Shu-ten dōji was another ghoul which Raiko, with his retainers, went to slay. Raiko went to his cave, and asked for a night’s lodging. He found there a great red man, with long red hair, drinking strong saké out of a huge trencher which would hold several tubfuls. After a while the ghoul got drunk, and fell asleep. Raiko then drew his sword and cut off the monster’s head. His retainers helped him to carry it out, and it was paraded with great pomp where every one could see it. It was bigger than the great lion’s head which used to be carried through the streets of Yedo at the great festival procession of Kanda Miō Jin, which it required twenty men to carry. It had frightful horns and tusks, and devoured many people. Raiko was a Kugé, and one of the bravest warriors of all time. Brave men such as he long ago killed all the wicked things in Japan, so that good little children might go to sleep, and not be afraid of the ghouls coming to take them from papa, mamma, brothers, sisters, and grandmothers. DELIVERANCE: NIRVANA. A pilgrim through eternity— In countless births have I been born, And toiled the architect to see, Who builds my soul’s live house in scorn. Oh, painful is the road of birth By which, from house to house made o’er, Each house displays the kind and worth Of the desires I loved before. Dear architect! I now have seen thy face, And seized thy precept’s law. Of all the houses which have been Not one again my soul can draw. Thy rafters crushed, thy ridge-pole, too, Thy work, O builder, now is o’er! My spirit feels Nirvâna true, And I shall transmigrate no more.—_Buddha._ [_End of Required Reading for June._] JUNE. By ELLEN O. PECK. Open thy gates, O summer, The air is balmy and sweet, And a radiant guest is ready To enter with fairy feet. ’Tis June with her brow of sunshine, And her wealth of green and gold, With drapery graceful and flowing, And flowers in every fold. O beautiful June! Thou art come again! O month of joy! O month of pain! Thy face is the face of my darling That lies beneath thy flowers, And that comes to me with thy coming On the wings of the golden hours; The years are swift in passing But the memories fondly stay, And time has no power to rob me Though it bear my youth away; For, framed like thee in choicest gold Is the face of my love which can not grow old. Thy lilies were clasped in her fingers— Not whiter the lilies than they— When under thy skies which were weeping They laid my darling away. There I planted a delicate rose-tree, Which thy coming calls to bloom, Each year a sweet reminder Of her heart’s own sweet perfume. Not fairer the bloom of these flowers of the sun, Than the radiant life of my beautiful one.