of his murder and how to find his grave. In the morning she
found the grave and took the skull and kissed it. "Then in a
silken scarf she wrapped it up, and for its tomb did choose a
garden-pot wherein she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and
o'er set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept wet." Her brothers
discovered why she sat so constant by her pot of Basil and fled
from the city. Isabella pined and died with these pitiful words
upon her lips: "O cruelty, to steal my Basil-pot away from me."

Space forbids us to tell of the many beautiful works of art or
the inspiration to be had by contemplating them, but a trip to
Boston is not complete unless we take away lasting memories of
the famous masterpieces to be seen here.

While visiting the university buildings of Harvard we saw the
photographs of men who had sacrificed their lives during the
World War. Our thoughts wandered far away and we seemed to see a
road that led through Verdun to the front. Its beginning was an
avenue of stately buckeye trees in their autumn livery of faded
green and gold. Back and forth along this road went Red Cross
ambulances on their ceaseless journeys of mercy. The sky that
should have been blue and fair was filled with gray smoke. The
air that in times of peace throbbed with the notes of the lark
now trembled with the report of heavy guns and crashing shells.
Great sheets of camouflage stretched along the road to screen
the view.

One day while making an advance in the Argonne forest, taking
the place of a captain who had been killed, Lieut. Harry Hanley
of Boston fell upon the field of battle. His hip had been