Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

MANNERS

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be but to boil an egg. Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each, once a stroke of genius or of love, now repeated and hardened into usage. They form at last a rich varnish with which the routine of life is washed and its details adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew-drops which give such a depth to the morning meadows.

The power of manners is incessant, an element as unconcealable as fire. The nobility can not in any country be disguised, and no more in a republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist their influence. There are certain manners which are learned in good society, of that force that if a person have them, he or she must be considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, or wealth, or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments and you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes wherever he goes.

From the essay, "Behavior." Abridged.

For manners are not idle, but the fruit
Of loyal nature and of noble mind.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

SIR WALTER SCOTT

"There are still living," says Lockhart, in his life of Walter Scott, "two old women, who were in the domestic service at Sandy

of his age. One

of them, Tibby Hunter, remembers his coming well; and that he was a sweet-tempered bairn, a darling with all about the house. The young milkers delighted to carry him about

on their backs

among the crags; and he was very quick, soon knowing every sheep and lamb by head-mark as well as any of them. One day he was forgotten among the knolls when a thunder-storm came on; and his aunt, suddenly recollecting his situation, and running out to bring him home,

is said to have found him lying on his back, clapping his hands at the lightning, and crying out, Bonny, bonny!' at every flash. Another friend describes him as 'the most extraordinary genius of a boy I ever saw. He was reading a poem to his mother when I went in. It was the description of a shipwreck. His passion rose with the storm. He lifted his eyes and hands. "There's the mast gone," said he, "crash, it goes!-they will all perish!"' Scott was at this time not quite six years old."

The man was like the child. The gift of strong and vital imagination characterized him through life. His poems and romances are all imbued with it. So vividly does he bring back the old spirit of the border times, and so glowingly does he paint the rugged beauty of the Scotch landscape that he has been called "the Scotch magician." His father had hoped to make a lawyer of him, but the instant acclaim that greeted his first important poem, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, decided the day in favor of romancing. He passionately loved everything pertaining to his native land. He retained its rough bur in his speech, held to its canny words, had the bagpipes played daily outside his window during the dinner-hour, and loyally kept each Christmas with the chief of his clan.

Despite his lameness, Scott was strong, and in every other way he was remarkably well favored. Washington Irving, who visited him at his great house, Abbotsford, says that he was "tall, and of a large and powerful frame.

His dress was simple, and almost rustic, an old green shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding himself by a stout walking staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor. By his side jogged along a large iron-gray staghound of a most grave demeanor.”

Scott counted his dogs among his most valued friends. A favorite, Camp, who died, was buried in the little garden behind the house, in Castle Street. Scott himself, says Lockhart, "smoothed the turf." He had been engaged to dine abroad that day, but apologized on account of the death of "a dear old friend."

One of Scott's most cherished friends was a little girl of six years, named Marjorie Fleming, whose conversation, letters, rhymes and recitations were phenomenal. To Marjorie's home Scott went when he was tired or disheartened, and would romp and talk with her for hours together. In cold weather he carried her lovingly as a shepherd carries a lamb, in the neck of his big rough plaid.

Doctor John Brown tells us that the year before Marjorie died—she was then only eight-when in Edinburgh, she was at a Twelfth Night supper at Scott's, in Castle Street. "The company had all come,-all but Marjorie. Scott's familiars were there,-all were come but Marjorie, and