curiosity that would disturb a warrior's rest
for the sake of ascertaining whether he were
Dane, Briton, Pict, or Saxon—whether he
belonged to this century or to that — and
recommended that subscriptions should be forthwith
entered into, for the purpose of surrounding the
whole burial-place with a palisade. But Number
One did not enclose anything in furtherance of
that scheme. Number Two warmly congratulated
Mr. Adkins on being the proprietor of a spot to
which so much historical interest must henceforth
attach, urged the promotion of that interest by
further excavations, and begged the good farmer,
if he had a few skeletons yet unappropriated, to
send him some half-dozen at any cost, and without
delay.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

    OH, wondrous bird of regions bright,
    With such a gorgeous plumage dight,
    Hast thou no plaintive song to tell
    Of that blest place where thou didst dwell,
    Ere Mother Eve from Eden fell?

    Methinks in some delightsome bower
    Of that bright garden, hour by hour,
    Was heard thy spirit-melting strain,
    Though now we plead to thee in vain,
    Thou wilt not, canst not sing again!

    Alas! what wonder is't, that thou,
    Poor banished one, art silent now,
    Since thou didst pass the golden gate
    To share our erring parents' fate,
    Companion of the desolate!

    Oh, on thy wings my spirit bear,
    And through the still enchanted air,
    Blue lake, and balmy ocean o'er,
    We'll wend our way to that sweet shore
    Where thou shall find thy voice once more.

    Ah me, delusive fancies, cease!
    Presumptuous, murm'ring spirit, peace!
    We ne'er shall reach that blissful strand
    Till Eve and all her children stand
    Redeemèd on their Father-land!

    Then once more valley, mount, and grove
    Shall ring with strains of grateful love,
    And, like an exquisite surprise,
    Thy music shall break forth, and rise
    Seraphic, to the hallowing skies,
    Sweet Bird of Paradise!

TWENTY-FIVE DARK HOURS.

I'M what we calls a ganger, and have so
many men under me when we're making a
new line o' rail. I passed best part o' my
time in the country; but I have worked
on the lines in France and Spain; but what
I'm about to tell you happened in London,
where we'd sunk a snaft right down, and then
was tunnelling forrards and backards—the
shaft being to get rid of your stuff, and sometimes
for a steam-engine to be pumping up the
water. It's rather dangerous work, and a
many men gets hurt; but then a great deal of
it's through carelessness, for lots of our fellows
seems as though the whole o' their brains is in
their backs and arms, where they're precious
strong, and nowheres else; but I'd got so used
to it, that in cutting or tunnel it was all the
same to me, and now I was busy supering the
men digging, and sometimes bricklaying a bit,
so that I thought werry little about danger
when I'd seen as all the shores and props
well in their places.

It was just at the end o' the dinner-hour one
day, and I was gone down the shaft to have a
good look round before work begun again, and
I'd got my right-hand man, Sam Carberry,
with me. It was a new shaft, about thirty
foot deep, with ladders to go down, and a
windlass and baskets for bringing up stuff and
letting down bricks and mortar.

We hadn't tunnelled more than p'r'aps some
ten or a dozen foot each way, so as you may
suppose it was werry fresh—green, as we calls
it; and I wasn't quite satisfied about the shoring
up, and so on, for you know fellows do get so
precious careless when once they've got used to
danger; and as for some of our big navvies,
why they're jest like a set o' babies, and for
everything else but their regular work, they're
quite as helpless. Tell 'em to fill a lorry, or
skid a wheel, or wheel a barrer, they'll do it
like smoke; but as to taking care o'
themselves—but there, I needn't say no more about
that—just look at the great, good-tempered,
lolloping fellows! A man can't have it all ways;
and if he's got it all in bone and muscle, why
'tain't to be expected as he's going to have all
the brains too.

"That's giving a bit there, Sam," I says,
a-pointing to one part o' the shaft where the
earth was a-bulging and looked loose. " That
ain't safe. There'll be a barrer full o' stuff
a-top o' somebody's head afore the afternoon's
over. That's the rain — that is. Take your
mell and knock out that lower shore, and we'll
put it a couple o' foot higher up. Mind how
you does it!" Sam nods his head, for he was a
chap as never spoke if he could help it, and then
he gets up, while I takes a look or two at the
brickwork, so as not to be done by the men, nor
yet dropped on by the foreman. Then I hears
Sam banging away at the bit o' scaffold-pole, and
directly after it comes down with a hollow sound;
and then there was a rattling o' loose gravelly
earth as I peeps out, and then feels as though
my heart was in my mouth, for I shouts out:
"That's the wrong one!" But in an instant
Sam dropped to the bottom, and as he did so,
it seemed as though some one drew a curtain
over the hole, and then I felt a tremendous blow
on the chest, and was driven backwards and
dashed up against the wood scaffolding in the
tunnel, and I suppose I was stunned, for I
knew nothing more for a bit. Then it seemed
as though I was being called, and I sorter woke
up; but everything was dark as pitch and silent
as death, and, feeling heavy and misty and
stupid, I shut my eyes again, and felt as if
going to sleep, for there didn't seem to be
anything the matter to me. It was as though