St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5 | Page 3

King of England) as sovereign; and she set out with an army to meet her husband. The poor child was bitterly disappointed upon learning that the rumor was false, and her husband was still a prisoner, and before long she also was again a prisoner of Henry IV., this time closely guarded.
In a few months Richard was murdered in prison by order of King Henry, and his queen's childish figure was shrouded in the heavy crape of her widow's dress. Her superb jewelry was taken from her and divided among the children of Henry IV., and she was placed in still closer captivity. Her father, the King of France, sent to demand that she should return to him, but for a long time King Henry refused his consent. Meantime, she received a second offer of marriage from--strange to say--the son of the man who had killed her husband and made her a prisoner, but a handsome, dashing young prince, Harry of Monmouth, often called "Madcap Hal." Perhaps you have read, or your parents have read to you, extracts from Shakspeare's "Henry IV.," so that you know of the wild exploits of the Prince of Wales with his friends, in turning highwayman and stealing purses from travelers, often saying,
"Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?"
and finding himself in prison sometimes as a result of such amusements? Isabella was a child of decided character, and truly devoted to the memory of her husband, and much as she had enjoyed her rank she refused to continue it by marrying handsome Madcap Hal, although he offered himself to her several times, and even as she was embarking for France.
Poor little Isabella, who had left France so brilliantly, returned a sad child-widow, and all that remained to her of her former splendor was a silver drink-cup and a few saucers. As Shakspeare says:
"My queen to France, from whence set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or shortest day."
She was received throughout France with joy, and tears of sympathy.
When Isabella was eighteen. Madcap Hal again offered his hand to her, supposing she had forgotten her former prejudice, but although she married again she was so far faithful to the memory of her English husband that she would not accept the son of his murderer. Some years later, when Prince Hal was king, he married her beautiful sister Katherine.
Isabella's second husband was her cousin, the Duke of Orleans, whose beautiful poems are considered classic in France. Again she was the joy of her family and the pride of France, but all her happiness was destined to be fleeting, for she survived her marriage only one year. Her husband, who loved her fondly, wrote after her death:
"Alas! Death, who made thee so bold, To take from me my lovely princess, Who was my comfort, my life, My good, my pleasure, my riches? Alas! I am lonely, bereft of my mate-- Adieu! my lady, my lily! Our loves are forever severed."
And in another poem, full of expressions that show how very devoted was his affection for her, he says:
"Above her lieth spread a tomb Of gold and sapphires blue, The gold doth show her blessedness, The sapphires mark her true.
"And round about, in quaintest guise, Was carved--'Within this tomb there lies The fairest thing to mortal eyes.'"
Farewell, sweet Isabella!--a wife at eight, a widow at twelve, and dead at twenty-two,--your life was indeed short, and, though not without happy days, sorrow blended largely with its joy!

CHASED BY WOLVES
BY GEORGE DUDLEY LAWSON.
Some forty years ago the northern part of the State of New York was very sparsely settled. In one of the remote counties, which for a name's sake we will call Macy County, a stout-hearted settler, named Devins, posted himself beyond the borders of civilization, and hewed for his little family a home in the heart of a forest that extended all the way from Lake Champlain to Lake Ontario. His nearest neighbor was six miles away, and the nearest town nearly twenty; but the Devinses were so happy and contented that the absence of company gave them no concern.
It was a splendid place to live in. In summer the eye ranged from the slope where the sturdy pioneer had built his house over miles and miles of waving beech and maple woods, away to the dark line of pines on the high ground that formed the horizon. In the valley below, Otter Creek, a tributary of the St. Lawrence, wound its sparkling way northward. When Autumn painted the scene in brilliant hues, and it lay glowing under the crimson light of October sunsets, the dullest observer could not restrain bursts of admiration.
Mr. Devins's first attack on the stubborn forest had been over the brow of the hill, some four