See it divide again and again "in unnumbered crossing tides." See See the network of arteries which the crimson jets from the heart fill.

Then, having penetrated to every point of the body, the blood deposits in little cells which it finds there tiny particles of nourishment. These are to be the new bone, muscle, nerve, and cartilage.

All the old particles which have lost their freshness it sweeps out and carries on. These particles are good food for the fresh air furnish heat for the body.

to seize. They

Thus "kindling each decaying part," the blood returns to the heart to start anew. So it makes its journeys, one every three minutes. What do the journeys accomplish? They build the bones, those

"Living marbles, jointed strong

With glistening band and silvery thong."

Did you ever see the silvery ligaments and shining cartilage which pass over joints and bind them so nicely? All these the blood builds up from hour to hour. But nerves run through the bones and give them feeling. So there must be some connection with the brain. They must be, as Dr. Holmes says they are, "linked to reason's guiding reins."

The spinal column, with its twenty-four separate bones, each a strong ring, provides the means of

connection. All the rings together build a long channel through which a large nerve called the spinal cord passes from the brain.

The eye, too, is built up from the blood. Do you know what there is in a beam of sunlight? Look at it through a triangular piece of glass. You will see it has seven colors like a rainbow. If light should be separated by the eye, how confused objects would appear! Yet never by any chance do the seven rays go astray.

The ear, too, is built from the blood. It has wonderful equipments, arches, winding passages, tiny cords, fine bristles, and clear fluids with little floating granules.

Some one sings. The air is set to vibrating. Its vibrations strike the ear. They enter the arches and spirals, and are carried by the cords, bristles, and granules to the nerve of hearing. This conveys them to the brain.

So far they are only vibrations. But now the brain perceives them as music, music so beautiful that it is heaven to hear it.

But even the brain, "the cloven sphere,' is built up by the blood. This most wonderful of all organs is a large sphere of soft gray and white matter lying in deep folds, enclosed in wrappings, both fine and coarse, and divided vertically through the middle. The meat of a walnut is a good representation of it.

In these, "mysterious folds" thought is somehow developed. Here feeling resides. From here, the will sends forth its commands. Our passions, "the stormy world" of love and hate, joy and sorrow, all lie locked in their own particular cells. Hollow, glossy nerves, passing from the brain, carry the brain force like "lightning gleams of power" along their threads.

A marvellous structure truly is this body, much more marvellous to us after we have looked upon it with the help of Dr. Holmes. Truly it is a temple to be kept pure.

Therefore the poet, full of reverence for this sacred possession, implores divine love to control these "mystic temples." He thinks of the time when age and care will have worn out the body. He knows that some time the leaning walls of this temple will be sapped, its pillars will fall, darkness will gather over it, and it will turn to dust.

He implores that then the dust of these temples may be moulded by the hand of the Creator into "heavenly forms."

Shall we not think more highly of our bodies, guarding them like a temple?

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago-

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin
At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,

Let them smile as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.