rear a memorial of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit which has been conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences which have been produced, by the same events, on the general interests of mankind.

We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undistinguished, where the first great battle of the Revolution was fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and importance of that event to every class and every age. We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection, from maternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests.

We wish that labor may look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come on all nations, must be expected to come on us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured that the foundations of our national power still stand strong. We wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude.

We wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of

him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise! let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming; let the carliest light of the morning gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit.

THE MEMORY OF THE HEART

DANIEL WEBSTER

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain,
We keep them in the memory of the brain;
Names, things, and facts-whate'er we knowledge call,
There is the common ledger for them all;
And images on this cold surface traced
Make slight impressions, and are soon effaced.

But we've a page more glowing and more bright,
On which our friendship and our love to write;
That these may never from the soul depart,
We trust them to the memory of the heart.
There is no dimming-no effacement here;
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear;
Warm, golden letters, all the tablet fill,

Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still.

WHAT MAKES A NATION?

W. D. NESBIT

What makes a nation? Bounding lines that lead from shore to shore,

That trace its girth on silent hills or on the prairie

floor,

That hold the rivers and the lakes and all the fields

between

The lines that stand about the land a barrier unseen?

Or is it guns that hold the coast, or ships that sweep

the seas,

The flag that flaunts its glory in the racing of the

breeze;

The chants of peace, or battle hymn, or dirge, or

victor's song,

Or parchment screed, or storied deed, that makes a nation strong?

What makes a nation? Is it ships or states or flags or guns?

Or is it that great common heart which beats in all

her sons

That deeper faith, that truer faith, the trust in one for all

Which sets the goal for every soul that hears his country's call?

This makes a nation great and strong and certain to

endure,

This subtle inner voice that thrills a man and makes

him sure;

Which makes him know there is no north or south or

east or west,

But that his land must ever stand the bravest and the best.

THE MORNING DRUM-CALL

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The morning drum-call on my eager ear
Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew
Lies yet undried along my field of noon.

But now I pause at whiles in what I do,
And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear
(My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon.

THE CAPTURE OF A TROUT

RICHARD D. BLACKMORE

The trout knew nothing of all this. They had not tasted a worm for a month, except when a sod of the bank fell in, through cracks of the sun, and the way cold water has of licking upward. And even the flies had no favor at all; when they fell on the water, they fell flat, and on the palate they tasted hot, even under the bushes.

Hilary followed a path through the meadows, with the calm bright sunset casting his shadow over the shorn grass, or up in the hedge-road, or on the brown banks where the drought had struck. On his back he carried a fishing-basket, containing his bits of refreshment; and in his right hand a short springy rod, the absent sailor's favorite. After long council with Mabel, he had made up his mind to walk up stream, as far as the spot where two brooks met, and formed body enough for a fly flipped in very carefully to sail downward. Here he began, and the creak of his reel and the swish of his rod were music to him, after the whirl of London life.

The brook was as bright as the best cut-glass, and the twinkles of its shifting facets only made it seem more