he company of such an experienced
trailer, and asked him many questions about his art. Near the bank of
a small river in Dakota we crossed the track of a pony. The guide
followed the track for some distance and then said: "It is a stray
black horse, with a long bushy tail, nearly starved to death; it has a
broken hoof on the left fore foot and goes very lame; he has passed
here early this morning."

I could scarcely believe what was said, and asked for an explanation.
The trailer replied: "It is a stray horse, because he did not go in a
straight line; his tail is long, for he dragged it over the ground; in
brushing against a bush he left some of his black hair; he is very
hungry, because he nipped at the dry weeds which horses seldom eat; the
break of his left fore foot can be seen in its track, and the slight
impression of the one foot shows that he is lame. The tracks are as
yet fresh, and that shows that he passed only this morning, when the
earth was soft."

In this manner the whole story was accounted for, and late in the
afternoon we really did come across a riderless horse of that
description wandering aimlessly in the prairies.

SELECTION IX

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL

He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When, with a feeble voice, he called
His weeping son to him:
"Weep not, my boy," the veteran said,
"I bow to Heaven's high will;
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill."

The sword was brought; the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said: "My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you,--mark me, mark me, now,--
The sword of Bunker Hill.

"'Twas on that dread immortal day,
I dared the Britons' band;
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened Freedom's will;
For, boy, the God of Freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.

"Oh, keep this sword,"--his accents broke,--
A smile--and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon the dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And eighty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.

_William R. Wallace_.

The battle of Bunker Hill was fought on the 17th of June, 1775, in
Charlestown, Massachuset