"And add: 'Does it seem fair for me to be wasting my life in longing and to die here far away?

""Am I to be allowed to continue in durance vile, while you are in green nooks among the boughs?

"Is this to be the loyalty of friends-for me to be in a cage, and you out in the gardens?

"Recall to memory that grieving bird, O ye grandees, in the morning draft amid your delightsome nooks.""

[The parrot proceeds then to expatiate upon love, and upon the union existing between souls.]

The merchant received the message, with its salutation, to deliver to the bird's kindred.

And when he came to the far-off land of Hindustan, he saw in the desert parrots, many a one.

Stopping his beast and raising his voice, he delivered his salutation and his message.

Then, wonderful to relate, one of the parrots began a great fluttering, and down it fell, dead, and breathed its last.

The merchant sore repented of telling his message, and said: Tis only for the death of a living creature I am come.

"There was perchance a connection between these parrots, two bodies with but a single soul.

"Ah, why did I do it! Why did I carry out my commission! I am helplessly grieved at telling this."

[The merchant moralizes at some length upon life, and upon the soul and its relation to God.]

When the merchant had finished up his business abroad, he returned to his glad home.

And to every man-servant he presented some gift, and to each maid-servant he handed out a gift.

Then up spake the Polly: "What gift for the prisoner? What did you see and what did you say? Tell me that."

Said the merchant: "Ah me! That whereof I repent me, and for which I could bite my hand and gnaw my fingers.

"Why did I, through ignorance and folly, vainly carry that idle message?"

Said Poll: "Merchant, what's this repentance about? And what has brought about this passion and grief?"

He replied: "I told that plaintive story of yours to a flock of parrots that looked just like you.

"And a certain parrot felt so keenly for your distress that its heart broke in twain, and it fluttered and dropped dead.

"I felt deep regret. What was this I had said? But what does regret help, whatever I said?"

[The merchant moralizes at some length.]

As soon as the parrot heard what that bird had done, he too fluttered and dropped down and grew cold.

When the merchant observed it thus fallen, he started up and flung down his turban upon the ground.

And when he saw the bird in such plight and condition, he started to tear the very clothes at his throat,

Saying: "O Polly, my pretty creature, what is this, alas, that has happened thee? Why art thou thus?

"Ah, alas, my sweet-voiced bird! Ah, alas, my companion and confidant!

"Ah, alas, my sweet-note bird; my spirit of joy and angel of the garden!"

[He continues to lament over the departed bird. But it must have fallen in accordance with the Divine Will. Man's dependence upon God.]

Thereupon the merchant tossed the bird out of the cage; but the paroquet instantly flew up on a high bough. The merchant was dumbfounded at the bird's conduct; amazed and at a loss, he marveled at the mystery of the bird.

And looking upward he said: "My nightingale, give some explanation of what you have done!

Said the parrot: "That bird it was gave me counsel how I should act; in effect, this: 'Rid yourself of your speech, voice, and talking;

«For it is your voice that has brought you into captivity.' And then to prove its counsel it died itself."

[The parrot dilates further in religious manner upon the changes and chances of mortal life.]

Then Polly gave one or two bits more of guileless advice, and now said:

"Adieu, good-by! Farewell, my merchant; you have done a mercy to me: you have set me free from bonds and oppression.

"Farewell, O merchant: I am now going home; and one day. mayest thou become free just like me."

The merchant responded: "To God's keeping go thou; thou hast taught me from this instant a new path of life."

Version by A. V. W. Jackson.

THE CHINESE AND ROMAN ARTISTS; OR, THE MIRROR OF THE HEART

HIS contest heed, of Chinaman's and Roman's art.

THIS

The Chinese urged they had the greater painters'

skill;

The Romans pleaded they of art the throne did fill.
The sovereign heard them both: decreed a contest fair;
Results the palm should give the worthiest of the pair.

The parties twain a wordy war waged in debate;
The Romans' show of science did predominate.
The Chinamen then asked to have a house assigned
For their especial use; and one for Rome designed.
Th' allotted houses stood on either side one street;
In one the Chinese, one the Roman artists meet.

The Chinese asked a hundred paints for their art's use:
The sovereign his resources would not them refuse.
Each morning from the treasury, rich colors' store
Was served out to the Chinese till they asked no more.
The Romans argued, "Color or design is vain:

We simply have to banish soil and filth amain.”

They closed their gate. To burnish then they set them

selves;

As heaven's vault, simplicity filled all their shelves:
Vast difference there is 'twixt colors and not one.

The colors are as clouds; simplicity's the moon.

Whatever tinge you see embellishing the clouds,

You know comes from the sun, the moon, or stars in crowds.

At length the Chinamen their task had quite fulfilled;
With joy intense their hearts did beat, their bosoms

thrilled.

The sovereign came, inspected all their rich designs,
And lost his heart with wonder at their talents' signs.

He then passed to the Romans, that his eyes might see; The curtains were withdrawn to show whate'er might be. The Chinese paintings all, their whole designs in full, Reflected truly were on that high-burnished wall. Whatever was depicted by the Chinese art

Was reproduced by mirrors, perfect every part.

Those Romans are our mystics, know, my worthy friend:
No art, no learning; study, none: but gain their end.
They polish well their bosoms, burnish bright their hearts,
Remove all stain of lust, of self, pride, hate's deep smarts.
That mirror's purity prefigures their hearts' trust;
With endless images reflections it incrust.

Translation of J. W. Redhouse.

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG

(1804-1877)

BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE

HE Grand Duchy of Finland, "torn like a bloody shield from the heart of Sweden" in 1809, by the ruthless despot who Cre was then all-powerful in Europe, and who now, by the irony of fate, lies buried in Paris beneath a sarcophagus of Finnish porphyry, has not become Russianized to any considerable extent, and still looks to the old mother-country for its social and intellectual ideals. This fact is due in part to the force of historical association upon the mind of a simple and conservative race, and in part to the fact that the Russian treatment of the conquered province has been fairly lenient, and most strikingly contrasted with the repressive policy pursued toward Russian Poland. It is not, then, as surprising as might at first sight appear, that the greatest name in Swedish literature should belong to a native of Finland, who was but five years of age at the time of the Russian annexation.

JOHAN RUNEBERG

Johan Ludvig Runeberg was born February 5th, 1804, at Jakobsstad, a small seaport town on the Gulf of Bothnia. He was the oldest of the six children of a merchant captain in reduced circumstances. He went to school at Vasa, and in 1822 to the university at Åbo, supporting himself in part by tutoring. He was so poor that he literally lived on potatoes for months at a time. He took his doctor's degree in 1827, and soon thereafter was betrothed to Fredrika Tengström, a woman who afterwards attained some celebrity as a writer on her own account. The year that Runeberg left the university was also the year of the great fire that destroyed the greater part of the capital, and led to the transfer of both university and seat of government to Helsingfors. The years immediately following were decisive for the poet's development, since they took him to Sarkijarvi, a town far to the north in the heart of Finland, where he came into close contact