Chapter V: Part I: The Reading-Club (3)

How long entranced, or whither dived, no clew I have to find.
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o’er my mind;
And through my brain there thrilled a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:—
“It’s Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares!
He’s been a-walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs!”
_Thomas Hood._

A CENTRE-BOARD YACHT-RACE.

“Mr. Bingham,” said the “city editor” of the “Royal Bugle” one morning, “the ‘sporting editor’ is away, and it will be necessary for you to go down to Swampscott to report a race between centre-board yachts.”

“But I don’t know any thing about yachts or yacht-racing.”

“It’s not necessary to know. See the head man, and get the time. That’s about all we want.”

About nine o’clock that night, a forlorn, tramp-like looking object entered the office of the “Royal Bugle,” with the crown of his white Derby knocked in, the rim bent, and his clothing generally hanging limp,—the suit, once light in color, now spotted and stained. As he advanced into a better light, he was recognized as the “fire reporter;” and a chorus of exclamations followed: “Where’s the fire?” or, “Did they put the hose on you?” as the unfortunate man sank, apparently exhausted, into a chair.

“It’s not a fire,” he growled. “It’s a yacht-race.”

“What did they do to you?”

“Do to me? They did every thing except drown me, and almost did that. This morning,” continued the dejected man, “our local editor sent me down to Swampscott to report a centre-board yacht race. He said if I could get aboard one of the racing yachts I’d have a delightful time,—a regular marine picnic. Well, I had it,—yes, indeedy; enough picnic of the kind to last the rest of life. I knew the yachtsmen were spruce sort of fellows, dressed well; and therefore I put on my best suit,—new rig just from the tailor’s,—and hurried away to the Swampscott sands. I found the fleet of centre-boards tied up to a wharf. In making inquiries of a captain, I hinted that it would be agreeable to me to be a passenger on his yacht.

“He smiled serenely, the villain! and said he’d be delighted to have me come aboard. Oh, the baseness of the man! Very soon the race began; and when fairly under way, and I had settled into a comfortable seat to enjoy it, the captain shouted, ‘All down, down below the’—the—what do you call the rail that runs around the top of the boat?—the gun—the gun”—

“Whale!”

“Yes, the gunwhale. Well, he said we must keep our heads below that, in order to offer less resistance to the wind. Therefore three of us were obliged to lie on our stomachs on the bottom of the boat. If we wanted to see the race, we looked through the skipper’s windows”—

“The what?”

“Why, the skipper’s holes, as they call them,—a nautical term for windows, I sup”—

“Scupper-holes!”

“Well, yes, that sounds more like. The man who lay next to me kept himself busy and contented by eating peanuts. But that was nothing, comparatively. Soon we ran into a big wave. If the skipper’d had any sense of honor or regard for his passengers, he would have turned one side to let the wave pass; but he didn’t. He ran slap into it, and the crest of it came on board, caromed on the skipper himself, who stood at the helm, and then circulated among the shifting ballast. Owing to the peanut-eater, the skipper-win—no, the scupper-holes—were clogged; and the remnant of the wave, unable to escape from the boat, was absorbed by our clothing, and my new suit began to take additional shades and wrinkles.

“Suddenly that graceless captain shouted something about ‘hard lee,’ and then the boat lurched and tipped the other way; and we, lying prostrate, were ordered to creep carefully around the centre-board, and lie on the other side. That was the most fiendish! If my memory be good, we crawled back and forth around that centre-board a dozen times. If we were going to win the race, why didn’t we keep straight on, and not turn to the right or left every twenty minutes?

“But the climax came. The skipper decided to turn the boat around when she was going at full speed, and to drive her in the opposite direction. Well, when she turned around”—

“Jibed, you mean.”

“Yes, that sounds like it. When she jibed she turned over on her side, and a part of the shifting ballast, another man, and myself, went overboard; but we caught on the gunwhale, and, the boat coming down flat again, we crawled in. When I, forlorn and dripping, asked if they turned around usually in that way, they laughed.

“Well, about an hour afterward, after mopping the bottom of the boat some more with our clothing, we reached the landing from which we had departed.”

“_We did not win._

“In response to an inquiry in regard to our defeat, the captain, ungrateful, said that he had too much ballast. Wasn’t that the refinement of cruelty? Wasn’t it a dastardly insult? After I’d spoiled a suit of clothes by exerting myself in his behalf in climbing around that centre-board, and nearly lost my life,—of course, if I had not caught the side of the boat when I went overboard, they would not stop to take me in, because the race was very important, and the prize was a three-cornered blue flag,—after all that, I say, ’twas rascally to hint that I’d lost the race for him.

“When the boat was a safe distance from the shore, after leaving me on the wharf, the captain cried, ‘Had a good time?’ Gentlemen, to reply would have been an indignity to myself; but I indulged in a little pantomime to show the pirate skipper that, if I’d had him there, I’d injure the wharf with him. ‘Why didn’t I come home sooner?’ Because I waited the coming of night to shield me from the gaze of the village constable, who has a personal enmity against tramps,—makes them saw wood. I knew that my tattered and begrimed appearance would bring me under the ban of the law. I walked home by way of the beach.”

_George A. Stockwell._

THE MISSISSIPPI MIRACLE.

I’s let up on preachin’. I’s truly
De Rev’rind Dick Wilkins, D. D.;
I know I heerd Gabr’el a-callin’,
An’ thought he was callin’ on me:
“You Wilkins, go preach me de gospel!”
Dat, sah, was de way dat he went;
But now, sah, I’s mightily jubous
’Twas some oder Wilkins he meant.

Yes, sah, dat ar matter you knows of
Has cleaned me plumb out of my grace.
What! ain’t nebber heard of it? Nebbah?
Seed nobody in from de place?
Den set down an’ listen; and when, sah,
I’s tol’ you de mizable tale,
You’ll ’low dat religion, out ou’ way,
Is mighty low down in de scale.

I started to work wid good prospects:
My field, you mought call it, was good;
I tried fur to keep up de fences,
An’ worked it de best ’at I could;
De site wuzn’t much fur to brag on;
’Twas mos’ly clay gullies an’ sand;
But de craps, in de way ob collections,
Wuz good fur dat ’scription ob land.

Well, sah, we got up a revival,
To last a consid’able while,
An’ ’greed, as we’s gwine fur to hab it,
’Twas best fur to hab it in style.
We started her goin’ at sun-up,
An’ kep’ her a-bilin’ till night,
When forty-odd mo’nahs wuz shoutin’,
An’ forty more comin’ in sight.

Des den it come into my min’, sah,
To gib dem ar niggahs a trile;
An’ so I riz up, an’ I says, sah,—
I says, with a beautiful smile:
“My frien’s, I’m a-gwine to propose you
A small, onsignificant test,
To proobe—out ob all ob de virtues—
Which ob you has charity best.”

“Now, hush up a minnit! I’ll tell you,
An’ den you kin go on an’ shout.
De short ob de mattah is: Friday
My barrel ob whiskey gub out;
It happens, too, des at dis moment,
I hasn’t de money to buy:
An’ so I proposes to _you_ all,
Dat you shill make up de supply.”

“To-morrow I’ll hab me a barrel
A-settin’ out dar on the bluff,
An’ eb’ry good Christian’s expected
To fotch ’long a pint o’ good stuff.
So I’ll git my barrel ob whiskey,
An you’ll git the feeling dat you
Is got charity down till you’re ekal
To gibbin’ de debbil his due.”

Nex’ mohnin’, sah, dar wuz de barrel;
An’ eb’ry man fotched up a flask,
An’ put de neck down in de bunghole,
An’ emptied it into de cask.
I thought ‘at I’d try how it swallowed,
An’ held a gourd under the spout,
An’ den gib a turn on de fossit—
When nuffin but WATER come out!

“A miracle!” shouted de sistahs.
“A miracle nuffin!” says I;
“I see froo de mattah.—it’s easy
To tell you des how it come by:
Each man fotched a bottle ob water,
An’ thought, when de cask wuz complete,
By _eb’ry one else bringin’ whiskey_,
Nobody would notice de cheat.”

Dat sort o’ broke up the revival—
An’ raly I think it wuz time,
Wid all de head brudders convicted
Ob such a contemptible crime.
Dey isn’t no good in purfeshins;
Dat’s one thing I hope ’at you sees—
But, sah, it’s so late I mus’ leab you
To pick out what moral you please.

_Irwin Russell._

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young
green wood?
For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields
from the flood?
For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyry’s brood?

Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the silver cord must be worn,
And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth
return;
And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty
done:
But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields
where the wild waves run.

From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to
his rest;
And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affection
attest.

From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily saw,
Set over against the law-book, of a higher than human law;
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet’s
cry
To be true to the truth, and faithful, though the world were arrayed
for the lie.

From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice has passed;
But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf
on the blast.
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed to the light,
Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to right.

“Fanatic!” the insects hissed, till he taught them to understand
That the highest crime may be written in the highest law of the
land.
“Disturber,” and “dreamer,” the Philistines cried, when he preached
an ideal creed,
Till they learned that the men who have changed the world with the
world have disagreed;
That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like sheep to the
pen;
For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinctive men.

It is not enough to win rights from a king, and write them down in a
book:
New men, new lights; and the fathers’ code the sons may never brook.
What is liberty now were license then; their freedom our yoke would
be;
And each new decade must have new men to determine its liberty.
Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the while.
Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the outward
file?
Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither tongue nor pen
Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of toiling
men.

Come, brothers, here to the burial! But weep not, rather rejoice
For his fearless life and his fearless death; for his true,
unequalled voice,
Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right;
For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak ones’ fight,
For his soul unmoved by the mob’s wild shout or the social sneer’s
disgrace,
For his freeborn spirit, that drew no line between class or creed or
race.

Come, workers! here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught was
good:
There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood;
There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin debarred;
Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs,—one right, one hope, one
guard.
By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great reformer’s
creed:
The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard against
selfish greed.
And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid laid
down
By the toil-stained hands of workmen,—their sobs, their kiss, and
their crown.
_John Boyle O’Reilly._

MALARIA.

Our baby lay in its mother’s arms,
All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms;
But little mouth and tongue were sore,
And of its food ’twould take no more.
The doctor hemmed, and shook his head.
And looking wise, he gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “Dear me! that’s new;
When I was young we called it ‘sprue.’”

Our urchin Tom, ne’er off his feet,
One day his dinner could not eat;
His head ached so, he was so ill,
Poor mother’s heart with fear did fill.
The doctor felt his hands and head,
And looking wise, he gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “That can’t be so!
He has been smoking, sir, I know.”

Our lady Maud, at seventeen—
As bright a girl as e’er was seen—
One day turned languid, white, and frail,
And roses red did strangely pale.
The doctor felt her pulse, and said,
While wisely he did shake his head,
“Malaria—it’s plainly seen—
Three times a day give her quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “That can’t be right!
Why, my good sir, she danced all night.”

Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear,
One night did act so strange and queer,
That mother, frightened, panting, said,
“Run for the doctor! he’ll be dead!”
The doctor came, and shook his head,
And, looking at him, grandly said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
“What stuff!” said grandmamma, “I’m thinking
That good-for-nothing boy’s been drinking!”

The head of the house, forever well,
One day fell ill, and, sad to tell,
Could not arise, but loud did cry,
“If this keeps on, I’d rather die!”
The doctor came, stood by the bed,
And, looking solemn, gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Growled grandmamma, “Oh! fiddle-dee-dee!
He’s only bilious—seems to me.”

One day our grandpa—eighty-four—
Complained that he could see no more;
That, at his age, it worried him
That his good eyesight should grow dim.
“I’ve often seen it act that way,”
The doctor solemnly did say:
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
But grandma said, “I never see!
Old man, you’re growing old, like me!”

PUZZLED.

You ask me whether I’m High Church,
You ask me whether I’m Low:
I wish you’d tell the difference,
For I’m sure that _I_ don’t know.
I’m just a plain old body,
And my brain works pretty slow;
So I don’t know whether I’m High Church,
And I don’t know whether I’m Low.

I’m trying to be a Christian,
In the plain, old-fashioned way,
Laid down in my mother’s Bible,
And I read it every day,—
Our blessed Lord’s life in the Gospels,
Or a comforting Psalm of old,
Or a bit from the Revelation
Of the city whose streets are gold.

Then I pray,—why, I’m generally praying,
Though I don’t always kneel or speak out,
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking,
Till I fear he is all tired out;
A piece of the Litany sometimes,
The Collect, perhaps, for the day,
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother
So long ago learned me to say.

But now my poor memory’s failing,
And often and often I find
That never a prayer from the Prayer-book
Will seem to come into my mind.
But I know what I want, and I ask it,
And I make up the words as I go:
Do you think that shows I ain’t High Church?
Do you think that it means I am Low?

My blessed old husband has left me,
’Tis years since God took him away:
I know he is safe, well, and happy,
And yet, when I kneel down to pray,
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never
Leave the old man’s name out of my prayer,
But I ask the dear Lord to do for him
What _I_ would do if I was there.

Of course he can do it much better;
But he knows, and he surely won’t mind
The worry about her old husband,
Of the old woman left here behind.
So I pray and I pray for the old man,
And I’m sure that I shall till I die;
So maybe that proves I ain’t Low Church,
And maybe it shows I am High.

My old father was never a Churchman,
But a Scotch Presbyterian saint:
Still his white head is shining in heaven,
I don’t care who says that it ain’t;
To one of our blessed Lord’s mansions
That old man was certain to go:
And _now_ do you think I am High Church?
Are you sure that I ain’t pretty Low?

I tell you, it’s all just a muddle,
Too much for a body like me;
I’ll wait till I join my old husband,
And then we shall see what we’ll see.
Don’t ask me again, if you please, sir,
For really it worries me so;
And I don’t know whether I’m High Church,
And I don’t know whether I’m Low.

THE BOOK CANVASSER.

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—

“Mr.———, I’m canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can’t take your name.

“Now, just cast your eyes over that,” he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. “That’s—lemme see—yes, that’s Columbus, perhaps you’ve heard sumfin’ about him. The publisher was telling me to-day, before I started out, that he discovered—No; was it Columbus that dis—Oh, yes, Columbus, he discovered America—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he staid on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain’t it? Taken from a photograph, all of ’em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that’s the way they dressed in them days.

“Look at this one. Now, isn’t that splendid? That’s William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t’other day about him. When he first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and, when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son’s head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never grazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn’t he? Face shaved clean; he didn’t wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch so’s to see how the fust settlers looked, and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs too. Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek, but he’s all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?

“There’s something nice. That, I think, is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington,—you recollect him, of course. Some people call him Father of his Country; George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton; and seems to me, if I recollect right, I’ve read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. The girl’s family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don’t he? He’s got it in his eye. If it’d been me, I’d gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her,—some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you’ll conclude to take this, I’ll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring ’em round to you, so’s you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things; but I’ve forgot ’em, my memory’s so awful poor.

“Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a—flying a—oh! yes, flying a kite, that’s it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree, and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn’t it? Now, if you or me’d ’a’ been hit, it’d just ’a’ made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin’. But men are so different! One man’s meat’s another man’s pison. See what a double chin he’s got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn’t got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain’t one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.

“Ah, here we are! Look at that. Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn’t that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up! Talk about woman’s love! There it is for you! Modocs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, ‘Why don’t you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,’ or words like them; and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher, and were married, and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn’t it? A good wife she made him, too, I’ll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don’t she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don’t wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.

“And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of ’em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse, and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is, he didn’t break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they’re pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain’t it?

“Turn over a couple of leaves. That’s General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku Kluxes got after him, he fought ’em behind cotton breastworks, and licked ’em till they couldn’t stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

“And then, here’s John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it’s cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won’t you?”

THE ENGINEER’S STORY.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty, an’ ez peart ez she kin be.
Clever? W’y, she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.
What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,
She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, and her dad he calls her
“Nell.”

I wuz drivin’ on the Central jist about a year ago,
On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.
There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Tain’t a road fur one who dreams,
With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.

’Twuz an afternoon in August; we hed got behind an hour,
An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,
Round the bends an’ by the ledges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,
With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres’le cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,
Suddenly I saw a baby,—’twuz the station-keeper’s child,—
Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold an’ fearless tread,
Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped, an’ grabbed the throttle, an’ I fa’rly held my
breath,
Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child was crushed to death,
When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,
Caught the boy, an’ twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’
main,
Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,
An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by!
An’ the river roared below us,—I shell hear her till I die.

Then we stopped; the sun wuz shinin’; I ran back along the ridge,
An’ I found her—dead? No, livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge,
Where she dropped down through the cross-ties with one arm about a
sill,
An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill.

So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be;
Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough for me.
An’ ef eny ask who owns her, w’y! I ain’t ashamed to tell—
She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter
Nell.
_Eugene J. Hall._

THE COMING WAVE.

Dipper Bay was a little inlet, almost land-locked, in which the water was deep enough to float his sloop at this time of tide, and its high rocky shores would afford him a perfect protection from the fury of any squall, or even hurricane. But Leopold felt that his chances of reaching this secure haven were but small, for the breeze was very light.

The sloop “Rosabel” was but a short distance from the shore when the wind entirely subsided, and the long rollers were as smooth as glass. The lightning glared with fearful intensity, and the thunder boomed like the convulsions of an earthquake. By this time Rosabel [for whom the sloop had been named], who had before enjoyed the sublimity of the coming storm, now began to realize its terrors, and to watch the handsome boatman with the deepest anxiety. The sails flapped idly in the motionless air, and Dipper Bay was still half a mile distant.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Hamilton,” said Leopold. “If the squall will keep off only a few moments, we shall be in a safe place.”

The skipper evidently “meant business;” and, shipping the long oars, he worked with a zeal which seemed to promise happy results, and Rosabel began to feel a little re-assured. But the sloop was too large, and too broad on the beam, to be easily rowed, and her progress was necessarily very slow.

“Can’t I help you, Leopold?” asked the maiden, when she saw what a tremendous effort the boatman was making.

“You may take the tiller, and steer for Dip Point, if you please,” replied Leopold, knowing that his beautiful passenger would be better satisfied if she could feel that she was doing something.

Leopold plied his oars with all the vigor of a manly frame, intent upon reaching the little bay, where the high rocks would shelter his craft from the fury of the storm. Then a breeze of wind came, and he resumed his place at the tiller. He had almost reached the haven when he saw coming down over the waters a most terrific squall. Before he could haul down his mainsail, the tempest struck the “Rosabel.” He placed his fair charge in the bottom of the boat, which the savage wind was driving towards the dangerous rocks. Before he could do any thing to secure the sail, the main-sheet parted at the boom. He cast off the halliards, but the sail was jammed and would not come down.

The “Rosabel” was almost upon the rocks. Seizing an oar, Leopold, satisfied that he could do nothing to save the boat, worked her away from the rocks, so that she would strike upon the narrow beach he had just left. The fierce squall was hurling her with mad speed upon the shore. By the most tremendous exertion, and at the imminent peril of his life, he succeeded in guiding her to the beach, upon which she struck with prodigious force, crushing in her keel and timbers beneath the shock. Without a word of explanation, he grasped the fair Rosabel in his arms, and leaped into the angry surges, which were driven high upon the rocks above him. The tide had risen so that there was hardly room under the cliff for him to stand; but he bore her to this only partial refuge from the fury of the storm.

The tempest increased in violence, and the huge billows rolled in with impetuous fury upon him. Grasping his fair burden in his arms, with Rosabel clinging to him in mortal terror, he paused a moment to look at the angry sea. There was a narrow shelf of rock near him, against which the waves beat with terrible violence. If he could only get beyond this shelf, which projected out from the cliffs, he could easily reach the Hole in the Wall, where Harvey Barth had saved himself in just such a storm. He had born Rosabel some distance along the beach, both drenched by the lashing spray, and his strength was nearly exhausted. The projecting shelf was before him, forbidding for the moment his further progress.

Placing his left foot on a rock, his fair but heavy burden on his knee, clasping her waist with his left hand, while his right was fastened for support in a crevice of the cliff, he paused for an instant to recover his breath and watch for a favorable chance to escape from his perilous position. Rosabel, in her terror, had thrown her arms around his neck, clinging to him with all her might. When he paused, she felt, reposing on his powerful muscles, that she was safe—she confessed it afterwards; though, in that terrible sea and near those cruel rocks, the strength of the strongest man was but weakness. Leopold waited. If the sea would only recede for an instant, it would give him the opportunity to reach the broader beach beyond the shelf, over which he could pass to the Hole in the Wall. It was a moment of hope, mingled with a mighty fear.

A huge billow, larger than any he had yet seen, was rolling in upon him, crested and reeking with foam, and might dash him and his feeble charge, mangled and torn, upon the jagged rocks. Still panting from the violence of his exertion, he braced his nerves and his stout frame to meet the terrible shock.

With every muscle strained to the utmost tension, he waited the coming wave. In this attitude, with the helpless maiden clinging to him for life, with the wreck of his fine yacht near, he was a noble subject for an inspired artist.

The coming wave, buried him and the fair maiden in its cold embrace. It broke, and shattered itself in torrents of milky foam upon the hard rocks. But the larger and higher the wave, the farther it recedes. Leopold stood firm, though he was shaken in every fibre of his frame by the shock. The retiring water—retiring only for an instant, to come again with even greater fury-gave him his opportunity, and he improved it. Swooping, like a strong eagle, beneath the narrow shelf of rock, he gained the broader sands beyond the reach of the mad billows. It blew a hurricane for some time. The stranded yacht was ground into little pieces by the sharp rocks, but her skipper and his fair passenger were safe.

_Oliver Optic._

THE STORY OF SIR ARNULPH.

[Matt. xxii. 37-39.—“Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy
soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and
great commandment. And the second is like unto it,
Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”]

An earnest man, in long-forgotten years,
Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears
Of pining multitudes, who sought his aid
When death their homesteads threatened to invade.

Blest with one only son (a gentle youth,
Trained in the fear of God, and love of truth),
He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire
Disease and death to baffle, like his sire.

But the boy, musing gloomily apart,
Avowed at length the impulse of his heart:
“To some calm cloister, father, I would go,
And there serve God.” His father answered, “No.

“Thou doest well to wish to serve the Lord,
By thine whole life imperfectly adored;
But choose thy work amid the world, and then
Thou canst serve God, and bless thy fellow-men.”

The boy, still yearning to achieve his plan,
Spake: “It were better to serve God than man.”
“Pray God for help,” the father said, “and he
Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee.”

So Arnulph to his chamber went, and prayed
That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid.
And, in a vision of the silent night,
A phantom stood before him, clothed in white,—
A form for earth too beautiful and grand,
With crimson roses blooming in each hand.

And Arnulph asked the angel, “Are these flowers
Fresh culled from Eden’s amaranthine bowers?”
He answered, “Nay: these offerings are from all
Whom God the doers of his will doth call.”
“And can I offer nothing?” sighed the boy.
“May I not also serve the Lord with joy?”
“Surely thou mayest,” replied that seraph fair,—
“In my left hand, behold, thy gift I bear.”

Then Arnulph said, “I pray thee, tell me why,
In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie,
But in the right they breathe a gracious smell,
Which long within the haunted sense doth dwell?”

The angel answered with pathetic tone,—
“In my left hand I bear the gifts alone
Of those who worship God the Sire above,
But for his children testify no love;
While _these_ sweet roses, which ne’er grow wan,
Come from the lovers of both God and man.”

The vision faded. Arnulph cried, “Alas!
My soul was blind!” And so it came to pass,
That the changed boy a cloister entered not,
But with God’s working-men took part and lot.
_Gerald Massey._

A LOST CHILD.

“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?”
Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece,
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;
I stooped, and lifted her with ease,
And softly whispered, “Maybe.”

“Tell me your name, my little maid:
I can’t find you without it.”
“My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said.
“Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head:
“Up to my house ’ey never said
A single word about it.”

“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?”
“Why, didn’t you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came:
“Yes, when you’re good. But when they blame
You, little one,—is it just the same
When mamma has to scold you?”

“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,
A little blush ensuing,
“’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones;
And then she says [the culprit owns],—
‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,
What has you been a-doing?’”
_Anna F. Burnham._

WHEN McGUE PUTS THE BABY TO SLEEP.

We have a foine tinement, close be the bridge,
Wid three pairs of stairs and a farm.
The farm’s on the roof, but it’s ilegant just
For to kape the small childer from harm.
The railin’ is high. Shure it’s tired they get
From playin’ “puss corner” an’ “peep,”
An’ ’twould do your heart good in the twilight to see
Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.

McGue is my man, an’ a daisy he is,
For after the gas-house shuts down
He comes wid his pail (faith, the coal on his face
Gives the shake to the boys of the town).
Then he sits down wid me, an’ his poipe, an’ his chair,
Comfortable, cosey, an’ deep,
Wid the kid in his arms; it would break you to see
Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.

He sings him the chune of “The Old Phwiskey Jug,”
An’ juggles him up on his knee
As light as the mist from ould Erin’s green turf
That floats from the bog to the sea.
Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch,
An’ the shadows across his eyes creep;
I’ll lay you a bet, it’s a beautiful sight,
When McGue puts the baby to sleep.

Then the ould man says “Phwist!” as the first darling snore
He hears from the swate, sleeping child;
An’ he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud,
An’ the drop of a pin makes him wild.
“The Virgin take care of that baby!” his prayer
Comes out of the heart low and deep;
It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse
John McGue for to put him to sleep.

JEM’S LAST RIDE.

High o’er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night,
And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right,
Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape,
While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape.

Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound
Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground;
And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim,
Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.

’Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero’s gauge.
From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage;
And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side,
I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day’s weary ride.

Jem’s faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried:
One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide;
And to each low command he spoke, the leader’s nervous ear
Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress’ voice to hear.

With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly hung,
Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung;
And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be,
With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea.

But after I had known him long, one mellow evening-time
He told me of his English Rose, who withered in her prime;
And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to rest
With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast.

“I could not stay,” he said, “where she had left me all alone!
The very hedge-rose that she loved, I could not look upon.
I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave,
And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling’s grave.

“Yet somehow—why, I cannot tell—but when I wandered here,
I seemed to bring her with me too, that once had been so dear.
I love these mountain summits, where the world is in the sky,
For she is in it too,—my love!—and so I bring her nigh.”

Next week I rode with Jem again. The coach was full, that day,
And there were little children there, that pleased us with their
play.
A sweet-faced mother brought her pair of rosy, bright-eyed girls,
And boy like one I left at home, with silken yellow curls.

We took fresh horses at Girard’s, and as he led them out—
A vicious pair they seemed to me—I heard the hostler shout,
“You always want good horses, Jem! Now you shall have your way.
Try these new beauties, for we sold your old team yesterday.”

O’er clean-cut limb and sloping flank, arched neck and tossing head,
I marked Jem run his practised eye, though not a word he said;
Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and took the reins once more,
I saw a look upon his face it had not worn before.

The hostler open flung the gates. “Now, Tempest, show your pace,”
He cried, and with a careless hand he struck the leader’s face.
The horse, beneath the sportive blow, reared as if poison-stung;
And, with his panic-stricken mates, to a mad gallop sprung.

We thundered through the gate, and out upon the stony road;
From side to side the great coach lurched, with all its priceless
load:
Some cried aloud for help, and some, with terror-frozen tongue,
Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, the weaker to the strong.

And men who oft had looked on death, unblanched, by flood or field,
When every nerve to do and dare by agony was steeled,
Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their teeth in helpless rage,
To die, at whim of maddened brutes, like vermin in a cage!

Too well, alas! too well I knew the awful way we went,—
The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent;
The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the rocky ridge,
With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge!

But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear;
We knew it well, the driver’s voice,—without one note of fear;
Some strong, swift angel’s lips might thrill with such a clarion
cry,—
The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by:—

“Still! for your lives, and listen! See yon farmhouse by the way,
And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown hay.
God help me turn my horses there! And when I give the word,
Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel heard!”

Within, the coach was still. ’Tis strange, but never till I die
Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the sky,
The summer breeze that brought the first sweet perfume of the hay,
The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away.

One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, and then
Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of ten.
“Hold fast the babes!” More close I clasped the fair boy at my side.
“Let every nerve be steady now!” and “Jump for life!” he cried.

Saved, every soul! Oh! dizzy—sweet life rushed in every vein,
To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to hope again!
But, ’mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each cheek,
A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to speak.

Too soon the answer struck our ears! One moment’s hollow roar
Of flying hoofs upon the bridge—an awful crash that tore
The very air in twain—and then, through all the world grown still,
I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will.

I was the first man down the cliff. There’s little left to tell.
We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he fell.
The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word,—
“Safe!” Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I scarcely
heard.

We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with agony.
“Not yet; it will be over soon,” he whispered. “Wait with me;”
Then, lower, smiling still, “It is my last ride, friends; but I
Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die.”

He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing tide,
Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide.
He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears,
“My Rose!” She must have heard that call, amid the singing spheres!
_Mary A. P. Stansbury._

OVER THE CROSSIN’.

“Shine? shine, sor? Ye see, I’m just a-dien’
Ter turn yer two boots inter glass
Where ye’ll see all the sights in the winders
’Ithout lookin’ up as yer pass.
Seen me before? I’ve no doubt, sor;
I’m punctooal haar, yer know,
Waitin’ along the crossin’
Fur a little un’, name o’ Joe;
My brother, sor, an’ a cute un’,
Ba’ly turned seven, an’ small,
But gettin’ his livin’ grad’ely
Tendin’ a bit uv a stall
Fur Millerkins down the av’nue;
Yer kin bet that young un’s smart,—
Worked right in like a vet’run
Since th’ old un’ gin ’im a start.

Folks say he’s a picter o’ father,
Once mate o’ the ‘Lucy Lee’—
Lost when Joe wor a baby,
Way off in some furrin sea.
Then mother kep’ us together,
Though nobody thought she would,
An’ worked an’ slaved an’ froze an’ starved
Uz long uz ever she could.
An’ since she died an’ left us,
A couple o’ year ago,
We’ve kep’ right on in Cragg Alley,
A-housekeepin’—I an’ Joe.
I’d just got my kit when she went, sor,
An’ people helped us a bit,
So we managed to get on somehow;
Joe wus alius a brave little chit;
An’ since he’s got inter bisness,
Though we don’t ape princes an’ sich,
Tain’t of’n we git right hungry,
An’ we feel pretty tol’able rich.

I used to wait at the corner,
Jest over th’ other side;
But the notion o’ bein’ tended
Sort o’ ruffled the youngster’s pride,
So now I only watches
To see that he’s safe across;
Sometimes it’s a bit o’ waitin’,
But, bless yer, ’tain’t no loss!
Look! there he is now, the rascal!
Dodgin’ across the street
Ter s’prise me—an’—look! I’m goin’—
He’s down by the horses’ feet!

Suddenly all had happened,—
The look, the cry, the spring,
The shielding Joe as a bird shields
Its young with sheltering wing;
Then up the full street of the city
A pause of the coming rush,
And through all the din and the tumult
A painful minute of hush;
A tumble of scattered brushes,
As they lifted him up to the walk,
A gathering of curious faces,
And snatches of whispered talk;
Little Joe all trembling beside him
On the flagging, with gentle grace
Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair
Away from the still white face.
At his touch the shut lids lifted,
And swift over lip and eye
Came a glow as when the morning
Flushes the eastern sky;
And a hand reached out to his brother,
As the words came low but clear,—
“Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother:
A minute back she wor here,
Smilin’ an’ callin’ me to her!
I tell ye, I’m powerful glad
Yer such a brave, smart youngster:
The leavin’ yer ain’t so bad.
Hold hard to the right things she learnt us,
An’ allus keep honest an’ true;
Good-by, Joe—but mind, I’ll be watchin’
Just—over—the crossin’—fur you!”
_Springfield Republican._

SOMEHOW OR OTHER.

The good wife bustled about the house,
Her face still bright with a pleasant smile,
As broken snatches of happy song
Strengthened her heart and hand the while.
The good man sat in the chimney-nook,
His little clay pipe within his lips,
And all he’d made, and all he’d lost,
Ready and clear on his finger-tips.

“Good wife, I’ve just been thinking a bit:
Nothing has done very well this year;
Money is bound to be hard to get;
Every thing’s bound to be very dear;
How the cattle are going to be fed,
How we’re to keep the boys at school,
Is kind of a debit and credit sum
I can’t make balance by any rule.”

She turned her round from the baking bread,
And she faced him with a cheerful laugh;
“Why, husband, dear, one would think
That the good rich wheat was only chaff.
And what if the wheat was only chaff,
As long as we both are well and strong?
I’m not a woman to worry a bit,—
Somehow or other we get along.

Into some lives some rain must fall,
Over all lands the storm must beat;
But when the rain and storm are o’er,
The after sunshine is twice as sweet.
Through every strait we have found a road,
In every grief we’ve found a song;
We’ve had to bear, and had to wait,—
But somehow or other we get along.

For thirty years we have loved each other,
Stood by each other whatever befell;
Six boys have called us father and mother,
And all of them living and doing well.
We owe no man a penny, my dear,
We’re both of us loving, well, and strong:
Good man, I wish you would smoke again,
And think how well we’ve got along.”

He filled his pipe with a pleasant laugh;
He kissed his wife with a tender pride;
He said, “I’ll do as you tell me, love;
I’ll just count up on the other side.”
She left him then with his better thought,
And lifted her work with a low, sweet song,—
A song that followed me many a year:
“Somehow or other we get along.”

TATERS.

(WITH A CHORUS.)

Of all the wonderful works of Nater,
What surprises me most, she can _make a tater_!
She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,
And then gradually stuffs the tater in.

_Chorus._
Tater! tater! Best bread made by Nater!
No baker alive could make a tater.

In Ireland, where earth is so fertile and turfy,
They mispronounce tater by calling it _Murphy_.
In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,
They nominate tater a _pomme de terre_!

Tater! tater! The brown bread of Nater!
Old Nick couldn’t give a worse nickname for tater.

Of words that sound proud I was always a hater—
_Per_-contra—_per_-centum—_per_-digious—_per_-tater!
All creatures that _purr_, from a fool to a cat,
Should be made to eat taters without any fat.

Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!
If an angel said _per_, I belave I should bate her.

O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt you
By making you vain and destroying your virtue;
But—baked, fried, boiled, roasted, you’re equally good,
And in pigpen or palace alike understood.

Tater! tater! First and best boon of Nater!
When I stop being poet, I’d turn to a tater.

What makes all men kin? It is “one touch of Nater!”
And what _is_ that touch, but the touch of a tater?
Of all flowers of the field, tater flour I most prize,
Best bread for the body and meet for the eyes.

Tater! tater! Did I wish to beat Nater,
I’d take you when new, and produce a _baked_ tater!

Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un;
They say you are _vulgar_ and very plebeian,
And call you a root! But their minds are unsound:
It’s your _modesty_ tells you to hide in the ground.

Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater!
(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)