"A boon, a boon, said the curtal Fryar,

The like I gave to thee,

To set my fist thus to my mouth,

And to whute out whutes three.

That will I do, said Robin Hood,
Or else I were to blame;
For three whutes in a fryar's fist

Will make me glad and fain."

Robin seems not to have been prepared for the four-footed opposition which "three whutes on the Fryar's fist" were destined to call up. No sooner had he whooted thrice than half a hundred great ban-dogs came running to his side; and the Friar proceeded to lay down rules for the coming combat :

"Here is for every man a dog,

And I myself for thee;

Nay, by my faith, said Robin Hood,

Good Fryar, that must not be.

Two dogs at once to Robin did go,

One behind, the other before,

And Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln green

Off from his back they tore."

This Robin may have expected; but for the scene which followed no previous experience could have prepared him; he had hitherto found nothing but steel to resist his shafts. His men turned their arrows at once on their four-footed adversaries:

"But whether his men shot east and west,

Or they shot north and south,
The curtal dogs, so taught they were,

Caught the arrows in their mouth."

Little John was less amazed at this than his master. "Take off thy dogs, Fryar," he exclaimed, "else evil will befal both them and thee.""Who art thou?" said the Friar, emboldened by the battle having hitherto gone in his favour; "whose man art thou that comes here to prate to me?"-"I am Little John, and Robin Hood is my master," replied he; and as he spoke he shot his arrows with such dexterity that half a score of the Friar's dogs fell dead, each by a single shaft. thy hand, good fellow," cried the Friar; " 'thy master and I shall

"Hold

agree;

shoot no more, I pray thee."

"This curtal Fryar kept Fountain's Dale

For seven long years and more,

And there was never a knight nor lord

Could make him yield before."

LEGEND OF THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. (FROM THE GERMAN.)

In the chamber of the Archbishop of Cologne, two men were standing before a table that was covered with parchments and designs. They were the Archbishop Conrad Von Hochsteden and his master-builder. The former scanned attentively all the plans and drawings which the master laid, one by one, before him, then brushed them aside, and said, "None of all these. Thy plans do not please me. Some are old, others are too simple, others again look like Grecian temples; altogether they are trivial and insignificant. No, master; we will build a cathedral, the like of which is not in the world; a cathedral that shall excite more astonishment than the Pyramids of Egypt and the temples of the heathen Greeks; a cathedral in which God will delight to dwell, for it will be worthy of his power and omnipotence; worthy as a building reared by the hand of man can be worthy of Him. Take hence thy drawings, master; reflect, ponder closely, closely, and sketch me a plan that will content me."

The master gathered his drawings together thoughtfully, while the Archbishop continued: "My predecessor, the sainted Engelbert, had formed the design to build a cathedral which should excel all the sacred edifices that now stand in Christendom. From far and wide were the faithful Christians to make the pilgrimage to Cologne, to a temple which should be the first in the world. He has often spoken with me of this thought; his purpose has become my inheritance, and I must bring it to completion. Reflect upon the immortal fame that awaits thee if it be thy lot to perfect the master-work. Upon a brazen tablet thou mayst carve thy name, and place it in the midst of the cathedral, that it may proclaim the builder to all coming generations."

The master's eye shone with ambitious joy, and he cried ardently, "My gracious lord, so be it. Already the majestic edifice stands in thought before my eyes; I see the turrets stretching towards heaven; I hear the tones of the gigantic bells echo far and wide, calling upon the faithful to come and receive the blessings of the church. And they come by thousands and thousands, and find room in the vast halls, and all listen to the sounds of the mighty organ, which, rolling and thundering, proclaims the praise of the Almighty."

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And the Archbishop hearkened with pleasure, but suddenly a dark cloud passed across the master's face. 'Thy brow contradicts thy words," said the Archbishop. "Thou dost speak loudly and of great things, while doubt and faint-heartedness are pictured in thy face."

But the master said softly, "It will need unmeasured wealth to rear the building worthily, and whence is this to come?"

“That shall be my care, thou man of little faith,” said the Archbishop, confidently. "I myself am rich, and I will willingly become poor for the sake of such a work. My chapter is rich; rich is this good city of Cologne, and it will not play the miser when it concerns a work that will render it the first city in Christendom. Believe me, many will open their coffers, and there will be no want of gold and silver to decorate the temple worthily."

The master's countenance brightened somewhat at these words, and he said: "Thou dost speak of honour and of fame, my gracious lord; but years will pass before the edifice is completed, many years; and the life of man is short. Shall I live to behold the building in its perfected glory ?"

"Then the Archbishop turned quickly and cried: "Oh, thou blind, vain-hearted man! will not the work be thy work, even though others put the last hand thereto? wilt not thou lay the foundations, and erect the first walls and pillars, and others only build the roof, after thy plan, after thy thought? the plan, the thought, brings the fame, not the last completion; and if thy plan be so great that the life of one man suffices not to finish it, it is therefore the more glorious; for he is but of a petty soul who counts upon the shadow and the fruits of the tree which he is planting. Besides, thou art young, and canst yet bring much to perfection."

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Then the master's eyes gleamed with ardour. He fell at the Archbishop's feet, and said, Yes, thou art right; I was foolish and blinded. Well, then, I will begin the task. My life has found its aim; with God's help, to the work! Give me thy blessing!" The Archbishop raised his hands to bless him, when the door was thrown open, and a knight rushed into the chamber with happy tidings of a far different nature. The Archbishop joyfully bade him welcome. The kneeling man rose and went his way. All this happened in the year of our Lord 1247.

ABOUT half a year might have passed since the conversation in the preceding chapter; the master was sitting in his chamber, with a piece of parchment before him, upon which he had partly drawn a plan. His face was pale, his cheeks sunken, his eyes dim, for he had passed many nights in fruitless pondering. When he sat before the parchment, with the pencil in his hand, the lines which he drew would not shape themselves into a whole. When he wandered alone along the banks of the Rhine, he thought always and ever upon his plan; but when he conceived that a beam of light illumined the chaos of his thoughts, and that now the lines which swam in mingled confusion before his mind

would assume order, then the fame and honour of his name occurred to him, his ideas lost their connexion, and he revelled in the prospect of future renown, while he in vain endeavoured to grasp the present, the commencement, the plan.

When at night he tossed restlessly upon his couch, the form of a gigantic structure, it is true, shaped itself before his soul in half-waking visions; and had he been able to hold it firm, in a calm and quiet dream, the remembrance thereof might have remained with him on waking; but other images ever thrust themselves between, and effaced all clearness.

He then saw his monument in the church, and upon it his name in letters of gold. He saw a devout crowd stand around, and heard them say: "Here rests the great master who built this cathedral; let us pray for his soul!" And all kneeled and prayed for him, the immortal master. Then, when he awoke, a sudden pain would shoot through his breast; for it had been a dream only, and the building was not yet begun.

Thus had he toiled for six months; and the longer he pondered, the more ardent his desire to complete his plan; and the oftener messengers came from the Archbishop to know whether he would not soon begin the building, so much the more confused became his thoughts. Anguish of soul came upon him, a fear that he would never complete his work, and the blood boiled feverishly in his veins. Thus he sat again before the parchment, despairing of himself, of his art, of his power; he could not grasp a single thought, and sad gloom lay upon the soul of the young and mighty master.

Then the door was opened, and Master Schmidt, the silversmith, entered; and behind him came two apprentices, bearing the great brazen tablet which the master-builder had ordered, while still glowing with the first inspiration for his work, and—his renown.

And the silversmith said: "Here is the tablet, master, which thou didst order. Thy name is cut deeply in large letters, and beneath it runs, that thou didst begin the building of the great cathedral in the year of our Lord 1248." The master constrained the smith to go, for a blush of shame stood upon his face.

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When he was alone, he considered the tablet, and a stream of hot tears burst from his eyes; and he said to himself, in bitter scorn: Oh, thou great master, thou wise master! thou dost pluck the fruit before the tree is planted; thou dost keep the wedding before thou hast the bride; thou wouldst enjoy the victory before thou hast won the battle. Oh, thou prudent master, thou wise master! thou art come to the end before thou hast made a beginning! Oh, thou immortal master! eternal fame thou canst not miss; the tablet with thy name is here—the cathedral alone is wanting!"

And he laughed aloud in mockery and despair, while bitter tears fell down his cheeks.

Again steps echoed in the outer chamber, and an aged servant of the Archbishop came to him and said: "My gracious master sends thee greeting, and invites thee to visit him in Bonn. He has discovered a quarry on the Drachenfels, which abounds with a fair reddish stone. He would have thee examine the stone, and if it is suitable, the new cathedral shall be built thereof. Moreover, the Archbishop hopes that thy plan will soon be perfected."

The master stood with averted countenance to conceal his glowing face, and he replied, in a low voice, that he would do the Archbishop's will. And when the servant was gone, he walked hastily to and fro in the chamber, and said to himself: "It must be done; it must be done! Scorn and shame await me if my skill prove wanting now. Then another will come, will rear the cathedral, and I—laughed at and mocked! No! I must, must be the builder; I must invent the plan, though my soul's welfare be the price!”

Then the brazen tablet fell clashing from the chair to the ground; the master snatched his cap from the wall, and rushed from the chamber.

AMID the mountains of the Siebengebirges, the Drachenfels towers steep and lofty, affording a wide view of the fair valley of the Rhine. On a spring day, in the year 1248, a man of grave and earnest countenance slowly ascended the mountain, often pausing, lost in deep thought. It was the master, who was on his way to examine the quarry, from the stones of which the new cathedral was to be built. His errand seemed to him a bitter mockery at himself, for he had now no hope that he should be the builder. The Archbishop, angry at his long delay, had resolved to send for another master, but, at last, had granted him a short respite, at the end of which the plan must be ready, and the building begun. The master had accepted the respite, which on the morrow would be at an end; he had just left the Archbishop, and, overpowered by the deepest anguish, had told him that the plan was ready, and that he would lay it before him on the morrow.

Already all was life and animation about the spot chosen for the building. The stonecutters, the masons, the handicraftsmen of all kinds were hired, and had already assembled from near and far; the wagons, the implements, the machines, and whatever else was necessary to the work, lay in readiness, and to-morrow they were to begin to dig the pit in which the foundation wall was to be laid.

And still the plan was not ready. The idea of the building hovered before the master, the form of the cathedral stood in faint outlines before his soul; but in spite of all his thinking and pondering, these outlines would not assume a clear and definite shape. The ground plan was to