knew the way, and somehow or other kept the beaten track. He talked to the horse so constantly and so cheerfully, that after a while my own spirits began to rise, and the way seemed neither so long nor so disagreeable.

not

66 Ho, there, Axel!" he would say. "Keep the road, too far to the left. Well done! Here's a level; now trot a bit."

PART II

So we went on, sometimes uphill, sometimes downhill, for a long time, as it seemed. I began to grow chilly, and Lars no longer sang little songs and fragments of hymns, as when we first set out. Whenever I asked "Are we nearly there?" he always answered, "A little farther."

Suddenly the wind seemed to increase.

"Ah," said he, "now I know where we are: it's one mile more." But one mile more, you must remember, meant seven. Lars checked the horse, and peered anxiously from side to side in the darkness. I looked also, but could see nothing. "What is the matter? " I finally asked.

"The

"We have got past the hills on the left," he said. country is open to the wind, and here the snow drifts worse than anywhere else on the road. If there have been no plows out tonight, we shall have trouble."

You must know that the farmers along the road are obliged to turn out with their horses and oxen, and plow down the drifts, whenever the road is blocked by a storm.

In less than a quarter of an hour, we could see that the horse was sinking in the deep snow. He plunged bravely forward, but made scarcely any headway, and presently became so exhausted that he stood quite still. In a few minutes, the horse started again, and with great labor carried us a few yards farther. "Shall we get out and try to find the road? " said I.

"It's no use,” Lars answered. "In these new drifts we should sink to the waist. Wait a little, and we shall get through this one."

It was as he said. Another pull brought us through the deep part of the drift, and we reached a place where the snow was quite shallow. But it was not the hard smooth suface of the road; we could feel that the ground was uneven, and covered with roots and bushes. Bidding Axel stand still, Lars jumped out of the sled, and began wading around among the trees. Then I got out on the other side, but had not proceeded ten steps before I began to sink so deeply into the loose snow that I

was glad to extricate myself and return. It was a desperate situation, and I wondered how we should ever get out of it.

I shouted to Lars, in order to guide him, and it was not long before he also came back to the sled. "If I knew where the road is," said he, "I could get into it again. But I don't know; and I think we must stay here all night.”

"We shall freeze to death in an hour!" I cried. I was already chilled to the bone.

Oh, no!" exclaimed Lars, cheerfully. "I know what my father did with a gentlemen from Stockholm on this very road, and we 'll do it to-night."

"What was it?"

"Let me take care of Axel first,” said Lars. him some hay and one reindeer skin."

"We can spare

It was a slow and difficult task to unharness the horse, but we accomplished it at last. Lars then led him under the drooping branches of a fir tree, tied him to one of them, gave him an armful of hay, and fastened the reindeer skin upon his back. Axel began to eat, as if perfectly satisfied with the arrangement.

When this was done, Lars spread the remaining hay evenly over the bottom of the sled, and covered it with the skins, which he tucked in very firmly on the side towards the wind. Then, lifting them on the other side, he said: "Now take off your fur coat, quick, lay it over the hay, and then creep under it.”

I obeyed as rapidly as possible. For an instant I shuddered in the icy air; but the next moment I lay stretched in the bottom of the sled, sheltered from the storm. I held up the ends of the reindeer skins while Lars took off his coat and crept in beside me. Then we drew the skins down and pressed the hay against them. When the wind seemed to be entirely excluded, Lars said we must pull off our boots, untie our scarfs, and so loosen our clothes that they would not feel tight upon any part of the body. When this was done, and we lay close together, warming each other, I found that the chill gradually passed out of my blood. My hands and feet were no longer numb; a delightful feeling of comfort crept over me: and I lay as snugly as in the best bed. I was surprised to find that, although my head was covered, I did not feel stifled. Enough air came in under the skins to prevent us from feeling oppressed.

There was barely room for the two of us to lie, with no chance of turning over or rolling about. In five minutes, I think, we were asleep. Just as I was beginning to feel a little cramped and stiff from lying so still, I was suddenly aroused by the cold wind

on my face. Lars had risen up on his elbow, and was peeping out from under the skins.

“I think it must be nearly six o'clock," he said. "The sky is clear, and I can see the big star. We can start in another hour."

I felt so much refreshed that I was for setting out immediately; ; but Lars remarked, very sensibly, that it was not as yet possible to find the road. While we were talking, Axel neighed.

"There they are!" cried Lars, and immediately began to put on his boots, his scarf and heavy coat. I did the same, and by the time we were ready, we heard shouts and the crack of whips. We harnessed Axel to the sled, and proceeded slowly in the direction of the sounds, which came, as we presently saw, from a company of farmers, out this early to plow the road. They had six pairs of horses hitched to a wooden frame, something like the bow of a ship, pointed in front and spreading out to a breadth of ten or twelve feet. The machine not only cut through the drifts, but packed the snow, leaving a good, solid road behind it. After it had passed we sped along merrily in the cold morning twilight, and, in little more than an hour, reached the post-house at Umea, where we found Lars' father prepared to return home. He waited until Lars had eaten a good warm breakfast, when I said good-by to both, and went on towards Lapland.

From "Boys of Other Countries."

Copyright, 1904.

XLI. FORMS OF POETRY - THE LYRIC

HUSHING SONG

Eilidh, Eilidh, my bonnie wee lass;
The winds blow and the hours pass.
But never a wind can do thee wrong,
Brown Birdeen, singing the bird-heart song.
And never an hour but has for thee

Blue of the heaven, and green of the sea.
Blue for the hope of thee, Eilidh, Eilidh,
Green for the joy of thee, Eilidh, Eilidh.
Swing in thy nest then,

Here on my heart, Birdeen, Birdeen,
Here on my heart, here on my heart.
Eilidh (pronounced Eily).

Bayard Taylor

Finoa Macleod

When we observe things and think of them as outside of ourselves or as external facts our degree of appreciation of them is on the lowest plane and our expression, whether

in words, tone, or color, is prose; but when we realize anything so deeply that it becomes a part of us, and awakens such deep feeling that any expression of it becomes directly co-ordinated with our impressions and reveals a part of ourselves, then that is poetic. "Anything," said Professor Sharp, "may become poetic by being intensely realized." When we come to a careful study of the phases of this poetic realization of truth we find three which are especially important.

(1) In observing objects or in thinking a thought we may relate it or feel it as entirely personal to ourselves. That is, we see it with our own eyes, and feel it with our own hearts. This gives rise to the Song or Lyric Poetry. The lyric is intensive, emotional, personal. The lyric poem is usually short, deals with one situation and attention is sustained by intensity of gaze.

Back of the lyric poem, may we not note a certain instinct in us all which causes us to realize things for ourselves? When we feel a tendency to concentrate attention deeply and intensely upon a specific truth, event or situation, when we lose sight of the world's opinion and awake and realize something ourselves, may it not be called a lyric instinct?

(2) We find that different people do not always feel alike. Many have different motives, different experiences, different points of view. Very early an instinct awakens in us that enables us to see things as others see them, to put ourselves in their place. From this instinct arise many forms of dramatic poetry, the monologue, the play, and it introduces dramatic elements into other forms of poetry. The dramatic instinct is of great importance. Without it we would be selfish, moody. By its power we are forced out of ourselves, develop altruistic feelings and appreciate the lives and motives of others.

(3) We may feel that men are alike in many respects. While we awaken to the fact very early that character is a distinct mark upon an individual and that every individual has some distinct peculiarity, yet, in spite of men's oddities and differences an instinct awakens that there is a typical,

or ideal, human being. In a simple story or descriptive clause we find an instinctive appreciation of an event from the point of view of an ideal man of the race, and here we find an instinct which may be named "epic." Some may regard it as a phase of the dramatic instinct, but close observation will show us that it is very different, is more dignified, is the element which gives greater dignity to the expression of stories and ballads. The epic instinct on account of its dignity has given rise to very dignified poems expressing or embodying the ideals of a race, but the epic instinct is not confined to these long and dignified poems, but is a matter of every-day life, as the dramatic instinct. In fact in all true vocal interpretation of literature, the epic instinct must counterbalance the dramatic.

Of course all these modes of instinct realize ideas, objects or thoughts and help one another and can hardly be separated. We can hardly have true poetry without a certain union of all three forms or modes.

The first of these to awaken is possibly the lyric. We must first be ourselves. We must awake and realize the world. The expanding and unfolding human heart must take in the mother, the father and others who come near to us, and later the flowers, the trees and birds, and everything around us. We awaken and make our own the things which we see and hear.

In the early part of this volume we have seen that the mind first has individual impressions or ideas. When this single impression is genuine and intense the lyric instinct and lyric poetry is the result. As we grow older and observe farther we find a tendency to generalize and blend many ideas into one. The impressions tend to become generalized and our thinking abstract. We thus lose our expression because we lose our impression. The development of expression requires us to reawaken our impressions and to develop the power to receive individual impressions. "The child is the father of the man," and nowhere do we have such an illustration of this as in the fact that through lyric poetry we may keep alive our power to receive individual impressions. The loss of the power to receive