Yet she sang, as oft she had

When her heart was gay and glad,

Sang because she felt alone,

Sang because her soul had grown

Weary with the tedious day,

Sang to while the hours away:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Where the fitful gaslight falls

On her father's massive walls.

On the chill and silent street

Where the lights and shadows meet,

There the lady's voice was heard,

As the breath of night was stirred

With her tones so sweet and clear,

Wafting up to God that prayer:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Wandering, homeless thro' the night,

Praying for the morning light,

Pale and haggard, wan and weak,

With sunken eye and hollow cheek

Went a woman, one whose life

Had been wrecked in sin and strife;

One, a lost and only child,

One by sin and shame defiled;

And her heart with sorrow wrung,

Heard the lady when she sung:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Pausing, low her head she bent,

And the music as it went

Pierced her blackened soul, and brought

Back to her (as lost in thought

Tremblingly she stood) the past,

And the burning tears fell fast,

As she called to mind the days

When she walked in virtue's ways.

When she sang that very song

With no sense of sin or wrong:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!"

On the marble steps she knelt,

And her soul that moment felt

More than she could speak, as there

Quivering, moved her lips in prayer,

And the God she had forgot

Smiled upon her lonely lot;

Heard her as she murmured oft,

With an accent sweet and soft:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Little knew the lady fair,

As she sung in silence there,

That her voice had pierced a soul

That had lived 'neath sin's control!

Little knew, when she had done,

That a lost and erring one

Heard her--as she breathed that strain--

And returned to God again!

_F. L. Stanton._

* * * * *

BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.

It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven,

for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing

through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what

sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how

well it is played!"

It was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. The

player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break,

then the voice sobbing: "I can not play any more--it is so beautiful, it is

so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to

go to the concert at Cologne!"

"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no

remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."

"You are right; and yet I wish, for once in my life, to hear some really

good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.

"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"

"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling--

genius--understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it!" And

before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him,

leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl,

with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were

cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as

we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I

am a musician."

The girl blushed and the young man looked grave--somewhat annoyed.

"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You

wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for you?"

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and

pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a

moment, and all smiled involuntarily.

"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and

we have no music."

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein--"

He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that

she was blind.

"I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before.

Then you play from ear?"

"Entirely."

"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"

"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two

years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I

walked to and fro outside to listen to her."

She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly

before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first

chord than I knew what would follow--how grand he would be that night! And

I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him

play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired;

and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the

very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid

aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her

hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the

harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break

the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a

strange dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went

out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of

brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the

illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his

ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his

breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation.

It was thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet

reverently--"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are

you?"

The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently,

kingly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony

in F.

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,

"Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "Play to us once more

--only once more!"

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone

brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and

massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up

thoughtfully to the sky and stars--then his hands dropped on the keys, and

he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently

over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.

This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time--a sort of

grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a

swift _agitato finale_--a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement,

descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which

carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder.

"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning

towards the door; "farewell to you."

"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.

He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the

blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give

the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their

door till we were out of sight and hearing.

"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata

while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past

day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we

are all so fondly acquainted.

* * * * *

OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.

I, who was always counted, they say,

Rather a bad stick any way,

Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,

Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"

I, the truant, saucy and bold,

The one black sheep in my father's fold,

"Once on a time," as the stories say,

Went over the hill on a winter's day--

_Over the hill to the poor-house._

Tom could save what twenty could earn;

But _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn;

Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak--

Committed a hundred verses a week;

Never forgot, an' never slipped;

But "Honour thy father and mother" he skipped;

So _over the hill to the poor-house!_

As for Susan, her heart was kind

An' good--what there was of it, mind;

Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,

Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice

For one she loved; an' that 'ere one,

Was herself, when all was said an' done;

An' Charley, an' Becca meant well, no doubt,

But any one could pull 'em about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,

Save one poor fellow, and that was me;

An' when, one dark an' rainy night,

A neighbour's horse went out o' sight,

They hitched on me, as the guilty chap

That carried one end o' the halter-strap.

An' I think, myself, that view of the case

Wasn't altogether out o' place;

My mother denied it, as mothers do,

But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true.

Though for me one thing might be said--

That I, as well as the horse, was led;

And the worst of whiskey spurred me on,

Or else the deed would have never been done.

But the keenest grief I ever felt

Was when my mother beside me knelt,

An' cried and prayed, till I melted down,

As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.

I kissed her fondly, then an' there,

An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence--a bitter pill

Some fellows should take who never will;

And then I decided to go "out West,"

Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;

Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,

But Fortune seemed to like me well,

An' somehow every vein I struck

Was always bubbling over with luck.

An' better than that, I was steady an' true,

An' put my good resolutions through.

But I wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said,

"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,

An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,

Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbour he wrote to me,

"Your mother's in the poor house," says he,

I had a resurrection straightway,

An' started for her that very day.

And when I arrived where I was grown,

I took good care that I shouldn't be known;

But I bought the old cottage, through and through,

Off some one Charley had sold it to;

And held back neither work nor gold,

To fix it up as it was of old.

The same big fire-place, wide and high,

Flung up its cinders toward the sky;

The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf--

I wound it an' set it agoin' myself;

And if everything wasn't just the same,

Neither I nor money was to blame;

Then--_over the hill to the poor-house!_

One blowin', blusterin', winter's day,

With a team an' cutter I started away;

My fiery nags was as black as coal;

(They some'at resembled the horse I stole);

I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door--

A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;

She rose to her feet in great surprise,

And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;

I saw the whole of her trouble's trace

In the lines that marred her dear old face;

"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!

You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,

Come _over the hill from the poor-house!_"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,

An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.

An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,

An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;

An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,

An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,

To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,

An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;

An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,

In spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers,

Who often said, as I have heard,

That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;

(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,

For all of them owe me more or less;)

But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man

In always a-doin' the best he can;

That whether on the big book, a blot

Gets over a fellow's name or not,

Whenever he does a deed that's white,

It's credited to him fair and right.

An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,

An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;

However they may settle my case,

Wherever they may fix my place,

My good old Christian mother, you'll see,

Will be sure to stand right up for me,

With _over the hill from the poor-house_.

_Will Carleton_.

* * * * *

THE WORLD FROM THE SIDEWALK.

Did you ever stand in the crowded street,

In the glare of a city lamp,

And list to the tread of the millions feet

In their quaintly musical tramp?

As the surging crowd go to and fro,

'Tis a pleasant sight, I ween,

To mark the figures that come and go

In the ever-changing scene.

Here the publican walks with the sinner proud,

And the priest in his gloomy cowl,

And Dives walks in the motley crowd

With Lazarus, cheek by jowl;

And the daughter of toil with her fresh young heart

As pure as her spotless fame,

Keeps step with the woman who makes her mart

In the haunts of sin and shame.

How lightly trips the country lass

In the midst of the city's ills,

As freshly pure as the daisied grass

That grows on her native hills;

And the beggar, too, with his hungry eye,

And his lean, wan face and crutch,

Gives a blessing the same to the passer-by

As they give him little or much.

Ah me! when the hours go joyfully by,

How little we stop to heed

Our brothers' and sisters' despairing cry

In their woe and their bitter need!

Yet such a world as the angels sought

This world of ours we'd call,

If the brotherly love that the Father taught;

Was felt by each for all.

Yet a few short years and this motley throng

Will all have passed away,

And the rich and the poor and the old and the young

Will be undistinguished clay.

And lips that laugh and lips that moan,

Shall in silence alike be sealed,

And some will lie under stately stone,

And some in the Potter's Field.

But the sun will be shining just as bright,

And so will the silver moon,

And just such a crowd will be here at night,

And just such a crowd at noon;

And men will be wicked and women will sin,

As ever since Adam's fall,

With the same old world to labour in,

And the same God over all.

* * * * *

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry!

For there I took the last farewell

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!

How rich the hawthorn's blossom!

As, underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasped her to my bosom!

The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace

Our parting was fu' tender';

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now, in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still, within my bosom's core,

Shall live my Highland Mary.

_Robert Burns._

* * * * *

CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.

Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of

"_pastimes_," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day

before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting

a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a

success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet

the mother _seems_ to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair

door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny.", There is no response.

"Johnn_y_." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp,

"_John_," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry."

A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made;

and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd better be getting down here to

your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something

you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to

sleep again; and the operation has to be repeated several times. A father

knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-water

bottle ejects its cork, and the "JOHN HENRY" that cleaves the air of that

stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest

recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, and into his clothes,

and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a

boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is

believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves

his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.

* * * * *

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw

Shapes of things that you never saw?

Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields a little brown,--

The picture must not be over bright,--

Yet all in the golden and gracious light

Of a cloud when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,

Woods upon woods, with fields of corn

Lying between them, not quite sere,

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,

When the wind can hardly find breathing room

Under their tassels,--cattle near,

Biting shorter the short green grass,

And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,

With bluebirds twittering all around,--

Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!

These and the little house where I was born,

Low, and little, and black, and old,

With children, many as it can hold,

All at the windows, open wide,--

Heads and shoulders clear outside,

And fair young faces all ablush;

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,

Roses crowding the self-same way,

Out of a wilding, way-side bush.

Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds;

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun

Looked down upon, you must paint for me;

Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,

The woman's soul and the angel's face

That are beaming on me all the while!

I need not speak these foolish words;

Yet one word tells you all I would say,--

She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee

You must paint, sir; one like me,--

The other with a clearer brow,

And the light of his adventurous eyes

Flashing with boldest enterprise;

At ten years old he went to sea,--

God knoweth if he be living now,--

He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"

Nobody ever crossed her track

To bring us news, and she never came back.

Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more

Since that old ship went out of the bay

With my great-hearted brother on her deck;

I watched him till he shrank to a speck,

And his face was toward me all the way.

Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee;

That beauteous head, if it did go down,

Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night

We were together, half afraid,

Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,--

Loitering till after the low little light

Of the candle shone through the open door,

And, over the hay-stack's pointed top,

All of a tremble and ready to drop

The first half hour the great yellow star

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,

Had often and often watched to see

Propped and held in its place in the skies

By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree,

Which close in the edge of our flax field grew,

Dead at the top,--just one branch full

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,

From which it tenderly shook the dew

Over our heads, when we came to play

In its handbreath of shadow, day after day,--

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore

A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,--

The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,

Not so big as a straw of wheat:

The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,

But cried and cried, till we held her bill,

So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.

Do you think, sir, if you try,

You can paint the look of a lie?

If you can, pray have the grace

To put it solely in the face

Of the urchin that is likest me;

I think 'twas solely mine indeed;

But that's no matter,--paint it so;

The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)--

Looking not on the nest-full of eggs,

Nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs,

But straight through our faces, down to our lies.

And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise,

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though

A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know

That you on the canvas are to repeat

Things that are fairest, things most sweet,--

Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,--

The mother,--the lads with their birds at her knee;

But, oh, the look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout,

If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

"CHRIST TURNED AND LOOKED UPON PETER."

I think that look of Christ might seem to say--

"Thou, Peter! art thou then a common stone,

Which I at last must break my heart upon,

For all God's charge to His high angels may

Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday

Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run

Quick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun?

And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray?

The cock crows coldly. Go and manifest

A late contrition, but no bootless fear!

For when thy deadly need is bitterest,

Thou shall not be denied as I am here;

My voice, to God and angels, shall attest--

_Because I knew this man let him be clear!_"

_Elizabeth B. Browning._

* * * * *

THE JESTER'S CHOICE.

One of the kings of Scanderoon,

A royal jester,

Had in his train, a gross buffoon,

Who used to pester

The Court with tricks inopportune,

Venting on the highest of folks his

Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool,

Which wholesome rule

Occurred not to our jackanapes,

Who consequently found his freaks

Lead to innumerable scrapes,

And quite as many kicks and tweaks,

Which only seemed to make him faster

Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,

Incurred the desperate displeasure

Of his serene and raging highness:

Whether he twitched his most revered

And sacred beard,

Or had intruded on the shyness

Of the seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows: his sin was an occult one,

But records tell us that the Sultan,

Meaning to terrify he knave,

Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath:

Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!

Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:

Silence, base rebel! no replying!

But such is my indulgence still,

That, of my own free grace and will,

I leave to thee the mode of dying."

"Thy royal will be done--'tis just,"

Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;

"Since my last moments to assuage,

Your majesty's humane decree

Has deigned to leave the choice to me,

I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

_Horace Smith_

* * * * *

THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.

In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen

With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,

At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,

Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.

Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came!

What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,

When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas,

With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!

Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy,

For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,

Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way,

But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."

For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;

She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,

In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills

Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills.

So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,

Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys.

Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim,

As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn."

--Catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red,

(Wedded since, and a widow,--something like ten years dead,)

Hearing a gush of music such as none before,

Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.

Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies,

--"Open it, open it, lady!" the little maiden cries,

(For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)

"Open it, open it, lady! and let me see the _bird_!"

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

* * * * *

THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

(A RUSSIAN FABLE.)

A Lion to the Squirrel said:

"Work faithfully for me,

And when your task is done, my friend,

Rewarded you shall be

With barrel-full of finest nuts,

Fresh from my own nut-tree."

"My Lion King," the Squirrel said,

"To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night,

Quite faithful to his hire;

So hungry and so faint sometimes

He thought he should expire.

But still he kept his courage up,

And tugged with might and main.

"How nice the nuts will taste," he thought,

"When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead,

And thin and old and grey,

Quoth Lion: "There's no more hard work

You're fit to do. I'll pay."

A barrel-full of nuts he gave--

Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!

The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks.

He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!

_Laura Sanford._

* * * * *

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied--

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,

And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed--she had

Another morn than ours.

_Thomas Hood._

* * * * *

LANDING OF COLUMBUS.

The sails were furl'd; with many a melting close,

Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose,--

Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day

When setting suns o'er summer seas display

A path of glory, opening in the west

To golden climes and islands of the blest;

And human voices on the silent air

Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there!

Chosen of men! 'Twas thine at noon of night

First from the prow to hail the glimmering light?

(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray

Enters the soul and makes the darkness day!)

"Pedro! Rodrigo! there methought it shone!

There--in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!--

'Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain!

But mark and speak not, there it comes again!

It moves!--what form unseen, what being there

With torch-like lustre fires the murky air?

His instincts, passions, say, how like our own!

Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?"

Long on the deep the mists of morning lay;

Then rose, revealing as they rolled away

Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods

Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:

And say, when all, to holy transport given,

Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,--

When one and all of us, repentant, ran,

And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,--

Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies

Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?

"Glory to God!" unnumber'd voices sung,--

"Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rung,

Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn,

And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.

Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore

The sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore.

_Rogers._

* * * * *

THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH.

There are three lessons I would write--

Three words as with a burning pen,

In tracings of eternal light

Upon the hearts of men.

Have Hope. Though clouds environ round

And gladness hides her face in scorn,

Put off the shadow from thy brow--

No night but hath its morn.

Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven--

The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth--

Know this; God rules the hosts of heaven--

The inhabitants of the earth.

Have Love. Not love alone for one,

But man, as man, thy brother call;

And scatter like the circling sun,

Thy charities on all.

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul--

Hope, Faith, and Love--and thou shalt find

Strength, when life's surges rudest roll,

Light, when thou else wert blind.

_Schiller._

* * * * *

BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that

you may hear. Believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour,

that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses,

that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly--any dear

friend of Cæsar's--to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less

than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this

is my answer:--Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had

you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were

dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was

fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was

ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune;

honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition! Who is here so base,

that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is

here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I

offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any,

speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you

shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol;

his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced,

for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in

his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the

commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart:--that, as I

slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself,

when it shall please my country to need my death.

_Shakespeare._

* * * * *

THE SERENADE.

A youth went out to serenade

The lady whom he loved the best,

And passed beneath the mansion's shade,

Where erst his charmer used to rest.

He warbled till the morning light

Came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim,

But no fair maiden blessed his sight,

And all seemed dark and drear to him.

With heart aglow and eyes ablaze,

He drew much nearer than before,

When, to his horror and amaze,

He saw "To Let" upon the door.

* * * * *

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance,

To Modena, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved

Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),

Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate.

Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse

Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,

And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,

That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,

Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. A summer sun

Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,

Enter the house--prithee, forget it not--

And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,

The very last of that illustrious race,

Done by Zampieri--but by whom I care not.

He who observes it--ere he passes on,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,

That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,

Her lips half open, and her finger up,

As though she said, "Beware!" Her vest of gold

Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,

An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart--

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,

Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,

An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,

But richly carved by Antony of Trent

With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ,

A chest that came from Venice, and had held

The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

That by the way--it may be true or false--

But don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not,

When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy

The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.

Her mother dying of the gift she gave,

That precious gift, what else remained to him?

The young Ginevra was his all in life,

Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;

And in her fifteenth year became a bride,

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,

She was all gentleness, all gaiety;

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour;

Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,

When all sat down, the bride was wanting there,

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,

"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,

Laughing and looking back and flying still,

Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger,

But now, alas! she was not to be found;

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,

But that she was not!

Weary of his life,

Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen

An old man wandering as in quest of something,

Something he could not find--he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile

Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,

When on an idle day, a day of search

'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"

'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way

It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

All else had perished--save a nuptial ring,

And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both,

"GINEVRA."

There, then, had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself,

Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;

When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,

Fastened her down for ever!

_Samuel Rogers._

* * * * *

THE LAST STATION.

He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys

on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if

they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one

and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor

didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began

sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of

his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he

did not recognize them.

It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays

had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard-

engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an

hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:

"Kal-a-ma-zoo!"

One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the

brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled

around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he

lifted his hand and cried out:

"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"

The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan

Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like

one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see

if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle

loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:

"Ann Arbor!"

He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip.

Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman,

engineer, and conductor.

One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the

glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril,

and the brakeman called out:

"Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!"

"He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.

"And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.

The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there

was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of

a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly

said:

"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change

cars!"

He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed,

believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his

hand, moved his head, and whispered:

"De--"

Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his

lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and

covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring.

_Detroit Free Press._

* * * * *

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;

And being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

He fell into discourse with him; and thus

The dialogue they held comes down to us.

ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?

Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.

ST. And when you are one, what do you intend?

Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end

ST. Suppose it so,--what have you next in view?

Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.

ST. Well; and how then?

Y. Why, then, for aught I know

I may be made a bishop.

ST. Be it so--

What then?

Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree--

And yet my lot it possibly may be.

ST. Suppose it was, what then?

Y. Why, who can say

But I've a chance of being pope one day?

ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,

And triple crown, what follows after that?

Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,

Upon this earth that wishing can procure;

When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,

As long as God shall please, then I must die.

ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best

But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest!

Take my advice--whatever may betide,

For that which must be, first of all provide;

Then think of that which may be, and indeed,

When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?

But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,

Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

_Dr. Byrom_.

* * * * *

NO KISS.

"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,

To a pretty little tune,

Holding up her dainty mouth,

Sweet as roses born in June.

Will was ten years old that day,

And he pulled her golden curls

Teasingly, and answer made--

"I'm too old--I don't kiss girls."

Ten years pass, and Marguerite

Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,

Gazing fondly in her eyes,

Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"

'Rite is seventeen to-day,

With her birthday ring she toys

For a moment, then replies:

"I'm too old--I don't kiss boys."

* * * * *

KEYS.

Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,

Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they

Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime

Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,

And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth,

For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,

Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.

"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee,

Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!

_Bessie Chandler_.

* * * * *

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day is far away

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat, a bird afloat,

Skims round the purple peaks remote.

Round purple peaks it sails and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;

While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands

O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles,

And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff

Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:

With dreamful eyes my spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls where swells and falls

The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie, blown softly by

A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day so mild is heaven's own child,

With earth and ocean reconciled:

The airs I feel around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail my hand I trail,

Within the shadow of the sail;

A joy intense, the cooling sense,

Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes my spirit flies

Where summer sings and never dies--

O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines

Among her future oils and wines.

Her children, hid the cliffs amid,

Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;

Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, with tresses wild,

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips sings as she skips,

Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows,

From lands of sun to lands of snows;

This happier one its course has run,

From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip,

With the blue crystal at your lip!

Oh! happy crew, my heart with you

Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more the worldly shore

Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes my spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise!

_T. Buchanan Read_.

* * * * *

ELIZABETH.

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,

Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only

Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they

were building.

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden

Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.

Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music,

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly

Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,

Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting

In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh.

At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting

Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey

Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden,

Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,

And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.

But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning

Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh:

"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,

Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;

Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."

And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.

It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;

It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,

As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:

"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;

I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken:

"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;

Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,

Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning,

But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.

When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed

He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness

Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,

"So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further,

It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow

Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not

When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,

Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me."

And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

_Longfellow_.

"ASK MAMMA."

A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have

been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and

comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls

in the place,--they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and

whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures--our

friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and

bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while

he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they

would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight

when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of

bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they

pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of

soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged

him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in

her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,--and not

one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer

she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless

they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's

amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very

soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of

the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she

thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with

pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride.

She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once--

the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater _eclat_,

she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,--you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then,

Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of

the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did

not know which to do first--laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man,

nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will

mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her

beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,--'twas too bad--not to

ease his dear mind--O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give

him a kiss,--but he can't be in doubt of my feeling--that's bliss! O, I

wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she

will never refuse! There's the bell--here she is.... O, mamma!"--"Child,

preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I

really can't tell you just now,--bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call--and

he'll tell you--not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O,

mamma,--he's to call--in the course of the day. He was here just this

minute,--and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me.

I declare he has seen you come home--that's his ring; I will leave you and

him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother--the

gipsy--she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly

came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he

asked the dear _widow_ to change her estate;--she consented at once,

and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in--overloaded with

pleasure--but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny,"

said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never

entered her head--"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;"

Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,--as

he kissed her mamma,--"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!"

Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright

with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to

preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time

she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say

"Yes!"

_A. M. Bell._

* * * * *

GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.

She stood at the bar of justice,

A creature wan and wild,

In form too small for a woman,

In features too old for a child,

For a look so worn and pathetic

Was stamped on her pale young face,

It seemed long years of suffering

Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her

With kindly look yet keen,

"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"

"And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."

"Well, Mary," and then from a paper

He slowly and gravely read,

"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--

With stealing three loaves of bread."

"You look not like an offender,

And I hope that you can show

The charge to be false. Now, tell me,

Are you guilty of this, or no?"

A passionate burst of weeping

Was at first her sole reply,

But she dried her tears in a moment,

And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir,

My father and mother are dead,

And my little brother and sisters

Were hungry and asked me for bread.

At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,

But somehow times were bad, sir,

And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;

The weather was bitter cold,

The young ones cried and shivered--

(Little Johnny's but four years old;)--

So, what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn,

I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--

The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room--

Grey-beard and thoughtless youth--

Knew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spoke the truth,

Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.

Out from their eyes sprung tears,

And out from old faded wallets

Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study--

The strangest you ever saw,

As he cleared his throat and murmured

_Something_ about the _law_.

For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,

He seemed, on a simple question,

Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered

When at last these words they heard,

"The sentence of this young prisoner

Is, for the present, deferred."

And no one blamed him or wondered

When he went to her and smiled,

And tenderly led from the court-room,

Himself the "guilty" child.

* * * * *

MEMORY'S PICTURES.

Among the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all;

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge,

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,

And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest;

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;

In the lap of that old dim forest

He lieth in peace asleep;

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,

The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And one of the autumn eves

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,

As the light of immortal beauty

Silently covered his face;

And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,

He fell, in his saint-like beauty,

Asleep, by the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,

The one of the dim old forest

Seemeth the best of all.

_Alice Cary._

* * * * *

PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.

No little step do I hear in the hall,

Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.

No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,

I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,

Two little hands a wee face try to screen,

Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen.

"Where is my precious I've missed So all day'"

"Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.

"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"

Then I go by, and pretend not to see.

"Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'

Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."

The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,

Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.

Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,

When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.

* * * * *

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was

one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the

churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by

his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful,

and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the

year 1630:

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed

The early sunlight in one chamber there;

Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,

Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where

Murillo, the famed painter, came to share

With young aspirants his long-cherished art,

To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,

Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart

The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came and glancing round,

Mendez upon his canvas found,

Not his own work of yesterday,

But glowing in the morning ray,

A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,

It almost seemed that there were given

To glow before his dazzled sight,

Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head--

Yet was unearthly beauty shed

Upon the mildly beaming face;

The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,

Had separate, yet blended grace--

A poet's brightest dream was there!!

Murillo entered, and amazed,

On the mysterious painting gazed;

"Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he

Who to his aid such power can call,"

Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,

"Will yet be master of us all;

Would I had done it!--Ferdinand!

Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand

Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh,

Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently

Murillo cried; "but we shall see,

Ere long into this mystery.

Sebastian!"

At the summons came

A bright-eyed slave,

Who trembled at the stern rebuke

His master gave.

For ordered in that room to sleep,

And faithful guard o'er all to keep,

Murillo bade him now declare

What rash intruder had been there,

And threatened--if he did not tell

The truth at once--the dungeon-cell.

"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;

(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)

"Speak on!"--At last he raised his head

And murmured, "No one has been here."

"'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,

And clasped his hands imploringly,

And said. "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know

Who enters here--there have been found

Before, rough sketches strewn around,

By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;

Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.

If on to-morrow morn you fail

To answer what I ask,

The lash shall force you--do you hear?

Hence! to your daily task."

* * * * *

'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone

From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray

Within Murillo's study--all were gone

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,

Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.

'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,

That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,

One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child--that boy had seen

Not thrice five summers yet,

But genius marked the lotty brow,

O'er which his locks of jet

Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue

Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through

Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,

To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said

"The lash, if I refuse to tell

Who sketched those figures--if I do,

Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!"

He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;

It came--for soon in slumber laid,

He slept, until the dawning day

Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now

Three hours of freedom I may gain,

Before my master comes, for then

I shall be but a slave again.

Three blessed hours of freedom! how

Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now

The figure on that canvas traced

Must be--yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush--the morning light

Gave to the head a softened glow;

Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No!

That breathing lip! that beaming eye

Efface them?--I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow

Of the high feelings Nature gave-

Which only gifted spirits know.

He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed

His pencil had some magic power;

The eye with deeper feeling beamed--

Sebastian then forgot the hour!

Forgot his master, and the threat

Of punishment still hanging o'er him;

For, with each touch, new beauties met

And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously

He gazed--could aught more beauteous be'

Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,

Then started--horror chilled his blood!

His master and the pupils all

Were there e'en at his side!

The terror-stricken slave was mute--

Mercy would be denied,

E'en could he ask it--so he deemed,

And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.

Speechless, bewildered--for a space

They gazed upon that perfect face,

Each with an artist's joy;

At length Murillo silence broke,

And with affected sternness spoke--

"Who is your master, boy?"

"You, Senor," said the trembling slave.

"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,

Before that Virgin's head you drew?"

Again he answered, "Only you."

"I gave you none," Murillo cried!

"But I have heard," the boy replied,

"What you to others said."

"And more than heard," in kinder tone,

The painter said; "'tis plainly shown

That you have profited."

"What (to his pupils) is his meed?

Reward or punishment?"

"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,

(Sebastian's ear was bent

To catch the sounds he scarce believed,

But with imploring look received.)

"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold

And of a splendid dress;

But still unmoved Sebastian stood,

Silent and motionless.

"Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose

Your own reward--what shall it be?

Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:

Then speak at once and fearlessly."

"Oh! if I dared!"--Sebastian knelt

And feelings he could not control,

(But feared to utter even then)

With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage!" his master said, and each

Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,

To soothe his overpow'ring dread.

He scarcely heard, till some one said,

"Sebastian--ask--you have your choice,

Ask for your _freedom_!"--At the word,

The suppliant strove to raise his voice:

At first but stifled sobs were heard,

And then his prayer--breathed fervently--

"Oh! master, make my _father_ free!"

"Him and thyself, my noble boy!"

Warmly the painter cried;

Raising Sebastian from his feet,

He pressed him to his side.

"Thy talents rare, and filial love,

E'en more have fairly won;

Still be thou mine by other bonds--

My pupil and my son."

Murillo knew, e'en when the words

Of generous feeling passed his lips,

Sebastian's talents soon must lead

To fame that would his own eclipse;

And, constant to his purpose still,

He joyed to see his pupil gain,

As made his name the pride of Spain.

_Susan Wilson._

* * * * *

ONLY SIXTEEN.

Only sixteen, so the papers say,

Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;

'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day--

He came to his death in the public highway.

Full of promise, talent and pride;

Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died.

Did not the angels weep over the scene?

For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,--

Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;

That of all his friends, not even one

Was there to list to his last faint moan,

Or point the suffering soul to the throne

Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son

Would say, "Whosoever will may come--"

But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,

With his God we leave him--only sixteen,--

Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!

Witness the suffering and pain you have brought

To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,

And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell

That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,

And left him to die out there all alone.

What, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another?

What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,--

And he only sixteen?

Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant

The license to sell, do you think you will want

That record to meet in that last great day,

When heaven and earth shall have passed away.

When the elements, melting with fervent heat,

Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?

Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.

When before the great throne you each shall stand,--

And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,

To action and duty; into the light

Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"

Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;

Strike killing blows; hew to the line;

Make it a felony even to sign

A petition to license, you would do it, I ween,

If that were your son, and he only sixteen,

Only sixteen.

* * * * *

THE RETORT.

Old Birch, who taught the village school,

Wedded a maid of homespun habit;

He was stubborn as a mule,

And she was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Kate had scarce become a wife

Before her husband sought to make her

The pink of country polished life,

And prim and formal--as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Katie sadly missed him;

When he returned, behind her lord

She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.

The husband's anger rose, and red

And white his face alternate grew:

"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said

"O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."

* * * * *

"LITTLE BENNIE."

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

I had told him, Christmas morning,

As he sat upon my knee,

Holding fast his little stockings,

Stuffed as full as full can be,

And attentive listening to me

With a face demure and mild,

That old Santa Claus, who filled them,

Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"

And from off my lap he slid,

Digging deep among the goodies

In his crimson stockings hid.

While I turned me to my table,

Where a tempting goblet stood

Brimming high with dainty custard

Sent me by a neighbour good.

But the kitten, there before me,

With his white paw, nothing both,

Sat, by way of entertainment,

Lapping off the shining froth;

And, in not the gentlest humour

At the loss of such a treat,

I confess, I rather rudely

Thrust him out into the street.

Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;

Gathering up the precious store

He had busily been pouring

In his tiny pinafore,

With a generous look that shamed me

Sprang he from the carpet bright,

Showing by his mien indignant,

All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,

As he held his apron white,

"You shall have my candy wabbit,"

But the door was fastened tight,

So he stood abashed and silent,

In the centre of the floor,

With defeated look alternate

Bent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse,

Quickly ran he to the fire,

And while eagerly his bright eyes

Watched the flames grow higher and higher,

In a brave, clear key, he shouted,

Like some lordly little elf,

"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,

Make my Mudder 'have herself."

"I will be a good girl, Bennie,"

Said I, feeling the reproof;

And straightway recalled poor Harney,

Mewing on the gallery roof.

Soon the anger was forgotten,

Laughter chased away the frown,

And they gamboled round the fireside,

Till the dusky night came down.

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,

Harney purred beneath my chair,

And my playworn boy beside me

Knelt to say his evening prayer;

"God bess Fader, God bess Moder,

God bess Sister," then a pause,

And the sweet young lips devoutly

Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."

He is sleeping; brown and silken

Lie the lashes, long and meek,

Like caressing, clinging shadows,

On his plump and peachy cheek,

And I bend above him, weeping

Thankful tears, O defiled!

For a woman's crown of glory,

For the blessing of a child.

_Annie C. Ketchum._

* * * * *

SLANDER.

'Twas but a breath--

And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,

And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;

And life was worse than death.

One venomed word,

That struck its coward, poisoned blow,

In craven whispers, hushed and low,--

And yet the wide world heard.

Twas but one whisper--one--

That muttered low, for very shame,

That thing the slanderer dare not name,--

And yet its work was done.

A hint so slight,

And yet so mighty in its power,--

A human soul in one short hour,

Lies crushed beneath its blight.

* * * * *

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been;

but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine

you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last

night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that

relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight.

For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head-

ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open.

Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever

lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had

every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.

_(Coughs.)_ Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will

relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn

my head without turning the hull of my body. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the

country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have

tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does

me the leastest good. _(Coughs.)_

Oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right

hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting

to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've

got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I

can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing

last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on,

till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin

off my shin nearly so big. _(Coughs.)_

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it

was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little

stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and

tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the

time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few

chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my

feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot.

Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my

upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully

on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to

make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(Coughs.)_ Oh,

dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm

feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(Coughs.)_

* * * * *

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean

Sail among the swiftest fleet,

Rocking on the highest billows,

Laughing at the storms you meet.

You can stand among the sailors,

Anchor'd yet within the bay,

You can lend a hand to help them,

As they launch their boats away

If you are too weak to journey,

Up the mountain steep and high,

You can stand within the valley,

While the multitudes go by

You can chant in happy measure,

As they slowly pass along;

Though they may forget the singer,

They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver

Ever ready to command,

If you cannot towards the needy

Reach an ever open hand,

You can visit the afflicted,

O'er the erring you can weep,

You can be a true disciple,

Sitting at the Saviour's feet

If you cannot in the conflict,

Prove yourself a soldier true

If where fire and smoke are thickest

There's no work for you to do,

When the battle-field is silent,

You can go with careful tread.

You can bear away the wounded,

You can cover up the dead.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting

For some greater work to do,

Fortune is a lazy goddess,

She will never come to you.

Go and toil in any vineyard,

Do not fear to do or dare,

If you want a field of labour,

You can find it anywhere.

* * * * *

SATISFACTION.

They sent him round the circle fair,

To bow before the prettiest there;

I'm bound to say the choice he made

A creditable taste displayed;

Although I can't see what it meant,

The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun,

To kneel before the wittiest one.

Once more the little maid sought he

And bent him down upon his knee;

She turned her eyes upon the floor;

I think she thought the game a bore

He circled then his sweet behest

To kiss the one he loved the best;

For all she frowned, for all she chid,

He kissed that little maid--he did.

And then--though why I can't decide--

The little maid looked satisfied.

* * * * *

MY TRUNDLE BED.

As I rummaged through the attic,

List'ning to the falling rain,

As it pattered on the shingles

And against the window pane,

Peeping over chests and boxes,

Which with dust were thickly spread,

Saw I in the farthest corner

What was once my trundle bed.

So I drew it from the recess,

Where it had remained so long,

Hearing all the while the music

Of my mother's voice in song,

As she sung in sweetest accents,

What I since have often read--

"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,

Holy angels guard thy bed"

As I listened, recollections,

That I thought had been forgot,

Came with all the gush of memory,

Rushing, thronging to the spot;

And I wandered back to childhood,

To those merry days of yore,

When I knelt beside my mother,

By this bed upon the floor.

Then it was with hands so gently

Placed upon my infant head,

That she taught my lips to utter

Carefully the words she said;

Never can they be forgotten,

Deep are they in mem'ry riven--

"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!

Father! thou who art in heaven."

Years have passed, and that dear mother

Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,

And I trust her sainted spirit

Rests within the home of God:

But that scene at summer twilight

Never has from memory fled,

And it comes in all its freshness

When I see my trundle bed.

This she taught me, then she told me

Of its import great and deep--

After which I learned to utter

"Now I lay me down to sleep."

Then it was with hands uplifted,

And in accents soft and mild,

That my mother asked--"Our Father!

Father! do thou bless my child!"

* * * * *

THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.

In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,

When the tempest was wild in the desolate land

Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,

And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand

Leading on, leading over the slippery steep,

Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,

And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,

The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul

When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,

Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll

Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet

And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod

Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock;

Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,

They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.

In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,

When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,

When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,

And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;

It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,

And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,

For the angels, descending by day and by night,

Will open a door through the rift of the rock.

_Annie Herbert._

* * * * *

THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast;

Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro

By peaks pre-eminent in snow;

A sounding river rushes past,

So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.

A lone lodge tops the windy hill;

A tawny maiden, mute and still,

Stands waiting at the river's brink,

As weird and wild as you can think.

A mighty chief is at her feet;

She does not heed him wooing so--

She hears the dark, wild waters flow;

She waits her lover, tall and fleet,

From far gold fields of Idaho,

Beyond the beaming hills of snow.

He comes! The grim chief springs in air--

His brawny arm, his blade is bare.

She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;

She looks him fairly in the face;

She moves her foot a little pace

And says, with coldness and command,

"There's blood enough in this lorn land.

But see! a test of strength and skill,

Of courage and fierce fortitude,

To breast and wrestle with the rude

And storm-born waters, now I will

Bestow you both.... Stand either side!

Take you my left, tall Idaho;

And you, my burly chief, I know

Would choose my right. Now peer you low

Across the waters wild and wide.

See! leaning so this morn, I spied

Red berries dip yon farther side.

See, dipping, dripping in the stream,

Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!

"Now this, brave men, shall be the test.

Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth

To cut yon bough for bridal wreath.

Plunge in! and he who bears him best,

And brings yon ruddy fruit to land

The first, shall have both heart and hand."

Then one threw robes with sullen air,

And wound red fox tails in his hair.

But one with face of proud delight

Entwined a crest of snowy white.

She sudden gave

The sign, and each impatient brave

Shot sudden in the sounding wave;

The startled waters gurgled round,

Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.

O then awoke the love that slept!

O then her heart beat loud and strong!

O then the proud love pent up long

Broke forth in wail upon the air;

And leaning there she sobbed and wept,

With dark face mantled in her hair.

Now side by side the rivals plied,

Yet no man wasted word or breath;

All was as still as stream of death.

Now side by side their strength was tried,

And now they breathless paused and lay

Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.

And now they dived, dived long, and now

The black heads lifted from the foam,

And shook aback the dripping brow,

Then shouldered sudden glances home.

And then with burly front the brow

And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind,

And left a track of foam behind....

They near the shore at last; and now

The foam flies spouting from a face

That laughing lifts from out the race.

The race is won, the work is done!

She sees the climbing crest of snow;

She knows her tall, brown Idaho.

She cries aloud, she laughing cries,

And tears are streaming from her eyes:

"O splendid, kingly Idaho,

I kiss his lifted crest of snow;

I see him clutch the bended bough!

'Tis cleft--he turns! is coming now!

"My tall and tawny king, come back!

Come swift, O sweet; why falter so?

Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track

I kneel to all the gods I know.

O come, my manly Idaho!

Great Spirit, what is this I dread?

Why there is blood! the wave is red!

That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race,

Dives down, and hiding from my face,

Strikes underneath!... He rises now!

Now plucks my hero's berry bough,

And lifts aloft his red fox head,

And signals he has won for me....

Hist softly! Let him come and see.

"O come! my white-crowned hero, come!

O come! and I will be your bride,

Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.

Come back to me! my lips are dumb,

My hands are helpless with despair;

The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,

Is reaching to the ruddy tide,

That you may clutch it when you come.

"How slow he buffets back the wave!

O God, he sinks! O heaven! save

My brave, brave boy. He rises! See!

Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me.

Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!

Hold fast your strength. It is not long--

O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!

His face has perished from my sight.

"And did I dream, and do I wake?

Or did I wake and now but dream?

And what is this crawls from the stream?

O here is some mad, mad, mistake!

What you! The red fox at my feet?

You first and failing from a race?

What! you have brought me berries red?

What! You have brought your bride a wreath?

You sly red fox with wrinkled face--

That blade has blood, between your teeth!

"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er

And clutch your red blade to the shore....

Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!

Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat

The full day shines!... Two fox tails float

And drift and drive adown the stream.

"But what is this? What snowy crest

Climbs out the willows of the west,

All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,

And dripping from his streaming hair?

It is! it is my Idaho!

His feet are on the land, and fair

His face is lifting to my face,

For who shall now dispute the race?

"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves

O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.

My love shall heal your wounded breast,

And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

_Joaquin Miller_.

* * * * *

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.

'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,

The sun was in the west,

When a merry, blithesome company

Met at a public feast.

Around the room rich banners spread,

And garlands fresh and gay;

Friend greeted friend right joyously

Upon that festal day.

The board was filled with choicest fare;

The guests sat down to dine;

Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"

And some for rosy wine.

Among this joyful company,

A modest youth appeared;

Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,

No specious snare he feared.

An empty glass before the youth

Soon drew the waiter near;

"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,

"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?

"We've rich supplies of foreign port,

We've first-class wine and cakes."

The youth with guileless look replied,

"_I'll take what father takes_."

Swift as an arrow went the words

Into his father's ears,

And soon a conflict deep and strong

Awoke terrific fears.

The father looked upon his son,

Then gazed upon the wine,

Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,

Who could the end divine?

Have I not seen the strongest fall,

The fairest led astray?

And shall I on my only son

Bestow a curse this day?

No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring

Bright water unto me;

My son will take what father takes,

My drink shall water be."

_W. Hoyle._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE HERO.

From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,

The good ship floating o'er the deep,

The skies bright with sunshine above us,

The waters beneath us asleep;

Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,

A jollier crew never sail'd,

'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,

But good seaman as ever was hail'd.

One day he comes up from below deck,

A-graspin' a lad by the arm,

A poor little ragged young urchin,

As ought to bin home with his marm.

An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly

How he dared for to be stow'd away?

A-cheating the owners and captain,

Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.

The lad had a face bright and sunny,

An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,

An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,

An' shakes back his long shining curls.

An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,

"My stepfather brought me a-board,

And hid me away down the stairs there,

For to keep me he could not afford.

And he told me the big ship would take me

To Halifax town, oh, so far;

An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,

Who lives where the good angels are!'"

"It's a lie," says the mate,--"Not your father,

But some o' these big skulkers here,

Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,

Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"

Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',

Clear and shining with innocent youth,

Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,

An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"

Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,

Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,

"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,

There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"

Eight minutes went by all in silence,

Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"

His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,

He falteringly says, "May I pray?"

An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,

An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,

As he must ha' done often at home, lads,

At night time when going to rest.

And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"

Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,

But low as they were, heard like trumpet

By each true man aboard o' the ship.

Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,

To "for ever and ever. A-men!"

An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,

I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!

Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,

And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,

An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"

As his lips to his forehead he press'd.

"You believe me now?" then said the youngster,

"Believe you!" he kissed him once more,

"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;

I believe you! from now, ever-more."

* * * * *

WANTED.

The world wants men--light-hearted, manly men--

Men who shall join its chorus and prolong

The psalm of labour and the song of love.

The times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape

The doubtful destinies of dubious years,

And land the ark that bears our country's good,

Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare

To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;

To clutch the monster error by the throat;

To bear opinion to a loftier seat;

To blot the era of oppression out,

And lead a universal freedom in.

And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls,

To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers

Beneath the glory of its central sun.

It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones;

It wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine!

If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;

If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;

If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive

To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,

Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,

Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,

Each single heart with myriad raptures filled--

While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,

Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

* * * * *

GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,

How dark the world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee!

The friends who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;

And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw

Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And e'en the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimmed and vanished, too!

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not Thy wing of love

Come brightly wafting through the gloom

Our peace-branch from above!

Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray,

As darkness shews us worlds of light,

We never saw by day.

_Moore._

* * * * *

SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.

In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad,

rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's

weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about

five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before

the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing

abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing

flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.

Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they

had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was

a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring

tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a

protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their

sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?

With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we

find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes

for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on,

cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling

little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.

Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas

Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack

possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit

would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the

temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet,

prattling voice. The first words he caught were:

"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"

"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his

little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we

are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely

earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."

Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although

he felt ashamed of himself for listening.

"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the

little girl.

"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor

people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good

children."

"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"

"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."

Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she

uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.

"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow;

maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good

children," said Totty.

"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears

gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.

"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings,

mamma."

Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his

bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as

Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung

them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa

really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her

treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the

little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we

are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear

Jesus' sake--Amen!"

After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he

saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and

weeping bitterly.

On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded

stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from

the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the

wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue

stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his

overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He

entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host

of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and

when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and

clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told

what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation

between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:

"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o'

metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet

cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one

of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o'

them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range

in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous

business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I

lay the stockin' on this card table--now chip in much or little, as ye kin

afford."

Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up

carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty

had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.

Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled,

and then came the cry from the gambling table:

"Pass her around, Jack."

At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before

he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting

beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as

is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking

placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the

meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons

came messages saying:

"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"

With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased

and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners,

gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift

to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western

camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no

surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been

made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over

eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.

Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the

Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing,

provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in

proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party

noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on

the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was

laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece

of charcoal:

"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This

camp."

Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.

Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the

empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance

toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:

"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"

She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and

when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones

until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste

Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart

would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her

heart, she said in a choking voice:

"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and

then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."

"O mamma!"

The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was

standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.

Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She

read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in

the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and

thanksgiving to God.

Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away,

and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down

his face.

The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the

room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and

pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm

woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing

for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for

Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst

alternate laughs and tears.

"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is

not God good to us?"

"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"

The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until

she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great

weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast

table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the

contents upon the table. Gold and silver--more than she had ever thought of

in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure

lay Totty's little blue stocking.

We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family

sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.

_Anon._

* * * * *

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

Girt round with rugged mountains

The fair Lake Constance lies;

In her blue heart reflected

Shine back the starry skies;

And, watching each white cloudlet

Float silently and slow,

You think a piece of Heaven

Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence,

Enthroned in Heaven, looks down

Upon her own calm mirror,

Upon a sleeping town:

For Bregenz, that quaint city

Upon the Tyrol shore,

Has stood above Lake Constance

A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers,

From off their rocky steep,

Have cast their trembling shadow

For ages on the deep:

Mountain, and lake, and valley,

A sacred legend know,

Of how the town was saved, one night,

Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred,

A Tyrol maid had fled,

To serve in the Swiss valleys,

And toil for daily bread;

And every year that fleeted

So silently and fast,

Seemed to bear farther from her

The memory of the Past.

She served kind, gentle masters,

Nor asked for rest or change;

Her friends seemed no more new ones,

Their speech seemed no more strange

And when she led her cattle

To pasture every day,

She ceased to look and wonder

On which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz,

While longing and with tears;

Her Tyrol home seemed faded

In a deep mist of years;

She heeded not the rumours

Of Austrian war and strife;

Each day she rose, contented,

To the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children

Would clustering round her stand,

She sang them ancient ballads

Of her own native land;

And when at morn and evening

She knelt before God's throne,

The accents of her childhood

Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley

More peaceful year by year;

When suddenly strange portents

Of some great deed seemed near.

The golden corn was bending

Upon its fragile stalk,

While farmers, heedless of their fields,

Paced up and down in talk.

The men seemed stern and altered--

With looks cast on the ground;

With anxious faces, one by one,

The women gathered round;

All talk of flax, or spinning,

Or work, was put away;

The very children seemed afraid

To go alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow

With strangers from the town,

Some secret plan discussing,

The men walked up and down.

Yet now and then seemed watching

A strange uncertain gleam,

That looked like lances 'mid the trees

That stood below the stream.

At eve they all assembled,

Then care and doubt were fled;

With jovial laugh they feasted;

The board was nobly spread.

The elder of the village

Rose up, his glass in hand,

And cried, "We drink the downfall

Of an accursed land!

"The night is growing darker,

Ere one more day is flown,

Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold,

Bregenz shall be our own!"

The women shrank in terror

(Yet Pride, too, had her part),

But one poor Tyrol maiden

Felt death within her heart.

Before her stood fair Bregenz;

Once more her towers arose;

What were the friends beside her?

Only her country's foes!

The faces of her kinsfolk,

The days of childhood flown,

The echoes of her mountains,

Reclaimed her as their own.

Nothing she heard around her

(Though shouts rang forth again),

Gone were the green Swiss valleys,

The pasture, and the plain;

Before her eyes one vision,

And in her heart one cry,

That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz,

And then, if need be, die!"

With trembling haste, and breathless,

With noiseless step, she sped;

Horses and weary cattle

Were standing in the shed;

She loosed the strong, white charger,

That fed from out her hand,

She mounted, and she turned his head

Toward her native land.

Out--out into the darkness--

Faster, and still more fast;

The smooth grass flies behind her,

The chestnut wood is past;

She looks up; clouds are heavy;

Why is her steed so slow?

Scarcely the wind beside them

Can pass them as they go.

"Faster!" she cries, "O faster!"

Eleven the church-bells chime:

"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,

And bring me there in time!"

But louder than bells' ringing,

Or lowing of the kine,

Grows nearer in the midnight

The rushing of the Rhine.

Shall not the roaring waters

Their headlong gallop check?

The steed draws back in terror--

She leans upon his neck

To watch the flowing darkness;

The bank is high and steep;

One pause--he staggers forward,

And plunges in the deep.

She strives to pierce the blackness,

And looser throws the rein;

Her steed must breast the waters

That dash above his mane.

How gallantly, how nobly,

He struggles through the foam,

And see--in the far distance

Shine out the lights of home!

Up the steep bank he bears her,

And now, they rush again

Towards the heights of Bregenz,

That tower above the plain.

They reach the gate of Bregenz

Just as the midnight rings,

And out come serf and soldier

To meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight

Her battlements are manned;

Defiance greets the army

That marches on the land.

And if to deeds heroic

Should endless fame be paid,

Bregenz does well to honour

That noble Tyrol maid.

Three hundred years are vanished,

And yet upon the hill

An old stone gateway rises.

To do her honour still.

And there, when Bregenz women

Sit spinning in the shade,

They see in quaint old carving

The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz,

By gateway, street, and tower,

The warder paces all night long

And calls each passing hour:

"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,

And then (O crown of Fame!)

When midnight pauses in the skies,

He calls the maiden's name!

_Adelaide A. Procter._

* * * * *

A TARRYTOWN ROMANCE.

'Twas in ye pleasant olden time,

Oh! many years ago,

When husking bees and singing-schools

Were all the fun, you know.

The singing-school in Tarrytown,

A quaint old town in Maine--

Was wisely taught and grandly led

By a young man named Paine.

A gallant gentleman was Paine,

Who liked the lasses well;

But best he liked Miss Patience White,

As all his school could tell.

One night the singing-school had met;

Young Paine, all carelessly,

Had turned the leaves and said: "We'll sing

On page one-seventy."

"'See gentle patience smile on pain.'"

On Paine they all then smiled,

But not so gently as they might;

And he, confused and wild.

Searched quickly for another place,

As quickly gave it out;

The merriment, suppressed before,

Rose now into a shout.

These were the words that met his eyes

(He sank down with a groan);

"Oh! give me grief for others' woes,

And patience for my own!"

_Good Cheer._

* * * * *

THE BISHOPS VISIT.

Tell you about it? Of course, I will!

I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come,

For Mamma said I must be quiet and still,

And she put away my whistle and drum--

And made me unharness the parlour chairs,

And packed my cannon and all the rest

Of my noisiest playthings off up stairs,

On account of this very distinguished guest.

Then every room was turned upside down,

And all the carpets hung out to blow;

For when the Bishop is coming to town,

The house must be in order you know.

So out in the kitchen I made my lair,

And started a game of hide-and-seek;

But Bridget refused to have me there,

For the Bishop was coming--to stay a week--

And she must make cookies and cakes and pies,

And fill every closet and platter and pan,

Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise,

Must be an awfully hungry man.

Well, at last he came; and I do declare,

Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you,

With his gentle voice and his silvery hair,

And eyes with a smile a-shining through.

And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed,

I understood every single word;

And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid,

Though I never once spoke or stirred;

Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out

To see me sit quietly listening so;

And began to tell us stories about

Some queer little fellows in Mexico.

All about Egypt and Spain--and then

He wasn't disturbed by a little noise,

But said that the greatest and best of men

Once were rollicking, healthy boys.

And he thinks it no great matter at all

If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs;

And Mamma should be willing to let me crawl

Through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes.

And Bridget, she made a great mistake,

In stirring up such a bother, you see,

For the Bishop--he didn't care for cake,

And really liked to play games with me.

But though he's so honoured in words and act--

(Stoop down, for this is a secret now)--

He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact!

But whispered to me to tell him how.

_Emily Huntington Miller_.

* * * * *

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes!

Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.

Bright-eyed beauty once was she,

When the bloom was on the tree;--

Spring and winter,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbour

Passing, nod or answer will refuse

To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"

Oh, her heart's adrift with one

On an endless voyage gone;--

Night and morning,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos;

Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues

May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!

For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos;

Hannah shudders,

For the wild south-wester mischief brews.

Round the rocks of Marblehead,

Outward bound a schooner sped;

Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November:

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,

From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,

Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,

Have you, have you heard of Ben?"

Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views,

Twenty seasons!

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea;--

Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

_Lucy Larcom._

* * * * *

BELLS ACROSS THE SNOW.

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

Is it really come again?

With its memories and greetings,

With its joy and with its pain

There's a minor in the carol,

And a shadow in the light,

And a spray of cypress twining

With the holly wreath to-night.

And the hush is never broken,

By the laughter light and low,

As we listen in the starlight

To the bells across the snow!

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

'Tis not so very long

Since other voices blended

With the carol and the song!

If we could but hear them singing,

As they are singing now,

If we could but see the radiance

Of the crown on each dear brow;

There would be no sigh to smother,

No hidden tear to flow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the bells across the snow!

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

This never more can be;

We cannot bring again the days

Of our unshadowed glee.

But Christmas, happy Christmas!

Sweet herald of good-will,

With holy songs of glory

Brings holy gladness still.

For peace and hope may brighten,

And patient love may glow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the bells across the snow!

_Frances Ridley Havergal._

* * * * *

A MODEST WIT.

A supercilious nabob of the East--

Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich--

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which--

Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,

An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honour, proudly free, severely merry,

Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade,

Did your good father gain a livelihood?"

"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,

"And in his time was reckon'd good."

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,

Instead of teaching you to sew!

Pray, why did not your father make

A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.

At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),

"Sir, by your leave, I fain would know

Your father's trade!"

"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad!

My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?

My father, sir, did never stoop so low--

He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take,"

Modestus said, with archness on his brow,

"Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you?"

* * * * *

"NAY, I'LL STAY WITH THE LAD."

Six hundred souls one summer's day,

Worked in the deep, dark Hutton seams;

Men were hewing the coal away,

Boys were guiding the loaded teams.

Horror of darkness was everywhere;

It was coal above, and coal below,

Only the miner's guarded lamp

Made in the gloom a passing glow.

Down in the deep, black Hutton seams

There came a flowery, balmy breath;

Men dropped their tools, and left their teams,

They knew the balmy air meant death,

And fled before the earthquake shock,

The cruel fire-damp's fatal course,

That tore apart the roof and walls,

And buried by fifties, man and horse.