The boy drew his sleeve across his eyes and tottered up to the steps of the hall.  Louise fell down on her knees; Francois and his wife did the same; for myself, my temples throbbed as in fever, my hands were dry as wood, and my eyes, fixed on the conscription-urn, seemed starting out of their sockets.

Henri walked up to the box.

“Allons, mon garcon,” said the mayor, “un peu d’aplomb;” and he opened the lid.  Derblay thrust in his hand:  his face was turned toward us, and I could see him draw out his ticket and give it to the captain:  a moment’s deep silence.

“No. 3!” roared the officer; and a howl of derision from the mob covered his words.  Henri had become a soldier.

I could not well see what then followed:  there was a sudden hush, a chorus of exclamations, a rush toward the steps of the town-hall, and then the crowd fell back to make way for two gendarmes who were carrying a body between them.

“Is he dead?” asked a number of voices.

“Oh no,” tittered the two men—­“only fainted:  he’ll soon come round again.”  And the mob burst into a laugh.

E.C.  GRENVILLE MURRAY.

THE SYMPHONY.

  “O Trade!  O Trade! would thou wert dead! 
  The age needs heart—­’tis tired of head. 
  We’re all for love,” the violins said. 
  “Of what avail the rigorous tale
  Of coin for coin and box for bale? 
  Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope,
  Level red gold with blue sky-slope,
  And base it deep as devils grope,
  When all’s done what hast thou won
  Of the only sweet that’s under the sun? 
  Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh
  Of true love’s least, least ecstasy?”

  Then all the mightier strings, assembling,
  Fell a-trembling, with a trembling
  Bridegroom’s heart-beats quick resembling;
  Ranged them on the violin’s side
  Like a bridegroom by his bride,
  And, heart in voice, together cried: 
  “Yea, what avail the endless tale
  Of gain by cunning and plus by sale? 
  Look up the land, look down the land—­
  The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand
  Wedged by the pressing of Trade’s hand
  Against an inward-opening door
  That pressure tightens ever more: 
  They sigh, with a monstrous foul-air sigh,
  For the outside heaven of liberty,
  Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky
  Into a heavenly melody. 
  ‘Each day, all day’ (these poor folks say),
  ’In the same old year-long, drear-long way,
  We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns,
  We sieve mine-meshes under the hills,
  And thieve much gold from the Devil’s bank tills,
  To relieve, O God, what manner of ills?—­
  Such manner of ills as brute-flesh thrills. 
  The beasts, they hunger, eat, sleep, die,
  And so do we, and our world’s a sty;
  And, fellow-swine, why nuzzle and cry?