through a hole that followed the point of a sabre to his heart. His form is stiff and cold for he is dead. The cruel wound and icy air have done their work. The government that took his life taught this poor boy to love his native land; as a child he dreamed of scenes of glory and of power and the great, wide world just waiting to fall captive to his magic strength. He dreamed of war and strife, of victory and fame; if he should die kind hands would smooth his brow, and loving hearts would keep his grave and memory green, because he died in war. But no human eye is there at last, as the mist of night and mist of death shut out the lonely mountains from his sight. The snow is all around and the air above is gray with falling flakes, which soon will hide him from the world; and when the summer time shall come again none can tell his bleaching bones from all the rest. The only life upon the scene is the buzzard slowly circling in the air above his head, waiting to make sure that death has come. The bird looks down upon the boy into the eyes through which he first looked out upon the great wide world and which his mother fondly kissed; upon these eyes the buzzard will commence his meal.
Not all the world is beautiful, and not all of life is good. The true artist has no right to
