“I am ready to pay for it,” said Don Quixote, “provided these people will fairly and immediately surrender the prisoners whom they have unjustly detained in their castle.” “What castle do you mean? and what prisoners?” asked the millers. “Explain yourself, sir. We don’t know what you are talking about.” “I might as well talk to a stump as try to persuade you to do a good act,” answered Don Quixote. “Now I see that two rival enchanters have clashed in this adventure. One sent me a boat, the other overwhelmed it in the river. It is very plain that I can do nothing where there is such plotting and counter-plotting.” Then he turned his face toward the mill and raised his eyes to the window above the wheel. “My friends!” he cried at the top of his voice, “my friends, whoever you are who lie immured in that prison, hear me! Pardon my ill luck, for I cannot set you free. You must needs wait for some other knight to perform that adventure.” Having said this, he ordered Sancho to pay the fisherman fifty reals for the boat. Sancho obeyed sullenly, for he was reluctant to part with the money. “Two voyages like that will sink all our stock,” he muttered. The fisherman and the millers stood with their mouths open, wondering what sort of men these were who had come so strangely into their midst. Then, concluding that they were madmen, they left them, the millers going to their mill, and the fisherman to his hut. As for Don Quixote and Sancho, they trudged sorrowfully back to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark. --_Retold from CERVANTES._ A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS Nicholas heathen apparel aching jeweled suddenly sniveling kindred banquet anguish vanished giant [Illustration] The tales of good St. Nicholas Are known in every clime; Told in painting, and in statues, And in the poet’s rhyme. In England’s Isle, alone, to-day, Four hundred churches stand Which bear his name, and keep it well Remembered through the land. And all the little children In England know full well This tale of good St. Nicholas, Which I am now to tell. The sweetest tale, I think, of all The tales they tell of him; I never read it but my eyes With tears begin to swim. There was a heathen king who roved About with cruel bands, And waged a fierce and wicked war On all the Christian lands. And once he took as captive A little fair-haired boy, A Christian merchant’s only son, His mother’s pride and joy. He decked him in apparel gay, And said, “You’re just the age To serve behind my chair at meat, A dainty Christian page.”