The content, the quiet, the plenty of the Russian earth, "The Country"; the insignificance of man, "A Conversation"; there is no escape from death, "The Old Woman"; the tie between man and the animals, "The Dog"; death reconciles old enemies, "The Last Meeting"; Nature's indifference to man, "Nature"; the beauty of untroubled, innocent youth, "How Fair and Fresh were the Roses"; the genius of poesy, "A Visit"; the joy of giving and taking, "Alms"; the rich misjudge the poor, "Cabbage Soup"; we always pray for miracles, "Prayer"; Christ is in all men, "Christ"; the immortal hour of genius, "Stay"; love and hunger, "The Two Brothers"; such are a few of the subjects of the _Poems in Prose_. The permanent appeal of these exquisite little pieces lies in their soft, deep humanity and emotional freshness, while æsthetically they are marked by the broad warm touch in which Turgenev indicates the infinite lights and tones of living nature. Turgenev's supremacy in style rests, indeed, precisely here, in this faculty of concentrating in a few broad sweeping touches, a wealth of tones which, producing an individual effect, makes a universal appeal to feeling. It is mysterious, this faculty of so massing and concentrating your effect that one detailed touch does the work of half a dozen. Turgenev alone among his contemporaries had mastered this secret of Greek art. It is the emotional breadth, imparted in ease, sureness, and flexibility of stroke, that distinguishes the _Poems in Prose_ from all other examples of the genre. Fresh as the rain, soft as the petal of a flower, warm as the touch of love is "The Rose," so simple, yet so complete in its message. "THE ROSE "The last days of August.... Autumn was already at hand. "The sun was setting. A sudden downpour of rain, without thunder or lightning, had just passed rapidly over our wide plain. "The garden in front of the house glowed and steamed, all filled with the fire of the sunset and the deluge of rain. "She was sitting at a table in the drawing-room, and with persistent dreaminess, gazing through the half-open door into the garden. "I knew what was passing at that moment in her soul; I knew that, after a brief but agonising struggle, she was at that instant giving herself up to a feeling she could no longer master. "All at once she got up, went quickly out into the garden, and disappeared. "An hour passed ... a second; she had not returned. "Then I got up, and, going out of the house, I turned along the walk by which--of that I had no doubt--she had gone. "All was darkness about me; the night had already fallen. But on the damp sand of the path a roundish object could be discerned--bright red even through the mist. "I stooped down. It was a fresh, new-blown rose. Two hours before I had seen this very rose on her bosom.