read the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon Him (Christ).' That is from St. Thomas Aquinas."

"I don't in the least know what you mean; though I think it is that, if one seeks silence occasionally and learns to meditate-"

The Student broke off doubtfully.

"Oh, she means," exclaimed the Young Lady from Virginia, "that we ought to choose a suitable saint, and live with this saint the interior life. Isn't that it?"

"Something like it," said the Lady of the House.

"Goodness knows I'd like it well enough, but I don't have time. I'm in a rush!"

"Priests find time to read their breviary," said the Lady of the House. "It was the thought of that which sent me to St. Catherine de Ricci."

"You are right." The Judge looked very thoughtful as he said this. "We strive hard and humanly for the commonplace virtues, which would no doubt come easier to us if we prayed and meditated and waited in silence for the 'gifts.''

"I don't in the least understand," said the Student. "I must go."

"I think I understand," said the Young Lady from Virginia. "But that sort of thing requires time."

"And yet," concluded the Judge gravely, "we have all the time there is."

B

EFORE this issue of THE ROSARY MAGAZINE reaches its readers, Dr. Douglas Hyde, President of the Gaelic League, and one of the most widely-known Irishmen of to-day, will have arrived in this country.

Dr. Hyde is here to lecture on the Gaelic Revival-one of the most remarkable intellectual movements of modern times. The Gaelic League is, as it were, the concrete expression of the Gaelic Revival, and what it has accomplished in Ireland since its establishment in 1893 is something to surprise and delight all who have at heart the regeneration of the old land.

When the League first began its work Irish as a written and spoken language was dying out. Ireland was being swiftly Anglicized. It set to work at once to stop this process of degeneration. It was not immediately successful. It met with coldness and hostility on every hand-hostility from the British Government and, sad to say, from peo

ple in Ireland as well, who thought themselves eminently patriotic, but who deemed it a waste of valuable time and energy to attempt to restore the Irish language or preserve it from decay. They knew not the value to a nation of its own language and its own literature, and so they frowned or smiled pityingly upon the new movement as their mood inclined them. But help it they would not. It was too impossible, too Quixotic a scheme. It was, they held, foredoomed to failure.

But the movement continued to exist, to grow, to gather strength and influence. Men who once thought it a passing fad, began to see it in its true light. It began to gather into its ranks men of all kinds and creeds and classes. It swept into its stream the university student and the laborer, the priest and the parson, the Unionist landlord and the naturalist farmer. To-day it is admittedly the most comprehensive movement in Ireland. Here are some examples of what it has done since its establishment:

It has prevailed upon the so-called National Board of Education to make large concessions to the national language in primary education. The number of schools in which the Irish language is taught has advanced from 105 in 1899 to over 3,000 in 1905; and the number of children at present studying more or less Irish in the schools is now over 100,000. In secondary education it has prevailed upon the Board of Intermediate Education to place Irish in certain cases upon an equal footing with other modern languages. The percentage of intermediate and secondary students who passed in Irish has risen from 272 in 1899 to 2,103 in 1904.

These are only a few of the many things which the League has accomplished. Above and beyond all, it has done an incalculable service in raising the tone of Irish life; in increasing individual and national self-respect; in turning the minds of the people, for the solution of Irish problems, upon themselves rather than upon the British Government; in showing that the best patriot is the sober patriot; in teaching that patriotism means more than lipservice, that it has its practical side, that it can be best expressed in Ireland at the present day by the purchase of Irish goods in preference to the foreign shoddy wherewith the Irish markets are flooded. Beginning with the restoration. of Irish language and literature, it has touched and revivified every department of Irish life.

But all this is an old story now to well-informed men and women who pay heed to the world's affairs, for the Gaelic League and its work have been so remarkable as to arouse interest and comment in every country in the world. Naturally, the President of the League has been a most interesting figure. Dr. Hyde comes of a family which has been. 'honorably associated with Ireland for centuries. He was born in 1860 at

Ratra, Frenchpark, County Roscommon, where he still resides. He is a Protestant, and the son of a Protestant minister. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he won most brilliant honors and successes. A vivid light is thrown upon the complete way in which he has devoted his talents to his native land by the statement that he has written nothing that is not associated in some way with his native land. His coming to America is an event of great and far-reaching importance to the Irish race in this country.

Dr. Hyde is described by a writer who saw him a few years ago as being "pale, but with a healthy pallor, above the middle height, of graceful carriage, quietly but correctly dressed in dark blue serge and tan boots. He wore a Gaelic League badge in his buttonhole. This and an opal cravat ring were the only ornaments on his person. He looks to be about forty-five years of age. In his heavy dark moustache, the ends of which droop slightly, there are a few ribs of gray, and in his hair, which is dark and luxuriant and worn rather long, there are some streaks of silver. His eyes are dark blue, with a tinge of steel-gray in them, and are small rather than large, but keen, bright and kindly. His forehead is broad, bony and round. Intellect, enthusiasm, tenacity of purpose, kindliness and strength are written on his face. He speaks with no particular accent of Ireland, yet with an accent which is melodiously persuasive and unmistakably Irish. * * * Let him speak half a dozen words to. you, and the question of his nationality is at rest once and forever."

This, then, is the man who is here to speak for the Gaelic League and all it means and represents, the man of whom it has been written, and no doubt with truth, that "no man since the days of Thomas Davis has done so much for the Irish language or has so aroused the enthusiasm of the Irish people."

A

MAIDEN loved him, to begin with, and, he loved her.

The maiden lived in the big brick house with the colonial porch the house set far back from the road, with a beautiful, green-carpeted yard stretching from the porch up to the whitewashed fence bordering the pike. Some rose-bushes grew in front of the house, and in the Junetime they bore big, red-blushing roses which the maiden would often pluck and place among the dark braids of her hair. To one side of the house were peach, plum and pear-trees, each bearing luscious fruit in season, and on the other side was a long row of beehives, where the tiny, yellow-banded workers toiled through all the summer hours. Between the house and the public highway large trees grew; oak, poplar, ash, and a few cedars far off in one corner. Back of the house, and beginning at a picket gate opening through a fence, was the woodland path. It was a delightful walk, flanked on either side by densefoliaged maples and ending at a springhouse, where the milk was kept during the hot months. In was on this walk that the knight and maiden met at morning and at evening and told their love again and again.

He was as brave and fine-looking a warrior as ever bowed before a lady. His suit was snow-white, with the exception of a dark collar around his neck; his helmet was blood-red, his leggings were yellow and his spurs were sharp and long. For it must be known that the white knight was a game rooster of as pure a strain as lived.

Early in the spring, over a year ago, he had, by dint of unceasing effort, driven his cartilaginous bill through the shell casing which encompassed him

and thrust his head out for a first peep at the world. He found himself in an enclosed space lined with straw, and all about him were white, oblong objects. Then he discovered that he had just emerged from one of these. Before his slowly-moving faculties could reason the matter out, something warm and soft smothered over him with low, maternal clucks, and his first peep of the world ended. But the darkness and the warmth seemed more natural than the daylight, and he lay contented, wriggling a little further out of his shell now and again. Then he went to sleep, and when he woke the next time it was to see two more small heads gazing out at him from tiny orifices. He did not know it, but he, being a game chicken, had been the first of the "setting" to pip the shell. For the maiden had procured this egg as an experiment, and had placed it with a lot of the common sort. Now the blood of our hero began to show even at this early hour, for, barely out of the shell though he was, and still wet, he struggled towards the nearest head with the help of his puny wings and gave a decided peck. But he was too young to measure distances and his bill struck the shell. Then a shadow fell across him, and a soft voice spoke: "You little fiend!" it said; "what will I do with you?"

He felt a new touch upon his palpitating, half-naked body; he was lifted gently from the nest, and the next thing he knew he was being borne away. His new home was in a small soap-box placed just back of the kitchen stove, and there were some warm rags for him to creep under when the fire died down. The hand which had taken him from the nest to prevent fratricide now fed him on bread-crumbs and, taught him

how to drink water from a cracked saucer. This hand was always tender, always kind, and the naturally fierce heart of the foundling soon came to have a weak spot in it. If his crumbs gave out or his saucer went dry, a succession of chirps never failed of the desired effect, and his wants were quickly supplied.

The weeks went by and he grew apace. Fuzz turned to feathers; the nib on the end of his nose dropped off, and at last the great day came when he was carefully conveyed to the back yard and placed upon the ground-a free chicken. There he stood for perhaps a minute, not moving out of his tracks, craning his ugly neck this way and that, turning his head to various angles, and viewing the great out-doors. A moth floated by him and lit on a ragweed. The spell was broken, and his first prey rolled up in his craw. That was the most wonderful day in all his life to the fledgling knight. All about him were others of his kind; some larger, some smaller. But he did not feel drawn towards them. He let them alone, and would move away when they came near. The world seemed full of insects, and his gangling legs grew weary of chasing them. But when the shadows began to lengthen in the late afternoon, his craw pouched out and he was very comfortable.

Then one came down the steps of the kitchen porch with a pan in her hands and called in a clear, sweet voice"Chick-ee! Chick-ee!" The alien, resting under an althea bush near one of the drinking troughs, knew the voice, but not the call. But instantly there. was a great hubbub and a hurrying of three-toed feet. A mad scurry of wings and a disordered rush from every point of the compass. Roosters and hens; chickens half-grown and chickens halffeathered, all came hastening pell-mell at that magic cry. At last they had At last they had gathered, an hundred or more, rubbing wing-shoulders and hopping over each

other, impatient, clamorous. The maiden lifted the wheat from the pan by the handfuls and scattered it broadcast among the hungry crowd. Then all heads went to earth and all tails stuck up, and the evening meal was in progress. Passing among them with searching eyes went the maiden, but she did not discover that for which she sought. Holding the pan in the hollow of her arm, she looked around and called again-"Chick-ee! Chicky! Chicky!

Chicky! Chicky!" The last call was for him, for thus she had always crooned to him in his box behind the stove. He arose and trotted towards her, and she espied him and came to meet him. She scattered a few grains of wheat before him and he gobbled them up. Then she leaned down and gathered him in her arms; and he suffered her, because he had no fear of one who had ministered to him from the beginning. That night he slept in his box on the kitchen porch..

Week by week the summer slipped away, and day by day the game-cock grew in size and in strength and in combativeness. By early fall he had left the awkward age far behind him and was a handsome young fellow with a soft coat of glossy white feathers. Around his arching neck was, as it were, a collar of black lace. His comb began to grow and his wattles to droop and swing as he walked, and his spurs were of a respectable length. He had learned some worldly wisdom, too, during this time. One day he saw a black woman come out with a pan and call, as the maiden had done. The feathered tribe answered quickly, crowding as usual, and suddenly the black woman stooped and caught one by the legs. Then she walked a little to one side and took hold of its head instead, and whirled it around and around until the neck was wrung off and the headless body went flopping over the ground. The white game had witnessed this from a distance, and he nodded his head and walked