Imatges de pÓgina
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fell upon it; to look upon it every day, and wake up in the night and hear its ceaseless voice,-this was enough.

I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll and leap, and roar and tumble, all day long; still are the rainbows spanning them, a hundred feet below. Still, when the sun is on them, do they shine and glow like molten gold. Still, when the day is gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like the front of a great chalk-cliff, or roll down the rock like dense white smoke. But always does the mighty stream appear to die as it comes down, and always from its unfathomable grave arises that tremendous ghost of spray and mist which is never laid, -which has haunted this place with the same dread solemnity since darkness brooded on the deep, and that first flood before the deluge-light--came rushing on creation at the word of God.

THE OLD-TIME SLEIGH-RIDE.

Ho, girls, for a frolic! The sleigh's at the gate;
And, all tricked for her bridal, the world is elate.
The steeds paw the snow as they tug at the reins,
And the dewdrops of music are tossed from their manes.
Shawl, sealskin, and boa snatch up for the fray,
Swift toilets are only in order to-day.
Now, in with you, Molly, Meg, Fanny, and Ma,
Settle down in the robes; put your feet in the straw;
Here, Nell, Sue, and Kitty, the middle seat take.
Hurrah! Now the whip; give them head, Uncle Jake!
Hurrah! Did you ever such jollity know
As a sleigh full of girls and a first coat of snow?
Bump! bump! swish and swish! Now we glide like a ship.
What sounds are the gayest,-from sleigh bell or lip?
How the whitecaps of hedge, fence, and hay-stack so brave
Rise, gleam, and are gone, like the foam of the wave!
Like petrels, the snow-buntings flash on our lee,
And the pine woods awake, like the roar of the sea,
Hold hard, or you're overboard! Ha! what a lurch!
Hug the hedge, Captain Jake, or we're foul of that church!
The toll-gate is open, the pennies are tossed,
The portals are sundered, the barriers crossed.
Hurrah! Was there ever such voyaging free
Since Arion rode, dolphin-back, o'er the sea ?

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Swish, swish! now the runners their polish have got,
How we leap on the wings of this time-scorning trot!
Our steeds snort amain, and their breath as they go
Is blent with the spray of the hoof-beaten snow.
Barn, farm-house, and arbor flit by, like a dream;
Vails and tippets flaunt wildly, the girls laugh and scroan
The skaters are thick upon river and pond-
Look out for yon bridge and the gully beyond!
By jingo, we're in for it! Stop 'em! Hallo!
Don't yell so,-no danger-there! over we go!
Hurrah! Was there ever such holiday gift
As a roll down a hill to alight in a drift?
Set them up, grab the leaders! Who ever yet heard
Of an old-fashioned ride where no upset occurred ?
Here, Molly, Sue, Kitty! where are you, my dears?
Meg's the first out of bed, and there's Fanny in tears!
Tush! here is your bonnet; Nell, help your mamma!
So-in once again ʼmong the robes and the straw!
All aboard! Not a rivet is loose in the sleigh;
Let them go, Uncle Jake! we've enough for one day.
Cold feet and cold noses, red cheeks and bright eyes,
Are trophies the gods of the hearth ne'er despise.
Hurrah for the sports over which they preside!
The zest of young life is the old-time sleigh-ride!

I WONDER.
I wonder if ever a song was sung

But the singer's heart sang sweeter!
I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung

But the thought surpassed the meter!
I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought

'Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!
Or if ever a painter, with light and shade,
The dream of his inmost heart portrayed !
I wonder if ever a rose was found

And there might not be a fairer!
Or if ever a glittering gem was ground,

And we dreamed not of a rarer!
Ah! never on earth shall we find the best!
But it waits for us in the land of rest;
And a perfect thing we shall never behold
Till we pass the portal of shining gold.

CRIPPLE BEN.-GEORGE L. Catlin.

Down in a street by the river's side,
Where ebbs and flows the hurrying tide
Of city life, in a squalid den,
Hungry and poor, dwelt “ Cripple Ben."
So they called him; no other name
He e'er had boasted since first he came,
Unknown, unnoticed, his care to hide,
In that wretched home by the river's side.
Ragged, one-legged, deformed was he;
His age not over twenty-and-three.
All day long on his crutch he'd go
Through the streets with a painful gait and slov
Vending matches, and pins, and soap,
Ever cheery and full of hope,
Never complaining, never sad,
With an eye so bright, and a face so glad,
In spite of his cares, that folks would pause
In passing, to buy from his little stores;
And children would see his cheery smile
Reflected back in their own the while,
And even the rough, blunt sailor-men
Had always a word for “ Cripple Ben.”
Yet oft on the pier where the great ships lay
He'd sit and rest on a summer's day,
And peering over the moss-grown brink
On the seething tide below, would think
And wonder if in yon current there
He could bury forever bis weight of care.
“Nobody cares for me,” he'd say;
" I'm weary of toiling every day.
By night a hard and narrow bed,
By day a beggarly crust of bread.
Why not finish it all? And then
Nobody'll miss poor Cripple Ben.”
Yet something within him said: “ Live on;
Though thy heart be lonely, thy features wan,
Even for thee it rests in store
To do some good ere thy life is o'er.”
So, then, with a sigh of silent pain,
He'd hobble away on his crutch again,
And take up his burden of life once more,
Bravely and patiently as before.

One day last June, in an eager hunt
For a friend's place, down by the river front,
I suddenly heard a piercing cry,
A sry of grief from the pier hard by;
And half a hundred hurrying feet
Were speeding across the rough-paved street.
I joined the crowd. At the pier-head, lo!
A woman, wringing her hands in wo,
Screamed, “Oh ! my child !" while men did shout,
And out in the current, out, far out,
A man was struggling to keep afloat
A baby form. “A boat! a boat!"
We sbouted. Then stalwart arms and brave
Pulled hurriedly forth, two lives to save.
'Twas not in vain, for, quicker than thought,
Those dripping two to the pier they brought.
“The child's alive!" they cried with zest,
And the babe was clasped to its mother's breast
But what of him-the other one-
With his face upturned to the noonday sun
Lifeless they lifted him up, and then
A bystander said: “Why, it's Cripple Ben for

EARTH'S NOBLEMEN.

The noblest men I know on earth,

Are men whose hands are brown with toil ·
Who, backed by no ancestral graves,

Hew down the woods, and till the soil,
And win thereby a prouder name
Than follows kings' or warriors' fame.
The working men, whate'er their task,

Who carve the stone or bear the hod,
They bear upon their honest brows

The royal stamp and seal of God;.
And worthier are their drops of sweat
Than diamonds in a coronet.
God bless the noble working men,

Who rear the cities of the plain;
Who dig the mines, who build the ships,

And drive the commerce of the main :
God bless them! for their toiling hands
Have wrought the glory of all lands.

DIFFICULT LOVE-MAKING.

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The boy who sells fruit and confectionery on the train is usually a very vigorous sort of boy, with an eye strictly to business, and with no romantic thoughts running through his active brain. One of them came very near ruining the happiness of two souls for life, the other day. A young man sat in the seat with a pretty girl; and, though the passengers couldn't distinguish their conversation from the noise made by the cars, it was pretty evident that what was being said was of great interest to the young couple. He was saying “Jenny, darling! I have long been wishing an opportunity to tell you of my great regard for—"

“Peanuts?" inquired the fruit-and-confectionery boy, thrusting his basket in front of the pair.

“No!” exclaimed the young man in an annoyed tone, and waving his hand to one side. “As I was saying, Jenny,” he continued, when the boy had passed on, “I have long wanted to tell you of my regard for you. You are everything to me; and always, in your absence, my thoughts are constantly dwelling upon

“Nice candy! Prize in every box!” interrupted the boy, totally ignorant of the interesting conversation he was interrupting. The young man shook his head, while the girl looked mad enough to bite a hairpin in two. When the boy had left, the young man resumed:

“I do not think you are entirely insensible to my regard, and I feel certain that you in some degree reciprocate. Tell me, darling, if I have a right to think that you are fond of —”

“Nice, fresh figs-ten cents a—"

The boy saw by the countenance of the pair that he could make no sale, and moved ahead with the basket. The young man finished with his eyes the sentence he had commenced, and waited for an answer. It came, murmured in his ear, that no other person might learn its import :

"Oh, Charlie! you've no idea how happy you make me by your avowal! You know that I care for yo: only, and that my regard for you is as lasting as--"

"Maple candy-very nice!" said the boy, displaying a tempting array of the delicacy.

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