And I-I listened, as I might,
With strange and weird and wild delight,
To hear the surfmen, in their haunt,
On deeds and loves and hates descant.
One gray old man, of whom I heard
No more than this descriptive word,
"Old Kennedy,"-he rattled on,
Of men and things long past and gone,
And seemed without one careful thought,-
Till spark to tinder some one brought
By hinting that he launched no more,
Of late, his surf-boat from the shore,
However wind and storm were rife
And stranded vessels periled life.
"No! by the God who made this tongue!"
And up in angry force he sprung,-
"No!-never, while my head is warm,
However wild beat sea and storm,
Launch I a boat, one life to save,
If half creation finds a grave!"
A fearful oath!-I thought; and so
Thought others, for a murmur low
Ran round the circle, till, at length,
The wondering feeling gathered strength,
And some, who had not known him long,
Declared them words of cruel wrong,
And swore to keep no friendly troth
With one who framed so hard an oath.
"You will not, mates?" the old man said,
His words so earnest, dense, and dread
That something down my back ran cold
As at the ghostly tales of old.
"You will not? Listen, then, a word!
And if, when you have fairly heard,
You say a thoughtless oath I swore,
I never fish beside you more!"
They listened: so did I, be sure,
As Desdemona to her Moor,
Or that poor "wedding guest" who heard
The Ancient Mariner's lengthy word.
They listened; and no murmur broke
The full, dead silence, as he spoke.
"You know me, mates,-at least the most,-
From Barnegat, on Jersey coast.
"Tis time you listened something more, That drove me to another shore.
Twelve years ago, at noon of life,
I had a fond and faithful wife;
Two children, boy and girl; a patch;
A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch;
And thought myself the happiest man
The coast had known since time began.
Ships wrecked: they never saw me flinch,
But fight the white surf, inch by inch,
To save the meanest thing had breath,
If danger seemed to threaten death.
Yes,--more! I never once held back,
If through the big storm, rushing black,
Some nabob's riches I could save
And give them to him from the wave.
One night a large ship drove ashore,
Not half a mile beyond my door.
I saw the white surf breaking far;
I saw her beating on the bar;
I knew she could not live one hour,
By wood and iron's strongest power.
I was alone, except my boy,—
Sixteen,-my wife's best hope and joy;
And who can doubt, that is not mad,
He was the proudest pride I had!
I let him take the vacant oar;
I took him with me from the shore;
I let him try help save a life:
I drowned him, and it killed my wife!"
The old man paused, and dashed his hand
Against his brow, to gain command;
While all around, a hush like death
Hung on the fisher's trembling breath.
And pitying eyes began to show
How rough men feel a rough man's woe.
Then he went on,-a few words more,
That still an added horror bore.
"Somebody stole a cask or bale,-
At least so ran the pleasant tale.
And while my boy was lying dead,
My wife's last breath as yet unfled,
The city papers reeked with chat
Of' pirate bands on Barnegat.'
My name was branded as a thief,
When I was almost mad with grief;
And what d'ye think they made me feel,
When the last falsehood ground its heel,-
'I had rowed out, that night, to steal!'
No! if I ever row again,
To save the lives of periled men,
Body and soul at once go down,
And Heaven forget me as I drown!"
It was a direful oath, as well
When nothing more remained to tell,
As it had been, when at the first
His wrong and hate the old man nursed.
But I have often thought, since then,
The best of men are only men,
And some of us, at church and school,
Who prattle of the Golden Rule,-
Might find it hard, such weight to bear
Of shame and outrage and despair,
Without forgetting trust and troth
And hurling out as dread an oath.
THE MUSICAL FROGS.-JOHN STUART BLACKIB.
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
How sweet ye sing! would God that I
Upon the bubbling pool might lie,
And sun myself to-day
With you! No curtained bride, I ween,
Nor pillowed babe, nor cushioned queen,
Nor tiny fay on emerald green,
Nor silken lady gay,
Lies on a softer couch. O Heaven!
How many a lofty mortal, riven
By keen-fanged inflammation,
Might change his lot with yours, to float
On sunny pond, with bright green coat,
And sing with gently throbbing throat
Amid the croaking nation,
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Happy the bard who weaves his rhyme
Recumbent on the purple thyme,
In the fragrant month of June;
Happy the sage whose lofty mood
Doth with far-searching ken intrude
Into the vast infinitude
Of things beyond the moon;
But happier not the wisest man
Whose daring thought leads on the van
Of star-eyed speculation,
Than, thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing,
Within the green pond's reedy ring,
That with a murmurous joy dost sing
Among the croaking nation,
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Great Jove with dark clouds sweeps the sky,
Where thunders roll and lightnings fly,
And gusty winds are roaring;
Fierce Mars his stormy steed bestrides,
And, lashing wild its bleeding sides,
O'er dead and dying madly rides,
Where the iron hail is pouring.
'Tis well-such crash of mighty powers
Must be the spell may not be ours
To tame the hot creation.
But little frogs with paddling foot
Can sing when gods and kings dispute,
And little bards can strum the lute
Amid the croaking nation,
With Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
Farewell! not always I may sing.
Around the green pond's reedy ring
With you, ye boggy muses!
But I must go and do stern battle
With herds of stiff-necked human cattle,
Whose eager lust of windy prattle
The gentle rein refuses.
Oh, if-but all such ifs are vain;
I'll go and blow my trump again,
With brazen iteration;
And when, by Logic's iron rule,
I've quashed each briskly babbling fool,
I'll seek again your gentle school,
And hum beside the tuneful pool
Amid the croaking nation,
Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs!
THE GAMIN.-VICTOR HUGO.
Paris has a child; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a sparrow; the child is called the gamin. His origin is from the rabble.
The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. The street was deserted as far as could
be seen. Every door and window was closed; in the background rose a wall built of paving stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen; nothing could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre ! From time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began to gather up the full cartridgeboxes of the National Guards who had been killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharpshooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered something moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier of his cartridges a ball struck the body. "They are killing my dead for me,” said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. A third upset his basket. Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National Guard, who were firing; and he sang :
"They are ugly at Narterre
'Tis the fault of Voltaire;
And beasts at Palaeseau-
'Tis the fault of Rousseau."
Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges which had fallen out, without losing a single one; and advancing towards the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge box. Then a fourth ball just missed him again; Gayroche sang:
"I am only a scribe
"Tis the fault of Voltaire;
My life one of woe
"Tis the fault of Rousseau."
The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mocked the firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up; hid himself in a doorway, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes; the
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