The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted,
Remembering what the angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With the clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.




ROWING AGAINST TIDE.

BY THEODORE WINTHROP.


[The following hitherto-unprinted fragment by Theodore Winthrop, author
of "John Brent," "The Canoe and the Saddle," "Life in the Open Air,"
and other works, was intended by him for the first chapter of a story
called "Steers Flotsam," but it has an interest of its own, and is a
complete narrative in itself.