complete without a Lover. For truly, using the author's own quotation from Shakespeare, "Lovers are given to poetry." A beautiful idea prevails in Ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with the angels." "The Angel's Whisper," a popular Irish song, is full of affectionate tenderness and simplicity of faith.

A baby was sleeping,

It mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me !"

Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,

And smiled on her face as she bended her knee;

66

Oh, blessed be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,
And say thou would'st rather

They'd watch o'er thy father;

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”

The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,
And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

Col. McAlpine (Miles O'Reilly) is the author of the last selection we present to the reader. If the name of Theodore O'Hara will live forever in connection with that unique poem, "The Bivouac of the Dead," the fame of Col. McAlpine is surely embalmed in immortality through that sweetest and most finished of lyrics, "Jeanette." This beautiful gem has been going the rounds of the press during the past few years, and, like true coinage, it has become brighter under the fingers of time.

Oh! loosen the snood that you wear, Jeanette,

Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet,

For the world to me had no daintier sight

Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Jeanette,

It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet,

'Twas a beautiful mesh falling down to your wrist,

'Twas a thing to be braided and jeweled and kissed – 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Jeanette,

It was sinewy, bristled and brown, my pet;

But warmly and softly it loved to caress,

Your round, white neck, and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Jeanette,
Revealing the old, dear story, my pet;

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky,
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly,
And they matched with your golden hair, my pet.

Oh! you tangled my life in your hair, Jeanette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet;

But so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue your slave evermore,
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my pet.

Thus so'er I dream what you were, Jeanette,
With your lips and your eyes and your hair, my pet;
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone,
That covers your golden hair, my pet.

Life is a reality-a pocketbook of hard facts, the most valuable of which to many is the almighty dollar-so they travel the via dollarosa never lifting their eyes to the beautiful rainbow of ideality that spans their life beyond. Poetry is the supernatural vision of the soul out of harmony with hard cash and the creeping horizon of prose.

THOMAS O'HAGAN.

YOUTHFUL LABOR. - Let any one remember the labors of his youth in the study of Euclid and of the Greek grammar. Were these facile of acquirement; did they come easily? Certainly not; the crown of being able to use the irregular verb was won "not without dust and heat," and even stripes. Well, the mere power of drawing with commonplace correctness demands infinitely closer and more laborious labor, more protracted, more assiduous, than men usually give to the toughest studies of boyhood or youth. And when that power of correct design is acquired it must be kept up by constant exercise. Painting and sculpturing are neither the gift of fortune, nor do they come by nature, though nature in a few cases gives rare faculty or art.

COOKERY. The simplest meals are always the most wholesome, and simplicity in food is one of the secrets of longevity. Plain cookery, however, requires an intelligent cook. Nothing is more difficult than to roast a leg of mutton, to fry a sole, to boil a potato, and to turn out a creditable omelette. In a small household, which cannot afford a chef, the lady of the house must, of necessity, control the kitchen. But, fortunately for the cooking of plain dinners, all that is needed is intelligence and a certain amount of sympathy with the pursuit. Cookery is now a recognised art, and no lady need be ashamed to own that she keeps an eye on her own cook during the preparation of the chief meal of the day.

Irish Christian Brothers.

WE briefly noticed in our October issue that Rev. Fr. Griffin, of Worcester, Mass., on a recent visit to Ireland had secured a colony of the Christian Brothers for his parish. The Michigan Catholic gives us a history of the order.

The Irish Christian Brothers, it may be necessary to inform some of our readers, are not the Christian Brothers that are now, and for many years have been, in this country, principally in the Eastern states. The Christian Brothers in this country, and in Canada, are called the French Christian Brothers (though many, and some of the best of them, are Irish by birth or blood) because they belong to the order whose head house is in France, and which was founded by the Venerable de la Salle in the seventeenth century. The Irish Christian Brothers are distinct from the French organization. The Irish order was founded in 1802 by a merchant of the city of Waterford, named Rice, who, having observed the terrible success of the laws which England had devised for making the Catholic people of Ireland ignorant, resolved to devote his wealth and his services to the education of the victims of England's penal laws in Ireland. He founded a society of men for the teaching of the Catholic youth of Ireland, modelling it, as nearly as the circumstances he had to deal with would permit, on the order founded by the Venerable de la Salle; but he never sought affiliation with the French order, and we believe his sons have refused requests to allow themselves to become a branch of the French order.

The work undertaken by the Irish Christian Brothers at the beginning has been consistently continued to the present day. That work is the teaching of the children of the poor. They never establish, or take charge of colleges, so-called. They do not refuse to teach the children of the well-to-do, or even of the rich, who come to their schools and many thousands of such children attend their schools; but they always decline to be honored with the title of "professor," and they never term the rostrum from which they teach a chair." They wish to be known as school-teachers, simply, though they do not grumble when the boys (in Ireland, we mean) call them "school-masters," and those we have known were school-masters, truly. We remember some of them. Gerald Griffin's grave had not yet grown green when we entered the room in which he had taught; "John " Leonard, and "Mr." Duggan-they were not called "Brother" by the boys of those days — and "Mr." Ryan, and "Mr." O'Connor, and "Mr." Dwyer, and a score besides. Poor boys - yes, barefooted boys-sat side by side with the well-dressed ones; the mechanic or the poor laboring man's son with the son of the merchant or the lawyer, and received like attention. And, very often, the poor boy became the "monitor" of the rich boy's class. The schools of the Irish Christian Brothers are the most democratic schools in the wide world, and the Irish Christian Brothers are the most democratic teachers on earth.

Perhaps, in the opinion of some people, the nouveau riche, the vulgar possessors of a few thousands more than their neighbors, this

will be a bad certificate of character of the Irish Christian Brothers on their coming to the United States. They are set down as only schoolteachers, not "professors," and they never call their rostrum a "chair!" But they take boys at the age when school time begins, and, before they get through with them if the parents will let them stay at school fit them for entry in the professions and in the civil service, and the banks in Ireland are filled with their graduates.

American tourists in Ireland seldom visit the schools of the Christian Brothers; but the few who do visit them see what they never see in the best elementary or intermediate schools in this country. The text-books are written by the Brothers themselves; science and art are taught by illustration and practical example; every school has its museum, art gallery, and library; and the Brothers, though they do not "lecture," teach the pupils to understand, to know.

Now, the trouble in this country, in the matter of the education of Catholic boys, is, that the boys over twelve or fourteen years of age must either quit school, go to a "college," or go to the public high school. Is it not possible to find some means of keeping our boys at our parochial schools until they finish? Must all those Catholic boys whose parents cannot afford to send them to a college at, or near, home, and who are, for many reasons, reluctant to send them to a college distant from home, must such boys either go to the public high school, or remain for the rest of their lives without any school education except that which they received at the Sisters' school before their Confirmation ? The answer must be in the negative, unless male teachers are to be had for our parochial schools. Lay male teachers (that are good for anything) cannot be had; this is admitted after sad experience. And the Christian Brothers of the French affiliation in this country have so far departed from the object of their foundation that they teach parochial schools no longer. They have too much to do with the care of "institutes " and "colleges," to which only the children of those who can pay are admitted. What, then, are we to do with our boys, the sons of the Catholic masses? Our answer is: do what the Bishop of Springfield has done get the Irish Christian Brothers. They are able to train our Catholic youth at home, and to make of them the very best kind of Catholic Americans.

But

MARY STUART Queen of Scots, was beheaded in 1587. She was born in 1542, and at sixteen married the son of Henry the Second of France. The latter dying, Mary became Queen of France, a position she held till the death of her husband, seventeen months after. Returning to Scotland, she found herself the Catholic sovereign of a Protestant people; yet her reign was for a while prosperous. treachery and misfortune soon darkened her life. She married. Darnley and afterwards Bothwell, and after her marriage with the latter she was imprisoned. Escaping from confinement, she went to England, and there was seized and imprisoned by her cousin Elizabeth, whose jealous hatred of Mary was great. After eighteen years' imprisonment she was beheaded.

A Visit to Knock.

ALL the English-speaking Catholic world has heard of Knock and Our Lady's apparition there on Aug. 21, 1879. Some believe, some doubt, some hesitate. We were among the latter class. One day, however, when the subject had been discussed more vehemently than usual, a friend in whose piety and wisdom we placed great confidence, said earnestly, "Go there and see!" Every one protested. "We were not strong enough for the journey." "Ireland was in such an unsettled state.' "We should find no suitable accommodation," etc. But our minds were made up. We would go and see, and even if we had to bear some little inconveniences, we would do so gladly for our dear Lady's sake. So, one fine morning, in September last, saw us seated in the train en route for Knock. At the Dublin station we met some people we knew, who were bound on the same errand, so we made a pleasant party, and the five hours' journey passed very quickly. Before reaching Ballyhannis the weather changed. The rain came down in torrents, and the fierce blast of wind rattled the windows of the carriage, and almost drowned the shriek of the engine as the train rushed into the little station. The only vehicle that awaited us was an outside car. We looked at one another in despair. After some delay we succeeded in getting a brougham, with a cheery driver, and two strong horses. Along the road not a house was to be seen, nothing but flat fields, divided by low stone walls, blurred and indistinct in the drizzling rain. We arrived at Knock in due time, very tired and hungry. To our pleasant surprise we found there a most comfortable hotel, and a kind hostess, and were soon doing justice to a nice, substantial dinner. It was a fine evening; the storm had ceased, and the air felt fresh and. sweet, with that peculiar fragrance, in which the thirsty earth expresses her gratitude for rain. We sauntered out to pay our respects to the pastor, Archdeacon Cavanagh. His cottage is close to the church. It is thatched like the others, and contains only three rooms and a kitchen; but the little garden in front was gay with flowers, and the long branches of Virginian creeper made the whitewashed walls look. picturesque. The archdeacon greeted us kindly. Simple as a child, ́ and devoted to his parish and people, he cares nothing for the world or the worldling, and his calm, penetrating gaze seems to read one's inmost thoughts. He is adored by his flock. Early in the morning, late at night, he is at his post, relieving some weary soul in its hour of trial, or at the bedside of some poor sufferer, he

"Lays the rough path of peevish nature even,

And opens in each heart a little heaven."

On leaving him we went into the church, which is plain and unpre tending, and built in the shape of the letter T. There is a pretty statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, and on the walls are hung a few ex votos grateful remembrances from loving hearts—a crutch here — a stick there, left by those who toiled along many miles in search of health, and who did not search in vain. Mass is said every morning, at half