He was no fair-weather sailor, and he often made the boast That the ocean safer sheltered than the wild Carnarvon

coast.

He'd a good ship underneath him, and a crew of English form,

So he sailed from out the Mersey in the hurricane and storm. All the luck was dead against him-with the tempest at its

height,

Fires expired, and rudders parted; in the middle of the night

Sails were torn and rent asunder. Then he spake with bated breath:

"Save yourselves, my gallant fellows! we are drifting to our death!"

Then they looked at one another, and they felt the awful

shock,

When, with louder crash than tempest, they were dashed upon a rock.

All was over now and hopeless; but across those miles of

foam

They could hear the shouts of people, and could see the lights of home.

"All is over!" screamed the Captain. "You have answered duty's call.

Save yourselves! I cannot help you. God have mercy on us all!"

So they rushed about like madmen, seizing belt and oar,

and rope

For the sailor knows where life is, there's the faintest ray of hope

Then amidst the wild confusion, at the dreaded dawn of day, From the hold of that doomed vessel crept a wretched stowaway!

Who shall tell the saddened story of this miserable lad? Was it wild adventure stirred him, was he going to the bad? Was he thief, or bully's victim, or a runaway from school, When he stole that fatal passage from the port of Liverpool?

No one looked at him, or kicked him, midst the paralyzing

roar,

All alone he felt the danger, and he saw the distant shore. Over went the gallant fellows, when the ship was breaking

fast,

And the Captain with his life-belt-he prepared to follow

last;

But he saw a boy neglected, with a face of ashy gray, "Who are you?" roared out the Captain. "I'm the boy what stow'd away."

There was scarce another second left to think what he could do,

For the fatal ship was sinking-Death was ready for the two So the Captain called the outcast as he faced the tempest wild,

From his own waist took the life-belt, and he bound it round the child.

"I can swim, my little fellow! Take the belt, and make for land.

Up, and save yourself!" The outcast humbly knelt to kiss his hand.

With the life-belt round his body then the urchin cleared the ship;

Over went the gallant Captain, with a blessing on his lip. But the hurricane howled louder than it ever howled before, As the Captain and the stowaway were making for the shore! When you tell this gallant story to your playfellows at school, They will ask you of the hero-Captain Strachan, of Liverpool.

You must answer-they discovered, on the beach at break of day,

Safe, the battered, breathing body of the little stowaway; And they watched the waves of wreckage, and the searched the cruel shore,

But the man who tried to save the little outcast was no more.

When they speak of English heroes, tell this story where you can,

To the everlasting credit of the bravery of nʊn,

Tell it out in tones of triumph, or with tears and quickened breath:

'Manhood's stronger far than storms, and Love is mightier than Death!"

THE FARMER'S SONG BIRD.-GEORGE HORTON.

You may talk about the music of the thrush,
Singing from a shady nook in June;
You may tell me how in early morning's hush
Robins' throats their melody attune;

You may even praise the chatter of the wren,
But to me the sweetest warbling in the world
Is the cut cut cut cutdawcut,

Cut cut cut cutdawcut,
Cut cut cut cut

Cut cut cut cutdawcut

Of the ordinary hen!

I have naught against the bobolink to say,
Nor the black bird's crazy quiverings;
I can listen quite enchanted all the day
If the oriole above me sings.

'Gainst the nightingale I've not a single word,
But I claim there's no singing in the world
Like the cut cut cut cutdawcut

Cut cut cut cutdawcut,

Cut cut cut cut

Cut cut cut cutdawcut

Of our gallinaceous bird!

'Tis a pœan and a promise all in one

'Tis an invitation to a feast;

"Tis an honest boast of useful labor done,
And it tells of capital increased.

Oh, I praise no fancy bird with tongue or pen,
For to me the noblest music in the world
Is the cut cut cut cutdawcut,

Cut cut cut cutdawcut,

Cut cut cut cut

Cut cut cut cutdawcut

Of the common barnyard hen!

True, 'tis not a cultured operatic song,
Like the caged canary shouts and trills,
But it often makes a city fellow long

For his boyhood back among the hills.
While he dreams he's barefoot, hunting eggs again
To that most pathetic music in the world,
To the cut cut cut cutdawcut,

Cut cut cut cutdawcut

Cut cut cut cut

Cut cut cut cutdawcut

Of his mother's speckled hen!

WHAT THREE WOMEN SAID.

The other day going back to Cleveland, I sat behind three women for an hour or two. They were all friendly to each other, and they didn't mind my presence.

"Did you hear about Sarah Lamb?" asked one. "Goodness! No!" answered another.

"Well, Sarah's got her pay, I tell you!" continued the first. "You know she was a whole year trying to catch that red-headed widower. Well, she finally married him; and what do you think? They say that he sneers at her-actually uses oaths-when things go wrong, keeps her from going to church, is set against company, and wont let her use above two eggs in a sweet-cake!"

"Mon-sterous!" exclaimed the others.

There was a moment of silence, and then one of the trio spoke up: "Did you know that Mrs. Lancey had a new empress-cloth dress?"

You don't say!"

"Yes, I do! I know it for a fact-for she wore it past our house the other day. That dress never cost less than seven dollars—the bare cloth—and there's the making and trimmings thrown in. Just think of a woman in her circumstances going to such an expense; why, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I couldn't believe it!" 'It is awful!"

"And the worst of it is, she seems to hold her head so high!" continued the first. "I've heard that her grandfather had to go to the poor-house when he broke his leg, and yet she holds her head up with the best of us! Of course I don't want to backbite any one-it isn't my nature to talk behind people's back—but I will say that I shouldn't wonder if such extravagance brought that family to want for bread before spring comes!"

Nothing was said for the next five minutes, and then one of them exclaimed: "Land sakes! but I'd almost forgotten to tell you Lizzie Thorburn has a new hat!" What, another?"

'Yes, another! she wore it to church last Sunday! Think of that a girl having three hats in one year!

Shameful!" they cried in chorus.

"I don't know what the world is coming to," continued the first. "When I was a girl, one hat had to last me

year,

seven years; while now a girl wants at least two a if not three. I tell you, when I sat in church last Sunday, and saw Lizzie come slipping in with that new hat (must have cost three dollars at least) I felt queer. The fate of the sinful people of Sodom and Gomorrah came to my mind in a second; and I shouldn't have been surprised if Lizzie had been stricken right down, then and there!"

After pondering over it for two or three minutes, one of them replied: "So, Mary Jane Doolittle is dead, is she?"

"Yes, poor thing," was the reply, "dead and buried a week ago. Hannah was at the funeral. She says that Doolittle never shed a tear-never even blew his nose." 26 'He didn't?"

"No, he didn't! Hannah watched him all through, and she says he has a heart like a stone. If he should be arrested as her murderer, I shouldn't be the least surprised. Poor woman! I met her only last August, and I could see that she was killing herself. I didn't ask her right out about it, but could understand that Doolittle was a cold-hearted wretch. He didn't have much to say; but just one remark he made convinced me of his cold-heartedness. He asked for soap to wash himself, and when she handed him a piece he looked at it, sneered like, and says he: 'Mary Jane, you mustn't buy any more yeller soap!'"

66

Did he say that?"

"He certainly did. I'll go before any court in the land and swear to it?"

I had to get off the train then, and missed further information.

OUT OF THE WINDOW.-S. A. BROCK.

Silently musing a maiden sat,

Dreaming dreams as fair as the morn,

While the light through the crimson curtains stole,
Like the rosy rays of the early dawn.