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humor. So I thrust my hand into my purse, and paid them all to their full satisfaction.

That evil fellow, my mortal foe, Messer Pier Francesco Ricci, major-domo of the duke, took great pains to find out how the affair had gone. In answer to his questions, the two men whom I suspected of having caked my metal for me, said I was no man, but of a certainty some powerful devil, since I had accomplished what no craft of the art could do; indeed they did not believe a mere ordinary fiend could work such miracles as I in other ways had shown. They exaggerated the whole affair so much, possibly in order to excuse their own part of it, that the major-domo wrote an account to the duke, who was then in Pisa, far more marvelous and full of thrilling incidents than what they had narrated.

After I had let my statue cool for two whole days, I began to uncover it by slow degrees. The first thing I found was that the head of Medusa had come out most admirably, thanks to the air-vents; for, as I had told the duke, it is the nature of fire to ascend. Upon advancing farther, I discovered that the other head that, namely, of Perseus - had succeeded no less admirably; and this astonished me far more, because it is at a considerably lower level than that of the Medusa. Now the mouths of the mold were placed above the head of Perseus and behind his shoulders; and I found that all the bronze my furnace contained had been exhausted in the head of this figure. It was a miracle to observe that not one fragment remained in the orifice of the channel, and that nothing was wanting to the statue. In my

great astonishment, I seemed to see in this the hand of God arranging and controlling all.

I went on uncovering the statue with success, and ascertained that everything had come out in perfect order, until I reached the foot of the right leg on which the statuę rests. There the heel itself was formed, and going farther, I found the foot apparently complete. This gave me great joy on the one side, but was half unwelcome to me on the other, merely because I had told the duke that it could not come out. However, when I reached the end, it appeared that the toes and a little piece above them were unfinished, so that about half the foot was wanting. Although I knew that this would add a trifle to my labor, I was very well pleased, because I could now prove to the duke how well I understood my business. It is true that far more of the foot than I expected had been perfectly formed; the reason of this was that, from causes I have recently described, the bronze was hotter than our rules of art prescribed; also that I had been obliged to supplement the alloy with my pewter cups and platters, which no one else, I think, had ever done before.

Having now ascertained how successfully my work had been accomplished, I lost no time in hurrying to Pisa, where I found the duke. He gave me a most gracious reception, as did also the duchess; and although the major-domo had informed them of the whole proceedings, their excellencies deemed my performance far more stupendous and astonishing when they heard the tale from my own mouth. When I arrived at the foot of Perseus,

and said it had not come out perfect, just as I had previously warned his excellency, I saw an expression of wonder pass over his face, while he related to the duchess how I had predicted this beforehand. Observing the princes to be so well disposed toward me, I begged leave from the duke to go to Rome. He granted it in most obliging terms, and bade me return as soon as possible to complete his Perseus.

EACH AND ALL

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hilltop looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one;

Nothing is fair or good alone.

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(Born in 1794; died in 1878.)

WHEN We read the poems of William Cullen Bryant, we do not need to be told that he grew up in the country. His boyhood home, the little town of Cummington, Massachusetts, is in a beautiful part of the Berkshire Hills. "From my father's door," he writes, "in the latter

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