Not in the city's narrow ways will they his battle meet,

But where the wide plain stretches far, with bloom and fragrance sweet.

And outward from the town they go, their lances shining bright;

And from their visor-bars flash out fierce battles' furious

light.

Count Eberhard laughed loud and long, when out beyond the gate

He saw the horsemen riding slow: "The fools, they dare their fate."

He cried, "Mount! mount! let bugles blow, and see your swords are sure:

To-night, my men, we feast and sleep inside of fair Valure."

Then swords were belted, helmets donned, and lances strongly grasped,

And saddle-girths were tightly drawn, and visors surely clasped;

And, as the horsemen of Valure came slowly o'er the plain,

A thousand knights to meet them rode across the fields of grain.

The bugles rang their stirring call; the far hills caught the sound,

And sent it echoing softly back above the battle-ground. "Now see your lances do their work!" Count Eberhard cried out,

And from his steel-clad troopers came a merry answering shout.

"Charge! charge them home, men of Valure, and be the work well done,

Or a new master rules your homes ere comes the set of

sun :

Your blades are sharp, your lances true, then speed them on

their way.

Remember that we fight for home, and ours will be the

day."

Swiftly and sure the horses speed, the lances smite and

break,

And hard and biting are the blows the troopers give and take:

Now back along the river's bank the Count's grim riders

fall,

Then rushing on they drive their foes toward the city's wall.

Loud are the shouts, and fierce the cries; the red-stained, circling blades

Send their bright flashes far among the gold-flecked orchard shades;

And snorting steeds run riderless among the bearded

wheat,

Or, neighing wildly, crush the dead beneath their flying feet.

An hour the varying battle surged, and neither side had

won,

Though each had fought a valorous fight, and many great deeds done;

Then high above the din that rose where charged the struggling throng,

Rang out Count Eberhard's gruff voice, in accents clear and

strong,

"Hold! hold your swords! why waste our blood? Men of Valure, I fling

My challenge in your face: go choose your champion for the ring,

:

And we will soon decide the day if I am beaten down,
My men are yours; and, if I win, why, then I claim the

town."

Swift from the city's horsemen sprang a brave and comely knight:

"Comrades, grant me the boon, I pray; be mine this bitter

fight.'

And loud the cheer that answered rose, and soon, each in his place,

The two knights stood; one grim and scarred, one young and fair of face.

The trumpets sounded once, and quick the visor-bars were closed;

The trumpets sounded twice, and firm each supple lance was

posed;

The trumpets sounded thrice, and swift the horses forward dash,

And shrill one fearful death-cry rings above their meeting crash.

With shivered lance, and breastplate rent, Count Eberhard lies dead,

While by his side the victor stands with lowly bended head. "Take up your chief, and bear him home: this shall your ransom be,

That ne'er again fair Valure's plain your gleaming spears shall see."

So said the knight: the troopers came, and on his dented shield

They laid the fallen chief, and bore him sadly from the field; And then the victors slowly rode back to the city's gate, Where anxious hearts and watching eyes for loving greetings wait.

With storm of bells, and gleam of tears, the knights march slowly on

Ah! many a crest and shining lance from out their lines have gone;

And, as along the city's square the ranks in silence stand, Wildly the kerchiefs flutter out from many a dainty hand. THOS. S. COLLIER.

TAMMY'S PRIZE.

"AWA' wi' ye, Tammy man, awa' wi' ye to the schule, aye standin' haverin'," and the old shoemaker looked up through his tear-dimmed spectacles at his son, who was standing with his cap on and his book in his hand.

Tammy made a move to the door. "An' is't the truth, Tammy? and does the maister say't himsel'? Say't ower again.'

The boy turned back, and stood looking on the ground.

"It wasna muckle he said, fayther. He just said, 'It'll be Tammy Rutherford that'll get the prize i' the coontin.' "He said you, did he?" said the old man, as if he had heard it for the first time, and not for the hundredth.

Again Tammy made a move for the door; and again the fond father would have called him back, had not the schoolbell at that instant rung out loud and clear.

66

a

Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.

The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.

"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"

"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the sheen I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit.”

"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set yersel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"

"Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons.

"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gate."

Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."

"Ye dinna say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'." "Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the sheen."

"An' are they sayin' Tam'll ha'e a prize?" continued the old man.

"Ay, ay; the laddie was sayin' sae." And she went

away.

The shoemaker seemed to have fallen on a pleasant train of thought; for he smiled away to himself, and occasionally picked up a boot, which he as soon let drop. Visions of Tammy's future greatness rose before his mind. Perhaps of too slight a fabric were they built; but he saw Tammy

a great and honored man, and Tammy's father leaning on his son's greatness.

"Presairve us a'! it's mair nor half-six!" (half-past five.) And he started up from his revery. "Schule'll hae been oot an 'oor, an' the laddie's no hame." And he got up, and moved towards the door. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon, and the light was dim in the village street. He put up his hand to his eyes, and peered down in the direction of the school.

"What in a' the world's airth's keepin' him?" he muttered; and then turning round he stumbled through the darkness of his workshop to the little room behind. He filled an antiquated kettle, and set it on the fire. Then he went to the cupboard, and brought out half a loaf, some cheese, a brown teapot, and a mysterious parcel. He placed these on the table, and then gravely and carefully unrolled the little parcel, which turned out to be tea.

"Presairve us, I can niver min' whaur ye put the tea, or hoo muckle. It's an awfu' waicht on the min' to make tea.' His wife had died two years before; and his little son, with the assistance of a kindly neighbor, had managed to cook their humble meals. Porridge was their chief fare; but a cup of tea was taken as a luxury every evening.

"I'm jist some fear't about it. I'll waicht till Tammas comes in;" and he went out again to the door to see what news there was of his son.

The sun had completely disappeared now; and the village would have been quite dark had it not been for the light in the grocer's window, a few doors down.

The shoemaker leaned against his cottage, and tried to see if any one were in sight; but not a soul seemed about, although now and then a sound of laughter was borne up the street.

The door of his next neighbor's house was wide open. He looked in, and saw a woman standing at the fire, superintending some cooking operation, with her back to him. "Is yer Jim in, mistress?”

"Na," she said, without turning her head. "He'll be doon at some o' his plays. He's nae been in frae the schule yet." "It's the same wi' Tam. Losh! I'm wunnerin, what's keepin' him."

66

Keepin' him, say ye? What wad keep a laddie?"

Half satisfied, the shoemaker went back to his house, and found the kettle singing merrily on the fire. He felt a littl