For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

HIS MOTHER

- SIR WALTER SCOTT.

One of the most charming stories written by Barrie is about his mother, and is entitled Margaret Ogilvy. His mother loved to find in all of his stories traces of herself in the heroines, and was never so happy as when talking to him about his writings.

“We came very close to each other in those talks. 'It is a queer thing,' she would say softly, ‘that near everything you write is about this bit of a place. You little expected that when you began. I mind well the time when it never entered your head, any more than mine, that you could write a page about our squares and wynds. I wonder how it has come about?'

"There was a time when I could not have answered that question, but that time has long passed. 'I suppose, mother, it was because you were most at home in your own town, and there was never much pleasure to me in writing of people who could not have known you, nor of squares and wynds you never passed through, nor of a countryside where you never carried your father's dinner in a flagon. There is scarce a house in all my books where I have not seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over the fireplace or winding the clock.'

"And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you knew nobody you could make your women-folk out of! Do you mind that, and how we both laughed at the notion of your having to make them out of me?'

"And now you've gone back to my father's time. It's more than sixty years since I carried his dinner in a flagon through the long parks of Kinnordy.'

“I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the stile at the edge of the wood till I fancy I see a little girl coming toward me with a flagon in her hand.'

"Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and swinging the flagon round so quick that what was inside hadna time to fall out. I used to wear a magenta frock and a white pinafore. Did I ever tell you that?'

"Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta frock and a white pinafore.'

"You minded that! But I'm thinking it wasna a lassie in a pinafore you saw in the long parks of Kinnordy; it was just a gey done auld woman.'

"It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far away, but when she came near, it was a gey done auld woman.'

"And a fell ugly one!'

666 "The most beautiful one I shall ever see.'

"I wonder to hear you say it. Look at my wrinkled auld face.'

"It is the sweetest face in all the world.'

"See how the rings drop off my poor wasted finger.'

"There will always be some one nigh, mother, to put them on again.'

"Ay, will there! Well I know it. Do you mind how when you were but a bairn you used to say, "Wait till I'm a man, and you'll never have a reason for greeting again?"

"You used to come running into the house to say, "There's a proud dame going down the Marywelbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and white on the other; wait till I'm a man, and you'll have one the very same." And when I lay on gey hard beds you said, "When I'm a man you'll lie on feathers." You saw nothing bonny, you never heard of my setting my heart on anything, but what you flung up your head and cried, "Wait till I'm a man." You fair shamed me before the neighbors, and yet I was windy, too. And now it has all come true

like a dream. I can call to mind not one little thing I ettled for in my lusty days that hasna been put into my hands in my auld age. I sit here useless, surrounded by the gratification of all my wishes and all my ambitions, and at times I'm near terrified, for it's as if God had mista'en me for some other woman.'

J. M. BARRIE.

THE SECRET OF A HOME

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky;

Hundreds of shells on the shore together;

Hundreds of birds that go singing by;
Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather.

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn;
Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover;
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn;

But only one mother the wide world over.

Then up arose the noble host,

And, smiling, cried: "A toast! A toast!

To all our ladies fair!

Here before all I pledge the name

Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, The Lady Gundamere.”

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry
Till Stanley's voice was heard:

"Enough, enough," he smiling said,
And lowly bent his haughty head,
"That each may have his due,
Now each in turn must play his part,
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight, and true.”

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And called the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.