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They had gone but little distance,
When the courser shied and halted,
Frighted at some passing object;
And the maiden looked in wonder,
In the snow beheld some foot-prints,
Spake these words to Ilmarinen:
"Who has run across our highway?"
""Tis the timid hare," he answered.
Thereupon the stolen maiden

Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow,
Heavy-hearted, spake these measures:
"Woe is me, ill-fated virgin!
Happier far my life hereafter,
If the hare I could but follow
To his burrow in the woodlands!
Crook-leg's fur to me is finer
Than the robes of Ilmarinen."
Ilmarinen, the magician,

Tossed his head in full resentment,
Galloped on the highway homeward;
Traveled but a little distance,
When again his courser halted,
Frighted at some passing stranger.
Quick the maiden looked and wondered,
In the snow beheld some foot-prints,
Spake these measures to the blacksmith:
"Who has crossed our snowy pathway?"

""Tis a fox," replied the minstrel.
Thereupon the beauteous virgin
Moaned again in depths of anguish,
Sang these accents, heavy-hearted:

"Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! Happier far my life hereafter,

With the cunning fox to wander,

Than with this ill-mannered suitor;
Reynard's fur to me is finer

Than the robes of Ilmarinen."

Thereupon the metal-worker
Shut his lips in sore displeasure,
Hastened on the highway homeward;
Traveled but a little distance,
When again his courser halted.

Quick the maiden looked in wonder,
In the snow beheld some foot-prints,

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Spake these words to the magician:
"Who again has crossed our pathway?"
""Tis the wolf," said Ilmarinen.
Thereupon the fated daughter
Fell again to bitter weeping,
And intoned these words of sorrow:
"Woe is me, a hapless maiden!
Happier far my life hereafter,
Brighter far would be my future,
If these tracks I could but follow;
On the wolf the hair is finer
Than the furs of Ilmarinen,
Faithless suitor of the Northland."
Then the minstrel of Wainola
Closed his lips again in anger,
Shook his sable locks, resentful,
Snapped the whip above the racer,
And the steed flew onward swiftly,
O'er the way to Kalevala,
To the village of the blacksmith.

Sad and weary from his journey,
Ilmarinen, home-returning,
Fell upon his couch in slumber,
And the maiden laughed derision.
In the morning, slowly waking,
Head confused, and locks disheveled,
Spake the wizard, words as follow:
"Shall I set myself to singing
Magic songs and incantations?
Shall I now enchant this maiden
To a black-wolf on the mountains,
To a salmon of the ocean?

Shall not send her to the woodlands,
All the forest would be frighted;
Shall not send her to the waters,

All the fish would flee in terror;

This my sword shall drink her life-blood, End her reign of scorn and hatred."

Quick the sword feels his intention,

Quick divines his evil purpose,

Speaks these words to Ilmarinen:

"Was not born to drink the life-blood

Of a maiden pure and lovely,

Of a fair but helpless virgin."

Thereupon the magic minstrel,
Filled with rage, began his singing;
Sang the very rocks asunder,
Till the distant hills re-echoed;
Sang the maiden to a sea-gull,
Croaking from the ocean-ledges,
Calling from the ocean-islands,
Screeching on the sandy seacoast,
Flying to the winds opposing.
When his conjuring had ended,
Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge,
Whipped his steed upon a gallop,
Hastened to his ancient smithy,
To his home in Kalevala.

Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
Comes to meet him on the highway,
Speaks these words to the magician:
"Ilmarinen, worthy brother,
Wherefore comest heavy-hearted
From the dismal Sariola ?

Does Pohyola live and prosper?"
Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen:
"Why should not Pohyola prosper?
There the Sam po grinds unceasing,
Noisy rocks the lid in colors;
Grinds one day the flour for eating,
Grinds the second flour for selling,
Grinds the third day flour for keeping;
Thus it is Pohyola prospers.

While the Sampo is in Northland,

There is plowing, there is sowing,

There is growth of every virtue,
There is welfare never-ending."
Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:
"Ilmarinen, artist-brother,

Where then is the Northland-daughter,
Far renowned and beauteous maiden,
For whose hand thou hast been absent?"

These the words of Ilmarinen:

"I have changed the hateful virgin
To a sea-gull on the ocean;

Now she calls above the waters,
Screeches from the ocean-islands;
On the rocks she calls and murmurs,
Vainly calling for a suitor."

GWENDOLINE KEATS.

GWENDOLINE KEATS, "Zack," an English writer of fiction, born in Devonshire, England, about 1868. In 1896 she began to contribute short stories to Blackwood's Magazine and the London Outlook, which soon attracted much attention. In 1898 these stories were collected in a single volume entitled "Life is Life." Besides these stories Miss Keats has written two plays.

THE FAILURE OF FLIPPERTY.

(From "Life is Life.")

PART I.

THE great Australian liner steamed west, and Port Melbourne lay a bluer streak on a blue horizon. Passengers were grouped about the deck; and at the stern of the vessel, hidden from the others by a cabin, stood two children, boys. It was evident that they now met for the first time: they looked at one another with shy hesitant interest; both wanted to be friends; each wished the other to make the first advance. In appearance they were strangely unlike; the one was short, broad, with red hair and ears agape; the other, who looked about eleven, was slim, his face small and finely drawn, with straight, determined little nose, the brow and eyes giving an impression of width and imagination.

The red-headed boy edged nearer. "My name is Buster," he said, with affected indifference; "what's yours?"

"Flipperty," the other answered, "an' I've got an anchor and two cricket-bats tattooed on my left arm; what have you got?"

Buster's arm did not happen to be tattooed, so he changed the conversation. "Compare muscles," he said.

Flipperty bent a little thin arm back to his shoulder with a great deal of action.

"Putty," commented Buster; "feel mine."

"You are hard," his companion admitted.

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