his head goes up, he whirls around; the old dog plunges at him and goes by, receiving a gash in his shoulder. Young dog and wolf clinch. Horse and rider go by, turn round. Heakle is in battle with the wolf. The hunter dismounts, and quickly unbuckles from the saddle the strap and heavy steel stirrup, ready to help with a stroke from it, if needed.

There is no need. The young dog already has his last hold, and is making up for being behind in the race.

The dismounted hunter is now holding the wounded dog from returning to the encounter; has pulled him down in the grass, and as he lays there panting, he kisses him again and again, saying, over and over: "You got him, Bruno; you got him, you got him!"

The victorious young huntsman rises to take his bearings, and finds that he is nine miles from the starting-point of the chase. The distance

startles him.

He looks at his horse. There he stands-a pitiful sight, trembling in every limb. Bruno staggers to his feet. The hunter hurriedly scalps the wolf, leaving the carcass lying in the grass, and takes the reins and leads the horse home, followed by the dogs.

Old Bruno never caught another wolf. His days for the chase were then over. He never could rally himself to keep in sight of a wolf again. The wound in his shoulder made him permanently lame. Bertran had at last been outwinded. He never entered the chase again. He hacked about the farm, and had kindly care; but to his last days, if the hounds would bellow on the trail in hearing, he would stamp in his stall, and sniff the air with as much spirit as in the day when his feet were as fleet as the wind.

The young pioneer and huntsman had his regrets over his horse and dog. But he would have put his own body to the same limits under the same excitement. It may be said that things like this are lacking in the nobler elements of reason. But are they? Is not this in essence the heroic in life? Does the spirit of heroism and conquest in action always have to give a moral account of itself? May not that chase be a picture of the life we are living? Do

those who are never moved by such a spirit ever get anywhere, or accomplish anything? Those who never give themselves over to the soul's impulses, wrought into action by whatever is able to call out its energies, never reach achievments worth naming. They are of those left behind in the race of life. They are the stay-at-homes. They are the pussies-in-thecorner-sleek and fine and well fed, but without energy enough to catch a mouse.

game

is up.

Shall we

Life is a chase. The capture or lose it? What do you say? The turns life will take, and the amount of energy suddenly to be summoned, can not be estimated long beforehand. A faint heart will not win in the chase. A purpose to win which is so virile at times as to make no estimate of distance or cost is the purpose that has heroism in it, and the swing of conquest. Life is this sort of a struggle. Immortality is a struggle. Have you the stuff in you to get immortality? If you have, you shall have it. Yonder is your goal. Do you see it? Get there! Get there, if it. costs you effort, and time, and dollars, and friends; if you have to burn the candle at both ends-if you die.

But suppose the goal, good enough in itself, is not worth all of this. It is so that the