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him with wide eyes, her head thrown back, her neck swollen, her face surging with sudden color. There was a question in his attitude as he stood watching her.

"I can't let you go," she said rapidly, "there's something-I don't know what I can't help it!-I-oh, stop, dear, don't-don't touch me-please!" Then suddenly her rigid body drooped, and she clung to him almost desperately, her face buried on his shoulder. He realized the agony of her tears with almost a savage joy.

After a little she began to talk, half gasping, half crying, her face still hidden from him. "If you only knew how I hated myself for— this! I've lost all my pride-all my-everything a woman ought to be! I don't respect you-I feel just the same as before-but-but— Prentice, let me alone, don't you see-you're degrading me—oh!— what is it-I-I don't-I don't understand!"

He hardly heard what she was saying. One arm was close about her waist; the other wandered free, almost gloating in the delight of new-found possession: he felt the softness of her back and shoulder under the light covering of lace and silk. Then he realized that she had stopped speaking.

With his right hand he pushed back her head until he could see her wet cheeks and quivering chin, the intolerable shame upon her burning face. Her eyes looked at him bravely; he knew they would. His lips gradually grew firm, but the smile came in spite of himself. "My dear little girl, can't you see that's the way I want to be loved?" And then he kissed her mouth, in triumph.

Edward Brewster Sheldon.

PETER PAN.

I

Slender and fair, with childish face,

At dusking panes you seem to stand, Who flew to us with faery grace

From far-off Never-never Land.

A wonder boy with wistful eyes,
Peering in twilight story time
At us world-folk, in shy surmise,
To hear some magic tale or rhyme.

Dear Heart! we knew you could not fail
(What truly child could, ever since

We heard it first?) to love the tale
Of Cinderella and the Prince.

You lure us back with elfin smile,

(Straight on till sunrise is the way),

To that dream-land we knew awhile,
The land where all earth's children play.

There, life is sweet and undismayed

Though grown-ups may not understandPeter, we know, for we have played

Oft with your wistful, loyal band,

Who have no fear of lurking foe,
Or Pirate Chief with ruthless crew,
Yet in their triumphs long to go

Back home to Her they never knew.

You soothe them in their boyish fear, With more than mother's tenderness, They love you, and you hold them dear, For you, as they, are motherless.

We know you for a while, and then

No more you come at our command, Though we would live our lives again To play in Never-never Land.

We hear afar on summer nights

The thrilling joy your piping tells,

'Mid dancing of the faery lights,

And singing of the faery bells.

Brave, boyish heart-alone and glad!

Living your soul's own wayward plan That we know not, whose world is sadWho are you really, Peter Pan?

II

Reply.

You have asked the question of ages, for your hearts are dull and old;

I stand on the sunrise hills, and you in the streets of pain,

Weary, for you have forgotten the wonders my singing told.
My pipes are the children's voices who shall never come again,
Which call you forth in the sunlight to follow my beck'ning hand,
That leads through the paths of fant'sy, to the Never-never Land.

Give me what name you will, my power shall never end,

While children are born to believe in gentleness, courage and strength;

I am eternal youth, the sunrise, the love of a friend,

The poet's song, the new world, the birdling that flies at length;

I am the sound of the wind and the rain, the heart of a boy,

The soul of incarnate childhood-I am joy, joy, joy!

Motherless boy, you say, but I know a mother's heart,

Child for all time, am I, and I love my lonely youth,
Though I and the Spirit of Childhood ever meet and part;

And you who are sick with doubting may dimly guess the truth,

Hearing my dreamy pipes which were sweet when the world began, That I am the Spirit of Wonder Eternal, the boy Peter Pan!

Robert Emmons Rogers.

CLAUDE DEBUSSY: AN APPRECIATION.

In these days of overburdened critics, a composer need expect no notice if he has not attempted some gigantic work; trilogies in opera and tone-poem, over-awing in their breadth, and in the heaps of labor contained in the pages of their score. It took many years for the "still small voice" of the greatest piano-composer, Chopin, to be heard, by reason of his having restricted himself to composition for the piano alone. Schumann's piano-music became more famous when he had produced a symphony. Wagner began in the simple Italian opera style, and ended with tetralogies, passionate stories of the world's great myths, with music written in the complicated but seductive chromatic manner. Liszt suggested a new form for Richard Strauss to develop, namely, the symphonic poem. To-day Richard Strauss stands at the head of the musical world. With a command of orchestral technics that has never been surpassed, he has enough confidence in his powers to attempt musical descriptions of unequalled breadth; such as the adventures of Don Juan, Till Eulenspiegel, Don Quixote, an autobiography, a conception of the development of the human race from its origin up to Nietzsche's idea of the Uebermensch, and perhaps greatest of all, an opera to Oscar Wilde's drama, "Salome."

There is a composer in Paris whose personality is so closely reflected in his work, and who does so perfectly what he sets out to do, that he is quite as interesting, if not as great, as the German. Only since the appearance of Debussy's opera, "Pelléas et Mélisande," has he attracted any widespread attention. Let me say at the outset that Debussy considers the sole object of music to be the giving of pleasure. His creed may be disputed; anti-Wagnerians will no doubt fire up with violent statements against mere sensuousness and beauty of tone, in

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