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It was afternoon, and the sky was gray;
Peacefully still the North Sea lay;
Far as the watchful eye had seen
There was no sign of a submarine-
Nothing at all that could hint of harm
There on the broad Atlantic's arm.
The English seaplane, patrolling by
Like a mighty bird 'twixt sea and sky,
Swung round and headed for its base.
Suddenly, fear blanched the pilot's face-
The huge craft plunged like a wounded thing,

Righted itself, and plunged again;

And down to the sea, with its freight of men,
It fell with a broken wing.



Up from the wreckage rose a shout:
"The pigeons, boys! Send the pigeons out!"
Caged in their basket they were found,
Chilled and dripping, and two of them drowned;
Yet one remained, and an officer pressed
Its little body against his breast,
And warmed and dried it, its life to save.
But dusk was creeping over the wave-
They could not wait—the bird must be sent;
For the plane with its motor and armament
Would not float long, they knew too well,
And the sequel only the sea would tell.

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They wrote a message, and made it fast
To one slender leg; then the bird was cast
Into the air from the pilot's hand.

But all hearts sank when they saw it drop;
Then, just at the wave it seemed to stop
And gather its strength for a splendid flight;
It rose-and, heading toward the land,
It disappeared from sight!

* *
The Royal Air Force Pigeon Station

On England's coast stood facing the sea;
And bronzed young Britishers, serving their nation,

Sat in the mess-room drinking tea.
A raw wind round the buildings lashed,
And a drizzling mist 'gainst the windows dashed.
But little they heeded the stormy night;
The fire on the hearth was burning bright,
And they chatted and laughed in its cheery light.
One had a humorous tale to tell-

Suddenly all in the room were still,

And each one listening felt a thrill At the ringing call of a bell,

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The insistent call that to them made known
A pigeon back to the trap had flown.
A soldier set down his cup of tea,

And went to the loft. They saw him stand

Holding a little wet bird in his hand. 'Ere, set this bloomin' pigeon,” said he, "On the 'arth till it dries.” And then he bent Over a paper, all intent; And quickly the men its meaning caught As he read the message the bird had brought:

“Machine wrecked and breaking up fifteen miles southeast of Rocky Point. Send boat.” Two men reached for their oilskins then; A door opened, and closed again; And the others sat back and sipped their tea;

And up to them there by the hearth-fire's flame

The put-put-put of a motor came, As the boat swung out to sea.

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THE golden light of a delayed-spring sun lay For the first time in many decades the counover the world. It yellowed the early tips of try found itself possessed of a ruler loved by millions of blades of wheat in the rich plains; noble and peasant alike. He had been prince it flung diamonds among the myriads of peb- of Transylvania before his election as king, bles in the swift stream bed; it showered like and knew the ways of Galicians and Cossacks raindrops through the interlacings of soft, as well as the manners of Cracow and Warnew, pitchy green needles of the forest pines. saw. The Cossacks, always an independent

High up on the green hill it touched the people, subject to no nation long, he had bronze cross on the church tower, turning it sought to win over to Poland by kindness to gold; crept in through the stained-glass and persuasion, and to such a degree was he windows to flood the cold stone flaggings successful that large numbers of them were with color, spreading, too, an effulgence over enlisted in his service. But he had a crafty the bright banners that flanked the marble opponent in Ivan the Terrible, of Muscovy, altar. One solitary ray, which stole in and at this time much of the Cossack allethrough a small round aperture in the roof, giance was doubtful. As far as the Bug rested flickering, as if reflected from a pool of River, Batory's kingship was unquestioned; water, upon a shield of red, hung on a high but beyond that, the country was treacherpillar, on which was escutcheoned in white ous and at all times dangerous to good Poles, a rampant bear, carrying in its fore paws a although many thousands of them lived in pennant, and on it was engraved the single that region, trusting to the good temper of word “Chelm," the name of the town and prowling chieftains, to whom they paid much canton.

tribute. Cossack friends of to-day, however, In the streets below were many carts might prove terrible enemies of to-morrow. with small wheels, returning, emptied of In the very heart of the town of Chelm, early vegetables, from the market. By close to the Bug River, which has ever been a their sides trudged peasants in costumes of barrier against too great Cossack invasion, many colors -men with high boots, or bare- young Adam, the apprentice of Stanislaus footed, wearing knee-trousers, adorned with Bryck, the blacksmith, was working, hammer many a stripe, and loose jackets of red or in hand, over a large anvil. He was about blue; in them rode old men or women, with nineteen, but his great stature and muscular children by their side, chattering, laughing, limbs gave him the appearance of a matured conversing gaily or singing. An occasional man. The smithy was an old stone structure, wayfarer in an ox-drawn cart puffed over an its sooty walls blackened by years of use. accordion or strummed a knee-harp with its One side of the smithy opened directly to dozen strings. To see them, one would the main street, where the gamins used to readily believe that the Golden Age had gather to watch Adam at work. Two of the come again, instead of merely the annual other walls were solid, but on the fourth side a approach of summer, rushing across Russia door opened upon a little court, cobbled, and breaking out through the river valleys of across which, distant about a hundred feet, Poland, gladdening all hearts and pouring stood the square, yellow brick dwelling of the fires of East and South into them.

Stanislaus the Smith. Adam's boyish blue It was the year 1580, four years after the eyes, raised for the moment from the red of choice of Stefan Batory as king of Poland. the fire and the blackness of the anvil, were

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