Buried in the convent of St. Francisco, at Valladolid, Spain, his body was removed to the monastery of Las Cuevas at Seville, and, still later, to the cathedral of San Domingo at Hispaniola. But again it was taken up, and transported by vessel to Havana, Cuba, that rich tropic isle which the great navigator himself had discovered. Here to-day it is lying, and the sad spirit of this strange man of destiny hovers over the richest of all the possessions which Spain held in the West Indies, until wrested from her feeble grasp by the people of the United States in the year 1898, and magnanimously presented to the Cuban people themselves, to govern as they wished. Could the poor old mariner, as he lay dying at Valladolid, have but looked forward into the centuries and seen the New World which he had discovered, he would have indeed been well satisfied. Had he known that a great Exposition would have been held to his memory and fame, and could he have guessed that the children of the civilized world would ever afterwards be taught the history of his life, of his perseverance, his courage, and his faith, he would indeed have been cheered in those last cheerless and poverty-stricken days. In the career of this poor Italian dreamer, studying in every moment of leisure, asking assistance year after year from crowned heads until he was fifty-six years of age, in order that he might make his immortal discoveries, is a lesson to all who feel that their lives have not been perhaps worth while as they near middle age. The lesson is:—keep on trying to win, and, even though you may not be appreciated during your lifetime, history will always give you a proper niche in the temple of fame. And do not believe that youth is the only time for adventurous discoveries. Columbus did not sail upon his epoch-making journey towards the West until after he had reached his fifty-sixth year. Middle age and perseverance, then, are good aids to place one within the halls of the immortals. THE SONG OF THE ISLANDER O brother, good brother, look out on the bay, What’s that that is nearing, so long and so gray? ’Tis a palm tree, I’ll warrant, so large and so lean, That it o’ershadows all palm trees that e’er I have seen. O brother, good brother, it stops and is still; White clouds are above it, they beckon and fill; Two sticks running upward are covered with vines, And a humming resounds like the wind when it whines. O brother, good brother, a puff of white smoke Rolls upward and onward—a voice surely spoke, ’Tis the speech of God Tezcal, he’s calling aloud, For the rest of the Gods to gather and crowd. O brother, good brother, what’s that to the rear? A canoe is approaching, it fills me with fear, For the white gods are paddling; they dress all in red, And the skin of their hands looks like that of the dead.