examined each production in its turn. With fair words he complimented Signor Benedetto on the brave show, and only before the work of poor Luca was he entirely silent. At last, before a vase and a dish that stood at the farthest end of the table, the Duke gave a sudden cry of wonder and delight.
“This is beyond all comparison,” said he, taking the great oval dish in his hands. “It is worth its weight in gold. I pray you, quick, name the artist.”
“It is marked number eleven, my lord,” answered the master potter, trembling with pleasure and surprise. “Ho, you who reply to that number, stand out and give your name.”
But no one moved. The young men looked at one another. Where was this nameless rival? There were but ten of themselves.
“Ho, there!” cried the master, becoming angry. “Can you not find a tongue? Who has wrought this wondrous work?”
Then the child loosened his little hand from his father’s hold and stepped forward, and stood before the master potter.
“I painted it,” he said, with a pleased smile; “I, Raphael.”
Can you not fancy the wonder, the rapture, the questions, the praise, that followed on the discovery of the child artist? The Duke felt his eyes wet, and his heart swell. He took a gold chain from his own neck and threw it over Raphael’s shoulders.
“There is your first reward,” he said. “You shall have many, O wondrous child, and you shall live when we who stand here are dust!”
Raphael, with winning grace, kissed the Duke’s hand, and then turned to his own father.
“Is it true that I have won the prize?”
“Quite true, my child,” said Sanzio, with tremulous voice.
Raphael looked up at Master Benedetto and gently said, “Then I claim the hand of Pacifica.”
“Dear and marvellous child,” murmured Benedetto, “you are only jesting, I know; but tell me in truth what you would have. I can deny you nothing; you are my master.”
“I am your pupil,” said Raphael, with sweet simplicity. “Had you not taught me the secret of your colors, I could have done nothing. Now, dear Master, and you, my lord Duke, I pray you hear me. By the terms of this contest I have won the hand of Pacifica and a partnership with Master Benedetto. I take these rights, and I give them over to my dear friend, Luca, who is the truest man in all the world, and who loves Pacifica as no other can do.”
Signor Benedetto stood mute and agitated. Luca, pale as ashes, had sprung forward and dropped on his knees.
“Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto,” said the Duke.
The master burst into tears. “I can refuse him nothing,” he said, with a sob.
“And call the fair Pacifica,” cried the sovereign, “and I shall give her myself, as a dower, as many gold pieces as we can cram into this famous vase. Young man, rise up, and be happy!”
But Luca heard not; he was still kneeling at the feet of Raphael. – Louise de la Ramée.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB’S ARMY
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail;
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
THE ARROW AND THE SONG
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterwards, in an oak,
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Fear to do base, unworthy things, is valor!
I never thought an angry person valiant;
Virtue is never aided by a vice.
THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS
One day when I went out to my woodpile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants; that it was a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black.
The legions of these warriors covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It
