but with no result. He fired again, and
another Swiss fell. About sixty armed citizens
then discharged their pieces, and the
Swiss column, panic-struck, wheeled round
and retired in disorder, leaving the place
strewn with dead. At the Rue Planche-
Mibray, a brave Blouse, noticing that the
steady fire of a single cannon was causing
a cruel carnage, cried out "Who will come
with me and take that piece? I will only
have men who are unarmed." He rushed
forward, followed by eight or ten men; but
a bullet struck him when he had nearly
reached the gun. He was taken to a
temporary hospital at the house of a commissary
of police. When the ball was extracted, he
cried to his comrades:

"Cowards, you abandoned me just when
the cannon would have been ours. Follow
me, and repair your disgrace!"

He went out again, faced the fire, and in
five minutes the gun was in the hands of
the people. Twelve hours afterwards, he
expired, within a few paces of the spot where
he had fought.

The whole of that night the people toiled
at throwing up fresh barricades; the walls
were built breast high, were four or five feet
thick, and they were generally about fifty
paces apart. Hundreds of the finest trees
in the boulevards were cut down for these
barricades; hackney and stage coaches filled
up the gaps; and even the great iron gates
of the Palais de Justice were taken down
and thrown on the heaps. The cafés were
shut and barred, and every lamp was
extinguished. There was, everywhere, a terrible
sense of stern preparation for the morrow.

CHANT OF STORM WINDS.

COME, brothers, come; haste o'er the sea
  Lashing its waves to foam;
An army of bodiless spirits are we,
  Ever through space we roam;
Ever, ever, pausing never,
Sweeping onward, ever, ever!

Up go the waves, up to the skies,
  Clouds scud over the moon,
Down, down sink the billows, and up again rise,
  With wild and angry tune;
Restless ever, pausing never,
Madly surging, ever, ever!

Mark as we rush, huge vessels reel
  Quiv'ring like paper boats,
The stout ship may shudder from capstan to keel,
  Care we if she sinks or floats!
Ever, ever, pausing never,
Fateful brothers we are ever!

The helmsman feels our blinding hair,
  Drifting across his face,
But he sees not the talons that rive and tear
  In our destructive chase;
Pressing onwards, pausing never,
Felt though viewless, ever, ever!

We snap the cordage, rend the mast,
  Flapping to shreds each sail,
Till the mariner sobs to the sobbing blast
  From a wreck before the gale;
Fiercely flying, pausing never,
Swooping landwards, onwards ever!

Earth hears the rushing of our wings,
  And trembles as we pass;
For we crush the pride of material things
  As men's feet crush the grass;
Restless ever, pausing never,
Storm Winds, weird and mighty ever!

Titanic trees we rend in twain,
  Whirl roofs like flakes of snow,
Swirl mortals like motes in our mad hurricane,
  And castles like cards o'erthrow;
Ever, ever, pausing never,
Potent spirits, dreaded ever!

Sin shudders at our voices wild,
  As we rush howling past;
Men stalwart and burly whom guilt hath defiled
  Crouch 'neath the searching blast;
Piercing ever, pausing never,
Slumb'ring conscience rousing ever!

Lost spirits, agonised with pain,
  To our earth-bound brothers,
Shrieking this summons to join our wild train
  "Ye are ours and we Another's."
Ever, ever, pausing never,
Calling souls to us for ever!

Storm spirits, working wreck and woe,
  With devastating breath,
Our ban may bring blessing we never may know,
  Though hand in hand with death;
Ever, 'spite our fierce endeavour,
To His will subdued for ever!

On, brothers, on; with wings unfurled ,
  Dreaded, not understood;
We are driving pestilence out of the world,
  Working not ill but good;
Ever, 'spite our fierce endeavour,
God's own ministers for ever!

THE CHILD THAT WENT WITH
THE FAIRIES.

EASTWARD of the old city of Limerick,
about ten Irish miles, under the range of
mountains known as the Slieveelim hills,
famous as having afforded Sarsfield a
shelter among their rocks and hollows, when
he crossed them in his gallant descent upon
the cannon and ammunition of King William,
on its way to the beleaguering army, there
runs a very old and narrow road. It
connects the Limerick road to Tipperary with
the old road from Limerick to Dublin, and
runs by bog and pasture, hill and hollow,
straw-thatched village, and roofless castle,
not far from twenty miles.

Skirting the heathy mountains of which
I have spoken, at one part it becomes
singularly lonely. For more than three Irish
miles it traverses a deserted country. A
wide, black bog, level as a lake, skirted
with copse, spreads at the left, as you
journey northward, and the long and
irregular line of mountain rises at the right,