d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn.
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

{478}

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

--_Oliver Wendell Holmes_.

Used by the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

{479}{480}

[Illustration]
THE CHILDREN OF THE SHELL
By Murillo (1618-1682)

This is one of the famous pictures of the great artist Murillo. The
little child John is giving the little Jesus a drink from a shell.
"The child nature is charmingly portrayed, so innocent and
gentle--seeming to suggest a lovable nature in the artist himself.
His pictures always arouse the reverential feeling--which puts the
stamp of artistic greatness upon them."
[End illustration]

{481}

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start; {482}

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wond