the king of stars, and the pictures made by the dancing sunlight in the liquid mirror are representations, more or less clear, of the individual destiny. The sparkling dew of the early morning has a mission as singular as it is interesting. It preserves beauty, and even plain women lave their faces in it, sure of being more attractive before the year is out. The white of an egg poured in a glass of water the night before assumes the strangest forms a hieroglyph whose emblematic figures announce the contingencies of life. If the capricious albumen forms a coffin, death is near.

The saint has spent much time the night before in creeping softly from house to house to leave toys in the children's shoes; then he has placed garlands of flowers in the windows of the maidens, and as there are many of these, and it would not do to slight one, San Juan is a little late in his arrival at church.

It is true that we have high mass, which does not call for extraordinarily early rising.

What solemnity! What joy! What exalted enthusiasm fills the church! The sermon is upon the infancy of Jesus; a more appropriate subject could not have been chosen. While listening to the words of the priest, it seems as if it is the saint who is speaking, for his finger is raised, and the words seem to come from his half-opened

mouth.

As the year has been fruitful, the festival leaves nothing to be desired in the way of fireworks, huzzas, songs, music by stringed instruments, wreaths, garlands of flowers, tortillas and bell ringing. By afternoon, many heads are lying low and others are propped up in corners. Alas! King Alcohol has his sway.

At night, most beautiful, radiant flowers flash across the black sky. Columns of fire are shot into the air,

and suddenly change into a multitude of flowers and brilliant lights that last a moment and then fall in glowing sparks. Gigantic flowers whirl before us like images of a feverish dream. There are towers, formed of countless stars, which fall apart as if a breath had blown them down, and all is darker than before. A luminous cloud floats in the black space, the last spark of the dying powder, which smiles as it expires. It is a floating ribbon, the pendant of the saint's cross-San Juan is going.

The days pass joyfully, and on the twenty-ninth two great keys appear; behind the keys a hand that grasps them, behind the hand an arm, then a beautiful bald head, a robust body, a man with a humble habit and bare feet. It is the prince of all the apostles, the fisherman Peter, the corner-stone, the head of the Church. Much may be said of him, but the saint himself prevents us. He frowns, steps forward, grasps his key, gives a turn, and closes this chapter for us.

V. IN THE SCHOOL.

Vacation! Vacation! Vacation! The fields are filled with poppies, the air with butterflies, the gardens with flowers and the universities with callow-headed youths. Many of the youngsters, nevertheless, are puffed up with pride to hear the words cum laude pronounced over them-a sign that they have come out of the classroom veritable wells of science-and their papas think so, too. This season brings forth bachelors of arts more abundantly than wheat, and it is a pleasure to see how much knowledge will be scattered about all over the earth. Every one sees mathematicians spinning tops, chemists jumping the rope, and philosophers riding a hobby-horse. Little lawyers, still in the bud, fill the towns, and the writs joyfully wave

their withered leaves at seeing them. Young doctors of twenty-one go out to feel the pulse of life, with great rejoicing in death.

Oh, month prolific above all months! Month of fruits, of flowers, of provisions, of mosquitoes, of examinations, chief delegate of the Creator, who has made even the licentiates an infinite phalanx from which comes forth the bustling swarm of politicians and office-seekers.

VI. IN HISTORY.

But thou also bringest us a harvest of great names. The third gave us the Marquis de la Concordia (1743); the fifth, the Economist, Adam Smith (1723); the sixth, thou createst the grand Corneille, prince of French tragedians (1606), and baptizedst Velasquez, king of our painters (1599).

On the eighth, it did not seem good to give one, and thou gavest two: the English engineer, Stephenson (1781), and the Spanish orator, Olózaga (1805). On the tenth came a French admiral, Duguay-Trouin (1643), and the preacher, Flechier (1632). The eleventh, in the opulence of an Andalusian spring, full of light, flowers, soft, warm air and murmuring brooks, Cordova smiled and thou gavest us Gongora (1561). On the twelfth, by the birth of Arjona (1771) thou increasedst the number of lesser poets. The thirteenth was the birthday of Young, the melancholy singer of the "Night Thoughts" (1742). But these gifts seemed ordinary, and on the fifteenth, thou saidst with pride: "Here is one worth having," and Rembrandt was born in Holland (1606).

In order that we Spaniards should not feel piqued, thou gavest us, on the seventeenth, Espoz y Mina (1781). The English, not to be left out, received on the sixteenth, Castelreagh (1769). But thou wast eager to flatter France that

week, and in one day thou gavest the great prose writer, Pascal (1623), and Lamennais (1782), and on the twentieth, Leconte (1812). On the twentyfirst came Royer Collard (1763), and Delille on the twenty-second (1738). Ah! thy conscience pricked thee, thou hadst given nothing to Germany, so on the same day, the twenty-second, Humboldt was sent (1767; Mehul (1763), Marlborough (1650) were gifts of the twenty-fourth; Charles XII (1682) of the twenty-seventh.

Thou reservedst thy best gifts, nevertheless, for the last days, and on the twenty-eighth thou saidst: "Here is Rousseau" (1712). In one day,

the

twenty-ninth-marvellous fecundity-thou gavest three masterpieces: Rubens (1577), Leopardi (1798) and Bastiat (1801). The insatiable world asked for more, and on the thirtieth thou madest the emperor, Peter the Great (1672), and an artist, Horace Vernet (1789).

Problem: given thy marvellous creative energy, O, June, if thou hadst had thirty-one days, who would have been the last gift?

The man who was not born, who was he, rather, who would he have been?

But thou hast also killed people. On the first, Berthier was carried away; on the second, Don Alvero de Luna; the fourth, Laura, the beloved of Petrarch. On the fifth died Egmont and Horn; George Sand on the eighth, and Camöens on the tenth; Bacon on the eleventh, and Xavier de Maistré on the twelfth. The fourteenth took away Kleber, the seventeenth Fermin Caballero; Moratin died on the twentyfirst, and Zumalacarregui on twenty-fourth; D'Affre on the twentyfifth, and Pizarro on the twenty-sixth; the Marquis del Duero left this world on the twenty-seventh, and on the twenty-eighth Guillen de Castro died.

the

Thou hast mowed, little brother,

II.

"I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I can see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you-smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering-come and find out. This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea, whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there grayish, whitish specks showed up, clustering inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them, perhaps. Settlements, some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers, went on, landed custom house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness with a tin shed and a flagpole lost in it, landed more soldiers to take care of the custom house clerkspresumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf, but whether they did or not nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved, but we passed various * Copyright by S. S. McClure & Co.

places, trading places, with names like Gran' Bassam, Little Popo, names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister backcloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact; the oily and languid sea; the uniform sombreness of the coast seemed to keep me away from the truth of things within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reasoning, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the whites of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks-these chaps, but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts, but the feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped like a rag. The muzzles of the long, eight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull, the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily, and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty im