Knew'st thou ever desolation

As on that accursed tree

Wrung from Me the cry, 'My Father, Why hast Thou forsaken me?'

"Faint not, though the angry billows O'er thee break with sullen roar; Who would share the coming glory Must have shared the cross before. Buoyant hope shall dwell within thee, Faith upbear thee through the wave, And the everlasting arms be Underneath thee, strong to save."

SAND-EELING IN SARK.

BY L. E. D.

THE plan to go sand-eeling by moonlight sounded very pleasant. There was the charm of novelty to most of us in the very name of the proposed expedition, and our hopes were high that the weather would be warm, the moon friendly, and that plenty of sand-eels would be forthcoming.

We talked it over by broad daylight, and arranged our party to meet at two a.m. on Monday. Debates as to how we were to be awaked went on, fears of oversleeping ourselves were expressed, offers of alarum clocks made, and after finally settling to go to bed early and get a good long sleep first, we dispersed.

At a little past one my alarum clock struck, and never did its sound seem less welcome. It was very horrid having to turn out; it was cold and rather dreary getting up at this unearthly hour. But it was to go sand-eeling! By moonlight too; and the very idea of the new scene, and the lovely white light of the moon on the beautiful Bay of Dicart, whither we were bound, was in itself bracing and encouraging. Grand as the island scenery of Sark is at all times-in the early morning when the outlying islands are shrouded in mist, in the noontide when the sun is shining, and the deep ultramarine sea frames in the sandy hills of Herm, and foams round the rocky outline of Jethou, lovely in the evening when the shady lanes with their wealth of wild flowers are charming, and the perfume of the honeysuckle is strong in the air,—nothing, we thought, would be so delightful as to see it all by moonlight.

Voices calling me under the window hastened me, and drawing aside the blind, I see, alas! no moonlight, only a faint white light, just enough to see the darkness by, and oh! climax of all, raindrops on the glass. Feeling slightly depressed, I met two of the party who had come for me, and down the road we sallied.

It was cold, raining, and no moon to be seen, and then one of us asked faintly, "Shall we go?"

It seemed foolish to give up the plan, and one of us drew upon her reminiscences of a sand-eeling party she had been to, and of the success they met with, five sand-eels being caught in two hours. There we stood in the road debating; every now and then B whose unflagging cheerfulness no rain could damp, no clouds darken, repeated a remark it must be confessed she had made several times since we started,-"It's all for pleasure.”

We meekly acquiesced, and tried our very best to think that the driving rain and wind was charming, and that the outlying country in the grey mistiness was very pretty. Just as I had declared my intention of turning back, behold! two more of our party appeared on the scene. They would not hear of not going, and cheered by their enthusiasm we were again all agog for our expedition, and marched on bravely down a horribly muddy lane leading to the Dicart Hotel, where we were to pick up another energetic soul.

But by no sounds of whistling, calling under her window, &c., could we make her hear. No light was shining, and feeling very disgusted at not having her to share our present enjoyment of cold and damp, we proceeded on our way.

Still persuading ourselves that this was "pleasure," on we went over the soft grassy slopes, and then down the road that by a sharp descent leads to Dicart Bay.

Most of us were armed with small pitchforks and cans or baskets, and when we made our way down we saw a great many fisher men and women with children, all seated under a great vraiccovered boulder on the sand. The sea was utterly grey, like the sky, and the waves came sullenly up the shining sand with a long line of foam. The outlines of the great Point Terrible were seen clearly, as also the high cliffs to the right, where there is a natural arch piercing the rock. Away behind us we had left the green slopes above the valley.

Our arrival seemed the signal for these to go and commence operations. Vigorous raking then began, and in the ruts made by the forks the shining, silvery eels a few inches long were soon caught by the expert, and deposited in the basket or can. There were plenty of eels that night, and those most enterprising of us waded far down, raked away in the wet sand, and got rewarded for their pains by coming away with heavier baskets than they arrived with.

It was a weird, strange sight; the grey expanse of sea, the

outlying point of Le Tas, a great rock standing out in the sea some little distance from the coast, the bold outlines of the cliffs becoming more distinct as the day dawned, the stooping figures all along the curve of the bay, who were raking up the sand and catching the eels, which glistened brightly. Very wet, cold, and tired, we got home near four in the morning. Some of us remained until later.

The valley, calm and still, looked lovely in the early dawn, even with the grey sky and the mist around. We could hear the rain on the thick bracken falling gently with the morning dew.

The sight was worth seeing-yes, even despite the absence of the moon and the presence of the rain and cold. They all agreed it had been great fun, and that they would not have missed it for anything.

All the same, when asked later when we were going again, one of us sagely remarked that we were not going sand-eeling again this year at Sark, that "enough was as good as a feast."

THE WEST COUNTREE.

BY GORDON CAMPBELL, EXETER COLLEGE, Oxford.

A LAD there went from Cornish land,

From our old west countree,
And he would go to London town,
The London sights to see.
And when he got to London town
Some mighty sights he saw,
And lasses well bedecked out,

And lads right stout and braw.
They showed him many a sight up there,
Yes, many a sight saw he,

But he ne'er saw aught he loved as well
As the dear old west countree.

The Cornish lad came back again
To his own west countree,

He loved his Cornish home the best,
A Cornish lad was he;

Though London town has lads as braw,

And lasses perhaps as fair,

The Cornish lad loves Cornish land,

His own true lassie's there.

He'll live and love in his western home

The lass that aye shall be

The joy of his heart and his own true love, The pride of the west countree.