"Give the word!"

But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these, A captain? A lieutenant? A mate,-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,

A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;

Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or

rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell

"Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues?

Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet, and ruin France?

fifty Hogues!

That were worse than

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way!

Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this Formidable clear,

Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well,

Right to Solidor, past Greve,

And there lay them safe and sound;

And if one ship misbehave,

Keel so much as grate the ground,

Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.

"Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief.

Captains, give the sailor place!

He is Admiral, in brief.

Still the north-wind, by God's grace.

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's

profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock.

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground.

Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last;

And just as Hervé Riel halloos "Anchor!"-sure as fate,
Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm;

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Greve:

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Outburst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

Hervé Riel,"

As he stepped in front once more,

Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard:
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships,
You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say iny say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?

Since 'tis ask and have I may,

Since the others go ashore,— Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"

That he asked, and that he got,—nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost;

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris; rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank;

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse,

Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore.

THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.-J. D. ROBINSON.

I am all alone in my chamber now,
And the midnight hour is near,

And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick
Are the only sounds I hear;

And over my soul, in its solitude,

Sweet feelings of sadness glide;

For my heart and my eyes are full, when I think
Of the little boy that died.

I went one night to my father's house-
Went home to the dear ones all,-
And softly I opened the garden gate,
And softly the door of the hall;

My mother came out to meet her son,
She kissed me, and then she sighed,

And her head fell on my neck, and she wept
For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,

As still and cold he lay,

And thought what a lovely child he had been,
And how soon he must decay,

"O death, thou lovest the beautiful,"

In the woe of my spirit I cried;

For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died!

Again I will go to my father's house,-
Go home to the dear ones all,-
And sadly I'll open the garden gate,
And sadly the door of the hall;

I shall meet my mother, but nevermore
With her darling by her side,

But she'll kiss me and sigh and weep again
For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him when the flowers come
In the garden where he played; ̧
I shall miss him more by the fireside,
When the flowers have all decayed;
I shall see his toys and his empty chair,
And the horse he used to ride;

And they will speak, with a silent speech,
Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again

With her playmates about the door,
And I'll watch the children in their sports,
As I never did before;

And if in the group I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing-eyed,

I'll look to see if it may not be

The little boy that died.

We shall all go home to our Father's house,

To our Father's house in the skies,

Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight,

And our love no broken ties;

We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace, And bathe in its blissful tide:

And one of the joys of our heaven shall be

The little boy that died.

PER PACEM AD LUCEM.-ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.

I do not ask, O Lord! that life may be
A pleasant road;

I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
Aught of its load;

I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet;

I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead:
Lead me aright-

Though strength should falter, and though heart should
bleed-

Through Peace to Light.

I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed
Full radiance here;

Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand,
My way to see,-

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,
And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day, but peace divine
Like quiet night.

Lead me, O Lord! till perfect day shall shine,
Through Peace to Light.

MARK TWAIN EDITS AN AGRICULTURAL PAPER.

S. C. CLEMENS.

We

The sensation of being at work once again was luxurious, and I wrought all the week with unflagging pleasure. went to press, and I waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was going to attract any notice. As I left the office, toward sundown, a group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one impulse, and gave me passage-way, and I heard one or two of them say, "That's him!" I was naturally pleased by this incident. The next morning I found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and