take the street cars and seek the house of Dr. Newton, to make

sure of his co-operation in the meeting.

"She reached the house before any of the family were up, rousing the servants to answer her ring.

Learning that proper arrangements had been made, she returned to her friends in time for breakfast.

"At nine she was ready to hold the meeting, which she took almost entirely on her own shoulders, speaking in an interesting and forcible manner for three hours at least."

Dr. Henry Barnard of Hartford, the prince among America's educators, was the first in this country to hail the light of the new star in the educational world.

Articles on Froebel were published in his journal in 1856 and in 1858.

His volume of Kindergarten and Child-Culture Papers contains much of the standard literature on the subject. Miss Peabody's Open Letter" in this volume, describing her own early attempt at Kindergartening and deploring its inadequacy, is of interest. She there declares adequate training of Kindergartners is the only possible basis for the success of the system.

America has proved the soil in which Froebel's idea of childtraining has taken deepest root. His gospel has been like the "handful of corn in the earth upon the the top of the mountain." The fruit thereof already shakes like Lebanon. The progress of the movement in this country has been steady, and is now dependent in large measure upon the wisdom and insight of its pioneer, who held up always in her lectures, which were first given to training classes and are now published in book-form, the highest ideal for Kindergartners. She exalted the task of the teacher above any blind subjection to method, or device, or material, to the work of an artist, who sees the angel to be set free in that which her hand touches. She insisted, always, that the Kindergartner's chief duty was to see that the primal vision of the little ones, who come beholding the face of the Father, be kept uneclipsed.

"To be a Kindergartner," she declares, "is the perfect development of womanliness, a working with God at the very fountain of artistic and intellectual power and moral character."

On the sixth of January, 1894, a company of Kindergartners and other friends assembled in the Church of the Disciples in

Boston, to honor the memory of the friend and leader who had passed nearer to the fountain from which the springs of her life had been fed.

Simple and lofty words of cheer and of comfort were spoken by friends, who had felt the inspiration of her words and works, and of her tender and generous nature.

A chant, tender and solemn, was sung by the Kindergartners, "Suffer the children to come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

But above the strains of that song arose another, the song of the little children who praise her in the gates of the many childgardens planted by her hand.

Amid the fragrance of the lilies, Elizabeth Palmer Peabody rested from her labors; but her works do follow her, and many shall rise up and call her blessed.

BY THE SEA.

HELEN L. CARY, MALDEN, MASS.

The unending blue of ocean meets mine eye
All life and sparkle, and the fresh, spiced air
Rushes, its gladness with my soul to share.

These waves are friends, together we laugh, sigh,
Without the need of words: such ones would I
Dwell with, whose silence is a speech most rare.
To-day this bright sea hath no room for care,
Voicing unchecked the eternal harmony.

God in this scene maketh my soul grow still,
Reaching me through creation, telling all
That is; and I, most willing pupil, learn
By touch of Love, that love is all his will.
Assurance sweet! we hear His truth's strong call,
And, listening, forget to weep and yearn.

FROM BANTRY TO KILLARNEY.*

PROF. FRANKLIN B. SAWVEL, GREENVILLE, PA.

When the traveler is "set down" at the Cork, Bandon and South-Coast railway station in extreme southwestern Ireland, with the vast sweep of ocean in every direction save that from which he hails, his first impression is likely to be that he has reached the end of a journey with nowhere to go. Once seated in the waiting tourist car, he is soon winding down a steep slope among huge boulders and rock-masses, green swards and neat, lawn-like patches, and then by a picturesque old mill with its moss-covered wheel and fern and shrubbery-fringed dam of darkly clear water, to find himself in the heart of a typical Irish village, all snugly sheltered and shut in by towering hills except the narrow gateway down the bay to the Atlantic. This is Bantry, at the head of Bantry Bay, on whose "white strand" it stands.

Here in this sunny, mountain-sheltered cove, the traveler, perhaps for the first after a dreamy ocean voyage or the first time in life, awakes to some of the poetry and beauty treasured up in the names Erin and Emerald Isle. Here, too, the famous Prince of Wales route begins, the most delightful and picturesque road on the island.

This highway is a masterpiece of engineering, with easy grades and rounded road-bed of limestone laboriously broken into small cubes and beaten, ground and rolled into a gray cement by hoof, wheel, sun and rain. It touches the heads of numerous bays, climbs mountains and tunnels their summits, winds along valleys, hurries over chasms spanned by solid masonry, pieces the arching precipice, and skirts the shores of beautiful lakes, and, distant less than forty-five miles due north, terminates at Killarney. It is flanked with scenery the most fairy-like,- dark ravines, shady nooks and lawny leas, noisy streams and waterfalls, bold cliffs and slopes purple with blooming heather,-hovels and faces the most sightless, cheerless and comfortless,-long sweeps of rugged landscape, zigzag valley, narrow bay and angry, silver crested ocean, and again vine and fern, matted jungle and magnificent forest.

* Copyright, 1894, by Franklin B. Sawvel.

Southwestern Ireland is in shape a great hand with its outer finger resting on the English Channel and its thumb on Shannon bay and river. The fingers, fifteen to twenty-five miles long, are made of cores of silurian limestone, wrapped with Devonian slabs of Old Red sandstone, edged up against each other in Alpine shapes, sometimes to exceed three thousand feet above tidemark. The open spaces are occupied by Bantry, Kenmare, Dingle and Tralee bays. The route of travel stretches across the bony knuckles above the bays; around their heads nestle and slumber the beautiful towns of Bantry and Glengarriffe, Kenmare, Killarney and Tralee. The scenery is most delightful and enchanting, and the contrasts of luxuriant vegetation and barrenness the widest and wildest around Glengarriffe Harbor, five miles from the start, and the Lakes of Killarney, along whose green, bowery shores the road winds the last five miles of the drive; Killarney wears an air of artificial keeping—the opulence and whims of earls; but Glengarriffe, "The Rough Glen," is arrayed in nature's careless shubbery, — thicket, twining vines, matted mosses and sea-weed, and a wilder native beauty. The Lakes of Killarney are more picture-like, a painting with calm, clear waters and tufted islets, winding ways, bridle paths, roads and exposed bridges, the Gap of Dunloe, painted stag and moulded deer, shimmering slopes and Macgillycuddy Reeks diademed with feathery clouds; thick forests climb the shores, with fallen trees, hidden rocks, weaving vines, ferns and flowers, well kept lawns spread out into meadows, and a cluster of cottages into a modern tourist town. But to the less orderly landscape of Glengarriffe a simpler charm is added something of barrenness and loneliness that hints at nature's and man's poverty alike. Besides, sleepy showers chased by dreamy sunshine descend only from the Sugar Loaf.

On the east shore, Priests' Leap mountain rises out of the bay and curves around the head of the Harbour, while "The Mountain of the Wild People" stretches along the western margin and around six miles to the north, till they meet and enclose the estate of the Earl of Bantry. Outside the Harbour on its boulder island stands the ruins of Glengarriffe Castle; on the rocks of the shores are heaps and rows of sea-weed pushed up by the tide; while in the restless waters lay lines and clusters of bright shells, gray,

green, brown and purple, often carelessly encircling patches of sea-moss or half submerged stones.

On the north shore, near a group of some half-dozen houses—all the town there is room for rises a stone chapel with its steeple shooting above the thick foliage of spreading elms and forest trees.

In the mouth of the narrow valley stands Lord Bantry's cottage, and across, on the west side, is Cromwell's old stone bridge, said to have been erected by him at an hour's notice. Three hotels,― Roche's on the east slope, the Eckles on the north, and a smaller, second-rate one between, - complete the artificial features. There is luxuriance of plant life wherever there is soil enough for rooting. Forests of oak, elm, pine, yew, holly, magnolias and arbutus, and thorns and shrubs in great variety, cover the base of the mountains and fill the hollows. Every nook, crevice, rock and stream is carpeted with mosses, while ferns the most delicate and others, tree-like, grow everywhere. Many American flowering plants and tropical cryptogamia, carried hither by the infringing Gulf Stream, have taken root among the rocks and spread up the sides of the glen. From a single spot adjacent to the sward below Roche's hotel I noted, besides the variety of native forest trees, two kinds of the holly; the woodbine, with its cream-colored, sweet-scented flowers; roses, white and red, clinging to massive stones; a number of grasses and weeds; and at least seven varieties of wild flowers. On the spreading branches of a tree were growing from the top side two varieties of parasitic ferns. A row of greenish gray moss stood up six inches high on each side like frills, and from the under side of each bough dangled a line of moss-tassles from a few inches in length to as many feet. Three thrifty ivy stems twined up the trunk and, mingling with the foliage, flowed out over the top and down the sides in a woof, scarce penetrable to sun or rain. Rhododendrons and trailing vines abound; and the omnipresent ivy climbs every rock, shrub and tree in sight. I was standing, or rather sitting, on a mosscushioned, fern-circled boulder in a sub-tropical jungle enlivened by the music of bounding streams and eloquent water-falls.

The forests decrease in stateliness and cease, almost abruptly, less than half way up the mountains. The flats and gentler rises of the middle slopes are dotted with patches of potatoes, rye, oats and grass, and again potatoes. The rougher parts are marked off by rows of stone, rather than fences, into pasture lots for cows,