Page:Scribner's Monthly, Volume 12 (May–October 1876).djvu/217

Rh with every foot of the hill-side, and the existence of this ancient prospecting " hole " had never been even suspected by him. While he was still gazing at the opening, his foot struck against some glittering metallic substance. He stooped and picked up a small tin can, not larger than a sardine box, hermetically sealed and soldered, or> which some inscription had been traced, but which he could not decipher for the darkness of the tunnel. In the faint hope that it might contain something of benefit to his companion, Gabriel returned to the opening and even ventured to step beyond its shadow. But all attempts to read the inscription were in vain. He opened the box with a sharp stone; it contained, to his great disappointment, only a memorandum-book and some papers. He swept them into the pockets of his blouse, and re-entered the tunnel. He had not been absent, altogether, more than five minutes, but when he reached the place where he had left Jack, he was gone! (To be continued.)

"SILENCE IS GOLDEN." IT is the sweet warm rain in silence dropping, That sinks with freshening power ; Not the wild wind-borne storm, or driving torrent, Which breaks the tender flower. It is the keen, quick lightning, sharp and silent, That splinters, scathes, and kills; Not the huge bellowing of the noisy thunder, Echoing among the hills ! It is the still, small voice, whose silent pleading Persuades the deepmost heart ; Not the loud speech, the hoarse and vulgar jargon, The rude stentorian art. The mightiest forces in the world around us, We neither hear nor see ; The shallow brooklet, pent among its eddies, Babbles unceasingly. The stars march on in their eternal courses, Uttering no voice or sound ; The rushing meteor flies explodes in ether, Falls hissing to the ground The human soul, whose grasp is widest, grandest, Of things in heaven and earth, Discovers not its royal truths and treasures, In hours of noisy mirth. The heart of love, bereaved, yet uncomplaining, Bowed o'er the fresh-turned sod, Hears whispered forth, " Be still, my son, my daughter, And know that I am God!"