the American ambulance
and meself buy our own clothes and pay for them, ride our own horses
and fade them; and when we want or have time to parade aither the one
or the other, we will ask permission from the general himself."

Releasing his hold of the Frenchman's button, the major saluted
and rode gracefully away upon his errand of mercy. 'And after this
specimen of his politeness none of us was ever interfered with.

I have heard from others that the major and the Begum are still alive
and thriving. One day in the times of the Commune I had crept up
behind the Arc de Triomphe, during a lull in the fire, to take a look
at the Communist batteries at Porte Maillot. Now, the major
lived halfway between the Arc and the batteries. Suddenly from my
concealment I saw the gateway of his house open, and the major sally
forth on Garryowen. He gave merely a glance at the batteries, and
slowly rode up toward the Arc. There was not a soul else visible on
the highway, and it must have been he who drew the attention of
the Versaillais, for their guns opened at once and the shells came
spinning around in the neighborhood. Garryowen, the grand, the
beautiful, was as accustomed to fire as his rider was: neither was
shaken from his equilibrium. With the same easy pace they gradually
wound their way up to and around the Arc de Triomphe, and thus calmly
down the Champs Elysees. The droll, gallant fellow waved me a graceful
good-day as he passed me peeping from behind my hiding-place; and that
was my last sight, and a characteristic one, of Major Thomas Vincent
O'Flynn, of Her Majesty's Indian army.

RALPH KEELER.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Poised in a sheeny mist
Of the dust of bloom,
Clasped to the poppy's breast and kissed,
Baptized in pools of violet perfume
From foot to plume!

Zephyr loves thy wings
Above all lovable things,
And brings them gifts with rapturous murmurings:
Thine is the golden reach of blooming hours,
Spirit of flowers!

Music follows thee,
And, continually,
Thy life is changed and sweetened happily,
Having no more than rose-leaf shade of gloom,
O bird of Bloom!

Thou art a winged thought
Of tropical hours,
With all the tropic's rare bloom-splendor fraught,
Surcharged with Beauty's indefinable powers,
Angel of flowers!

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.

A PRINC