lish people had eagerly read all that could be written about her, much in the newspapers, but much more in private letters from soldiers who had experienced her goodness. The general feeling was one of enthusiastic admiration for her; every one was talking about her; the poor singers in the streets sang songs about her songs poor, perhaps, in poetry, but rich in genuine feeling and gratitude. The Nation waited to give the heroine of the Crimea, as they called her, such a welcome home as should assure her of their thankful appreciation of her work. But it never occured to Florence Nightingale that she had done anything heroic; she had simply done, with all her heart and strength, the work which had come to her hand, and she needed no thanks or public applause. Fearing that something of the kind might be attempted, she refused the offer of the English Government of a passage home in a manof-war, and went on board a French vessel. Dressed quietly in black, and calling herself Miss Smith, she managed to remain unknown. When they reached the port, she crossed the country in the night, and escaping the crowds, soon reached her Derbyshire home. But if she avoided the public welcome which was waiting for her, she could not keep the people from expressing their love and gratitude in other ways. The queen sent her, with a letter written by her own hand, a magnificent jeweled badge. In the center was a cross, round which ran the words in golden letters, "Blessed are the merciful." A national fund was also opened, and in a few months fifty thousand pounds had been raised, four thousand of which had been sent by soldiers. Florence Nightingale decided to use the money to found a training home for nurses, and it was hoped that she herself might be its first head. But she had always been delicate, and she never sufficiently recovered from the intense strain of those two years in the Crimea to take any active part in the world's affairs. But all her thoughts and interests were still in the work, and she poured out the energy that remained to her in various pamphlets and essays and letters on the necessity for hospital reform and the training of nurses. Even when in later life she was forced to spend the greater part of her time on her couch, she still wrote and planned and helped in every way those who had her schemes in hand. Her last years were years of suffering, patiently borne. Death ended them in the year 1910 when she had reached the great age of ninety. The Nightingale Home for nurses in Westminster, London, is the best memorial we can have of her. In the entrance hall is a full-length marble statue of a woman, tall and slim, and dressed in the plain dress of a Scutari nurse. In one hand she holds a lamp, the light from which she shades with the other hand. It is "The Lady with the Lamp,” the heroine of the Crimea, Florence Nightingale. From this Home trained nurses are ever going forth, all over the world, bearing a message of health and hope to the sick and despairing, with an example before them of noblest self-sacrifice and tenderest devotion. They have realized that Florence Nightingale's work was good, not because she gave to it money and time easy enough to give if one has them in abundance, as she had-but because she gave Herself. "Don't be anxious," she once said to a young nurse, eager to excel in her profession, "to see how much you can GAIN by your training, but how much you can GIVE." And that free giving of herself and all her powers was the secret of Florence Nightingale's truly heroic life. SANTA FILOMENA HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, The tidal wave of deeper souls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low. Thus thought I, as by night I read The trenches cold and damp, The wounded from the battle plain, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Nor even shall be wanting here Saint Filomena bore. THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD H. C. WRIGHT The discovery that steam might be used as a means of moving machinery changed the ideas of man entirely, and made all kinds of unheard-of things seem at once possible. The steamboat was invented, and completely revolutionized ocean and river travel, and less than twenty years later an event occurred in England of even greater importance. This was the formal opening of the Manchester and Liverpool railroad, which took place September 15, 1830. The inventor of the locomotive, an English coal digger by the name of George Stephenson, had very early in life given signs of his great inventive genius. Through years of poverty and hardship, and disappointment of every kind, he slowly made a name for himself as one who would be likely to claim great honor for some wonderful invention. But this faith in his powers was not shared by those who would have been able to help him with money and influence, so that for years he had to struggle amid the disheartening surroundings of poverty and obscurity. But at last the merchants of Liverpool came to see what great gain such a road as Stephenson's would be to their trade, and that the success of even a small road would lead to the building of railroads all over the world, and thus immensely increase commerce and their chance of wealth. They listened with respect to this quiet man whose plans seemed to have so much of the marvellous in them, and in the end subscribed money for building the road. In December, 1826, the first spade was stuck into the ground, and from that time work went steadily on. Ste |