1. Though Kalja the Finnish taste may suit, For this it seems a sorry substitute. 2. Those Finns who read their books most, dread the least This long-named catechising by the priest. 3. In Tellemachen, so her pages tell One coachman spoke this, though not very well. 4. Remember Nyslott, also where The English ladies lodged while there. 5. This we gather, for “to the” Norse equivalent to be. 6. In Finland the cow of this is the source, Which is comparative only, of course. 7. Weird poems of a bygone time Written on parchment black with grime. 8. We here must Fridtjof Nansen name As this for ever known to fame. 9. His hand it was that, rising from the wave, Dragged Lopt the sinner to a wat’ry grave. 10. With a terrific bang and mighty crash, Full into this they felt the steamer smash. 11. To study this Iceland is not the place, No butterflies, few insects there you trace. CHAP. 1. Al E. Through Finland in Carts 2 2. Lukukinkeri T. “ “ “ 16 3. Englis H. A Winter’s Jaunt in Norway 8 4. Castl E. Through Finland in Carts 11 5. Ti L. A Winter’s Jaunt in Norway 49 6. Wealt H. Through Finland in Carts 16 7. Edd A. A Girl’s Ride through Iceland 13 8. Explore R. A Winter Jaunt in Norway 12 9. Devi L. A Girl’s Ride in Iceland 6 10. Ice flo E. A Winter’s Jaunt in Norway 1 11. Entomolog Y. A Girl’s Ride Through Iceland 4 This is another, composed by the late Major Martin Hume, the historian: E astward bound to the Cuban coast T hree tiny galleots ran H omeward bearing a beaten host E scaped from Yucatan. L eft behind in the sleep of death A gallant half remain L ured to doom, but with dying breath E xalting Christ and Spain. C oarse and poor were the trophies gained, T rinkets of tarnished dross, W oe! for the land with blood they stained E nslaved to greed and cross E ndowed with grace, from old New Spain D o _you_ rich trophies bring I n gentle words that friendship gain E ntail no pain or sting. Most of us have known or heard of such a lesser tragedy as the following, and thanked our stars it had not happened to one of our own kin. “What are you crying for?” asked the manageress of an hotel. The girl she addressed was a fragile, pretty creature of nineteen or twenty, looking more as if a puff of wind would blow her away than as if she was capable of doing the dirty work of a kitchenmaid. “Oh, nothing, thank you,” replied the tearful voice. “I hurt my finger, but it will be all right in a moment.” The manageress eyed her critically. The polite reply, the refined speech and tone of voice, were all so unlike anything she was accustomed to in the kitchen department that they struck her as strange.