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An outstretched hand I often raise to grasp
Some precious fruit just hanging overhead;
When Light is given, I gaze into the palm:
It's filled with leaves, and all of them are dead.

ELMA KENDALL CONKLING.

Legend of the Scarlet Larkspur

By Emelyn Ticknor Lull

L

ONG before the days of the grey-frocked padres or their red-skinned neophytes, California was inhabited by merry bands of elves who roamed the great State from ocean to desert and transformed themselves into various forms of nature; the needles of the silver firs or redwoods; gorgeous dragons and butterflies swarming the rainbow-hued blossoming lands, or quiescent pink-lined shells on the sands of the Pacific.

One of these elfin bands, numbering two-score relatives, boasted twenty god-like sons but only one daughter. She was a frail maiden of unsurpassed beauty. From the glorious Copa de Oro, California's emblem, had been borrowed the tint for her abundant hair; in the sapphire depths of her eyes glowed the lupine, and from her smile and joyous nature emanated the sunshine of the Golden State. She was the idol of her folk and coveted prize of the eligibles from other bands. But among her suitors not one had met the approval of her father. Indeed the dearest wish of her band was to keep her ever a maiden amongst them.

But one day as the elf, in the guise of a dainty gold-back fern, was sunning herself between some rocks at the creek's edge, a scintillating band of dragonflies whirred past. One, noticing the fern, flew apart from his fellows, hovering over her before rejoining them. It was the crown-prince of the elfin kingdom on a hunt to the redwood forest.

The following day his aide appeared before her father asking for her hand in marriage. But the father,

loathe to part with his daughter at so tender an age, refused. Now the little fern at the water's edge had bent her fronds in ecstacy before the glittering magnetic wings of the dragonfly and secretly solicited by the prince's envoys, consented to an elopement. This was overheard by a passing zephyr attached to her father's retinue who promptly reported. In vengeance the father immediately arranged a marriage between his daughter and an elf of the frozen Alaskan zone who had sued vainly for her hand. The band was summoned and the father made known his intention, bidding them transform themselves into blue birds for the flight.

They were a beautiful sight as they rose for the departure, conspicuous among them the maiden, a red-beaked, white-feathered love-bird. They hovered a moment above the spot where they had summered, then led by the irate father soared north. Hardly had they cut the air fifty wing's breadth than a humming-bird, iridescent in emerald and ruby, darted into the band and with a thrust of his needle-like bill pierced the heart of the love-bird. Down hurtled the white body, crimson-stained between the rocks at the creek's edge where a few days before had nodded the goldback fern before the whirring wings of the dragonfly, and when the bluefeathered band with piercing notes swooped to earth they found only a frail, scarlet flower swaying sadly in the breeze between the rocks, while above it hovered a humming-bird, iridescent in emerald and ruby; her devoted lover who took her life rather

JUNE.

than relinquish her to the elf of the ice-fields.

In the spring, when the sapphire larkspurs nestle like flocks of bluebirds on the grassy California slopes,

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may be found their frail scarlet sister in isolation among the rocks, and as she sways on her leafless stem, occasionally hovers over her a humming bird, iridescent in emerald and ruby.

JUNE

What a liquid treble floated
From a song bird, tiny throated,

Breast of blue, or breast of amber, russet wings are flashing by,
Humming bird is jewel crested,

Piping robin tawny breasted,

Madrigal and matins rising to the arching azure sky.

Tender breezes brushing over

Red and white and tinted clover,

Buttercups among the grasses, shining cups of sunny sheen,
Fields of golden clusters, parted

By white daisies, yellow hearted,

In the waving meadow grasses, flower scattered, gold and green.

By the locust branches tented,

Hanging blossoms, honey scented,

Roses lift their starry faces in the shadow of the trees,
O'er the snowy petaled brambles,

Where the bright-eyed squirrel scrambles,

Butterflies are idly flitting, and the big, brown-coated bees,

When a pallid moon is breaking
Ashy clouds, and you, half-waking,

Lie and watch the stars a-glitter on the wide, white winter plain.
June, with all her myriad flowers,

June, with all her joyous hours,

As a miracle, a mirage, will be with you once again.

In a maddening dream of June-time,

In the flowered fields at noon-time,

As we sleep our spirits wander-oh, the starlight on the snows.
Under dream-skies blue above you,

I shall find you, I shall love you,

In the kiss devoutly given with the spray of wild white rose.

LUCY BETTY MCRAYE.

A Nook of the German Empire

B

By Walter W. Walton

OUND from Hanover to Cologne, in a ramble through Germany, my attention was attracted by the comely costumes of the peasantry in the principality of Schaumburg-Lippe. It being a holiday, whole families attired in their Sunday best were boarding my train.

The men wore red-lined white coats, with long skirts extending far below the knees, and waistcoats of red. The polished brass buttons shone brightly upon the white and scarlet. Some had on low-crowned black hats, some fur caps, though it was summer.

The dress of the women, young and old, even of school children, consisted of a red woolen frock trimmed at the bottom with a broad band of darkgreen satin, further a long apron, and a bodice of the same color and material, the short sleeves trimmed with white lace. A small bright-colored shawl, fringed and figured, was pinned over the shoulders, and a large flowered bow of a light shade worn at the throat. The whole head, except the face, was buried under a heap of gracefully arranged wide black silk ribbon fixed to a cap completely covered with little shells and gold and silver beads. These, as well as the silver clasps, the buckles of the low shoes and the entire jewelry, are of sterling material with the wealthy. The heavy eardrops are sewed to the ribbon of the headdress instead of being hooked into the lobes of the ears. Some wore necklaces made of amber beads of the size of a walnut. They are heirlooms handed down for centuries from generation to generation.

As our train sped on, the sight from the window revealed, under the vast roofing of a cloudless sky, the curving lines of high hills defining the horizon in a blue outline. Sweeping down from the hills into the valley were to be seen woods of deepest and lightest green, and at their feet fields of grain, intersected by orchards, with sheets of snowy and rosy blossoms, waved to and fro in the gentle wind. My neighbor in the next seat, of whom I inquired about the hills in the background, turned out to be an American university professor. He pronounced them one of the loveliest ranges he had ever beheld. At his instance, I changed cars at a near point of the main line, and after an hour's ride landed at Detmold, the pretty little capital of the principality of Lippe, situated in the lap of the picturesque hills of the Teutoburg Forest, whose ridge averages 1,000 feet in height.

Though but a short distance from the regular tourist's route, that region is rarely visited by my American fellow-travelers, which is to be pitied, for there, with its charming and varied scenery, is to be seen one of the cosiest nooks of the German Empire.

Detmold has a population of about 15,000, including a garrison of infantry, with a fine military band of forty-five pieces. In the Middle Ages the city was fortified. The ramparts have been leveled down and made into a promenade. Of the old city wall only a few remnants have remained. For Americans, the ancient part of the town is the most interesting on account of its quaintness. We pass through curving streets, with dwellings cen

A NOOK OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE.

turies old. Most of the houses have overhanging stories, and the gables of the opposite houses lean over towards each other as if engaged in a neighborly chat. The windows are supplied with small panes and adorned with figured white muslin curtains.

Pots with flowering plants fill the windowsills. Some of the houses have inscriptions above the doors, consisting of sententious phrases expressive of peace, contentment and hospitality. The names of the first proprietor and his wife, also the year the house was built, are added. Many of the old buildings are half-timbered, and the beams are richly carved. Being well kept in paint, these reminders of bygone days make a pretty effect, with their red, tiled roofs. The patricians among them are built of stone. Their fronts are flanked by two bay windows extending to the second story, and their huge gables have gracefully curved and arabesqued slopes, and terminate in ornamental crests.

In a short, narrow street we see the house where the German poet, Freiligrath, a friend of Longfellow's, was born. They met in Switzerland, and corresponded with each other for years after being parted. In the adjacent In the adjacent building the poet Grabbe died, as the inscription on a mural plate reveals.

The modern portion of the city, with its fine business blocks and flats, pretty villas and cottages, resembles a flourishing American town, save for the total absence of frame houses. Brick and stone, in most instances stuccoed and painted, is the chief material used. Except in public buildings, the ornaments are made of cement.

The most attractive edifice is the castle, built four hundred years ago; a magnificent specimen of Middle Age architecture. It is large and has a massive, ivy-mailed tower. All but the main front is enclosed by a moat, whose water prettily reflects the vineclad walls and bosky terraces of the noble mansion. In front a fountain ejects diverging jets of water, and a tastefully designed park displays

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monuments, vivid green lawns and brilliant flower-beds, also clusters of indigenous and foreign trees, and thick draperies of shrubs.

The spacious, porticoed building abutting on the grounds is the theatre. Operas and dramas are acted there by a stationary company of able artists. The admission is remarkably cheap. A seat in the dress circle costs sixty-five cents; in the parquet, forty cents; and up in the "Olympian” heights, ten cents.

As to high-grade entertainments and instructive lectures, Detmold, small as it is, enjoys advantages that but few large cities afford. large cities afford. It has a library containing eighty thousand volumes, among them a number of rare books of an early epoch. Housed in the same roomy building is a museum, with a copious, diversified collection, including four hundred stuffed mammals and two thousand birds.

In addition to the modern institutions common to a live American town, Detmold has a public slaughter house. Only meat killed there is permitted to be offered for sale. The animal, alive and dead, is carefully examined by a competent veterinary surgeon. Diseased meat is destroyed right away, and only the sound turned over to the butcher.

But a few minutes' walk from the center of the city takes us to the promenade, skirted by the shining band of a rivulet and shaded by noble trees-lindens and horse-chestnuts. Finer specimens of the latter cannot be seen anywhere.

The promenade leads past the threestoried mansion of the late princessdowager. It is built in the style of the Italian Renaissance, and harmoniously combines the three chief styles of capitals in its pilasters. The ample park adjoining contains hot-houses filled with various plants and flowers. Here we meet pleached alleys and bowers, there leafy arcades and groves. Fountains are playing. Sparkling in the sunshine, the water of a grotto is purling over fantastic rockwork.

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