him that they were certainly windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully possessed that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near them, but went on crying out aloud, "Fly not, ye cowards and vile caitiffs;2 for it is a single knight who assaults you." The wind now rising a little, the great sails began to move; upon which Don Quixote called out, "Although ye should have more arms than the giant Briareus, ye shall pay for it."

Then recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succour him in the present danger, being well covered with his buckler, and setting his lance in the rest, he rushed on as fast as Rozinante could gallop, and attacked the first mill before him; when running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with so much violence that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, tumbling them over and over on the plain, in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as the ass could carry him; and when he came up to his master, he found him unable to stir, so violent was the blow which he and Rozinante had received in their fall. "God save me !" quoth Sancho, "did not I warn you to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills? And nobody could mistake them, but one that had the like in his head." "Peace, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "for matters of war are, of all others, most subject to continual change. Now

I verily believe, and it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me! But his wicked arts will finally avail but little against the goodness of my sword."

"God grant it!" answered Sancho Panza. Then helping him to rise, he mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost disjointed.

Cervantes.

X I.

ROSABELLE.

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat1 of arms I tell:
Soft is the note, and sad the lay

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

-"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,2
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

3

The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water-sprite,

Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh,

"Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch :
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"
"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"Tis not because the ring they ride,5
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."-

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;6 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moon-beam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden."

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,

Each baron for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.8

Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;9
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

Sir W. Scott.

XII.

BIRD NESTING.1

AFTER dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their expedition, fitting new straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large pill-boxes with cotton wool, and sharpening East's small axe. They carry all their munitions into calling-over, and directly afterwards, having dodged such præposters as are on the look-out for fags at cricket, the four set off at a smart trot down the Lawford footpath straight for Caldecott's Spinney and the Hawk's Nest. Martin leads the way, in high feather; it is quite a new sensation to him, getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to show them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. "Brown and East may be better at cricket, and foot

1 From Tom Brown's Schooldays.

ball, and games," thinks he, "but out in the fields. and woods see if I can't teach them something."

He has taken the leadership already, and strides away in front with his climbing-irons strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other, and his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool, and other et ceteras. Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and East his hatchet. When they

had crossed three or four fields without a check Arthur began to lag; and Tom, seeing this, shouted to Martin to pull up a bit: "We ain't out Hareand-Hounds-what's the good of grinding on at this rate?"

"There's the Spinney," said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope at the bottom of which lay Lawford brook, and pointing to the top of the opposite slope; the nest is in one of those high fir trees at this end. And down by the brook there I know of a sedge-bird's nest; we'll go and look at it coming back."

"Oh, come on, don't let us stop," said Arthur, who was getting excited at the sight of the wood; so they broke into a trot again, and were soon across the brook, up the slope, and into the Spinney. Here they advanced as noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin pointed out with pride the kestrel's nest, the object of their quest.

Oh, where! which is it?" asks Arthur, gazing up in the air, and having the most vague idea of what it would be like.