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Bessie, won't you walk down to the gate | Gaines had sunk twice before aid could with me? I've a message for you."

Slowly and reluctantly the girl complied, stopping short at the gate, and asking, coldly, "Well, what's your message? I shall be taking cold here."

Now Will's message was some unimportant trifle which might as well have been reserved for another time, and having heard it, she tossed her head, saying:

reach him, and was just going down for the last time, when a strong hand caught him, held him, and bore him safely to the boat. His exhaustion was complete, and, when somewhat revived, he was placed in one of the smaller boats, rowed ashore and carried home by Will Farnsworth, who quietly carried on all the preparations without a word or look for Bessie, pale and silent in

"Oh, is that all? I'll go back, then. her seat. Good-night."

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"What do you mean?" she cried, half frightened by the savage whisper, the abrupt stop, seeming to mask some terrible meaning, and the desperate, passionate face revealed by the moonlight-"What were you saying please, Will ?"

Worn out as he was, Alfred Gaines was quite able to talk, and, during their solitary ride to the Widow Wells' cottage, he manifested his gratitude towards his pre-> server, as best he might, by certain statements to the effect that he was engaged to a cousin of Bessie's; that he had known the latter-Bessie-from her childhood and that, on his establishment in the household, he had entered into a playful compact to shield her by an apparent devotion from the unwelcome attentions of others; add

was fonder of Will than she would like to admit, and, girl-like, sought to freeze him into an unconsciousness of feeling that. frightened herself. To all of which the young man listened rather silently, promising compliance, however, when his companion entreated, as a personal favour, that he would come to the cottage that evening, when he himself should be more fully recovered. The result of which strategy was that Will did come, to find on the porch, not Alfred Gaines, but Bessie Wells, who, greeting him shyly, but sweetly murmured:

She took a step toward him, just touching his arm with her hand, but he shook it off, and muttering "No matter-I'll not keeping his own private conviction that the girl you here," pulled open the gate, and walked down the lane without a single backward glance. Bessie, after watching him out of sight, returned with a rather troubled face. Will's intention had been to solicit Bessie's company for a sail which was to come off the next day on Brant pond, but the coldness of her reception had checked his purpose. Nevertheless, she was there all life and gaiety as usual, and, as usual also, accompanied by Alfred Gaines. Will was there, too, for, as the best sailor, his skilful management could not be spared from the boat. But, silent and busy, he had very little to do with Bessie, who, in the other end of the boat, laughing and chattering, amused herself by unsuccessful snatches after floating water-lilies. Presently Mr. Gaines volunteered his assistance, reached far out, lost his balance and fell, just as Will Farnsworth, perceiving his peril, gave a shout of warning.

"And he cannot swim!" cried Bessie, in trembling dismay. Before the words were spoken, Bill had made ready for the rescue. "Oh, Will!" sobbed Bessie, in a tone that betrayed her heart, as she saw his purpose. He gave her one look, and plunged in.

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"How kind it was, Will! how noble to risk your life for him-when you wereShe stopped, blushing. The young man filled up the pause

"When I was jealous of him? Yes, that I was, wickedly jealous-but, Bessie, must I be so, after this, of him or anybody? Tell me, Bessie darling!" And he took her hand.

'Oh, Will! you are a great deal too good for me," she said. The tears were in her eyes, but she did not take away her hand, although feeling herself drawn closer and closer. I do not think that Will Farns-worth has ever regretted his revenge.




The chief object of attention, in the following brilliant piece, is the management of the voice in double emphasis, applied to the witticisms in the punning form, so frequently interwoven with the playful flow of humour, which constitutes the main tenor of the expression.

STRIKER of Medals, and of many Men!
In that fierce age

When striking was the rage,
And men could cut with chisel, sword, or pen,
Who can behold

The works thy genius planned, And not be struck by thy great master hand? What golden hours were thine! for we are told

By thine own page,

The Mint engaged thy time; and Pontiffs sage
Would give thee their support,
While sinking for the Court
Its papal die.

Hail! to thee,-"Carver" bold!

With nymphs enough to form a good seraglio,

A cameo of aurelian,—
Cornelia, in Cornelian-
And, best of all Huntsmen with horn and

Unlike our English tally-ho,
Yet all-intaglio.

A stone, of no great value, has been set
On thee, for ages past;

No sculptor cuts thee out, nor have we met
A Founder of thy cast,

Since Death, that sinker of renown,—
Within the grave did cool thy mettle down!
There, every crown is tossed,
And the best ivories lost;
There, veinless as his marbles, and as cold,
Cellini lies within his country's mould!

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Thus born to flourish under the "Pope's ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, eye,"

Yet would defy,

His toe;

By leaving gold unchased, to chase a foe:
Scorning all forms, beside St. Peter's chair,
For nothing didst thou care-
'Bating his bull!

It were an even toss,

Which of thy works may be most wonderful;
Sometimes a Sonnet writing,
Now fairly fighting,

Then sitting coolly down to work a cross! "Fine images were thine

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Thy cups which we inherit,

Seem full of spirit,

And in thy magic rings dull heroes shine.

In metal, stone, or wood,

Equally good,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd; And fiery hearts, and arméd hands, Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget,

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,Gushed, warm with hope and courage, yet Upon the soil they fought to save. Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;

Men start not at the battle cry,

Oh! be it never heard again!

Thy works on Fame's high pedestals have Soon rested those who fought; but thou


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Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year: A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear,

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof:
And blench not at thy chosen lot :-
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown,-yet faint thou not! Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

I have no charm to renovate the youth

Of old authentic dictates of the heart; To wash the wrinkles from the face of truth, And out of Nature from creative Art. Divinest Poesy!-'tis thine to make

Age young,-youth old,-to baffle tyrant Time;

From antique strains the hoary dust to shake,

And with familiar grace to crown new ryhme.

Long have I loved thee,-long have loved in vain,

When they who helped thee flee in fear, Thou wreath'dst my first hours in a rosy Yet large the debt my spirit owes to thee;

Die, full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here,

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

21. POIETES APOIETES. (Hartley Coleridge.)

An example, in recitation, of the deep and subdued tones of regret, and the drooping attitude and imperfect gesture of shame. Such pieces become useful suggestive lessons in regard to appropriate animation and energy in the usual forms of recitation.

No hope have I to live a deathless name,
A power immortal in the world of mind,
A sun to light with intellectual flame

The universal soul of human kind.

Not mine the skill in memorable phrase
The hidden truths of passion to reveal,
To bring to light the intermingling ways
By which unconcious motives darkling

To show how forms the sentient heart affect,
How thoughts and feelings mutually com-
How oft the pure, impassive Intellect
Shares the mischances of his mortal

Nor can I summon from the dark abyss
Of time the spirit of forgotten things,
Bestow unfading life on transient bliss,-
Bid memory live with "healing on its

Or give a substance to the haunting shades
Whose visitation shames the vulgar earth,
Before whose light the ray of morning fades,
And hollow yearning chills the soul of


Rocking the cradle of my infancy.

The lovely images of earth and sky

From thee I learned within my soul to treasure;

And the strong magic of thy minstrelsy Charms the world's tempest to a sweet sad measure.

Not Fortune's spite, nor hopes that once have been

Hopes which no power of Fate can give again;

Not the sad sentence that my life must wean From dear domestic joys,-nor all the train

Of pregnant ills, and penitential harms,

That dog the rear of youth unwisely wasted,

Can dim the lustre of thy stainless charms, Or sour the sweetness that in thee I tasted.


THE sunbeam of gold

Is again in the sky,
And the breath of the summer
Is drawing nigh;
There is joy in the valley,

And joy on the plain,
And the voice of the forest
Is happy again;
And the laughing song

Is heard in the sky,
For the winds of the summer
Are drawing nigh.

And methinks I hear

Their voices gay,
As on fairy wings

They float away

From the Southern home

Of the rubied sun,
Where the red beams dance,

And the year begun
Smiles onward to its close.

Nearer and nearer they float along,
And sweet is the burden of their song;
For muttering echoes whisper low,

The voice of the winds as they onward go:
"We come to cheer
The waking year

Of the land of the misty sky;

And on our wing

We gaily bring

To bathe the air

Of the flying spring,
And deck the tomb
Of the winter's gloom-
Flowers of fairy dye:

And floating, floating onward still,
We soften the song of the leaping rill;
And breathing on the mellowing air,
We scatter gladness everywhere-
Purple clouds,

And clouds of gold,

Swimming in the dome of blue;

Peopled towns

Of insect hum

Flitting in the air anew;

Meadow bloom,

And rainbow showers,

Falling softly from the sky;

Music sweet

From forest bowers,

Mingling with the honeyed sigh
Of gentle gales from beds of flowers
That breathe of love and peace.
And with it all a boon we bring,
A priceless, priceless mystic thing,
Which many mortals sell for gold,
And then bemoan as soon as sold-
A boon that none for gems may buy,
An angel-blessing from on high.
The aged man with the silver hair
Hath waited long for the summer air;
Through the weary months of the snowy

He has longed for the sun and the clouds
of gold;
For with them comes, what now we bring
HEALTH, that priceless, priceless thing-
The boon which you, pale, sickly one,
Would love to clasp ere yet his sun
Of Autumn comes to set too soon-
Wond'rous, priceless angel-boon!

"Onward, onward
Floating still,
Over the heath

And ice-cold hill-
Vapours yielding
As we go-
Blessings falling
Thick as snow-
Health and strength
And golden hours,

Fairy smiles

And drooping showers."


AMONG the many pleasures of a country Who has not seen them, while walking near

life, there is none in which boys generally take so much delight as rabbit-catching. When the game of cricket and other amusements of summer are gone, and the cold winds and frosts of winter have bereft the trees of their former verdure, the country lad prepares his nets over the cozy fireside, in anticipation of the sport. With what veneration is the neighbouring gamekeeper held in !-how often are his ferrets borrowed, in consideration of which favour a present sometimes finds its way to the man of the woods!

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a wood, bobbing up their little white tails as they dash off for protection beneath the shadowy fern, or gambolling innocently on the outside of their burrows? Many places still retain the name of Warrens, on account of the vast number of rabbits which used to inhabit their vicinity, though at present nota single rabbit is to be found there, the race having to give way to the advance of agriculture.

A few black wild rabbits are met with in some woods, but they are by no means so numerous as their brown relatives, which increase rapidly, frequently having four litters in a season, five young ones to a litter.

Various are the ways of catching them, but the method generally adopted is to put a ferret into one of the holes of a warren, care having been taken to arrange over each of the other holes a net very much resembling a cabbage net in shape, but with larger meshes, so that when the timid little animals make a rush out of one of their back-doors, they are, mournful to relate, entangled in the net, and are released only at the cost of their lives.

Ferrets should be muzzled previous to being worked as they are, in county parlance, apt to lie in. Many plans are resorted to for this purpose; some persons sew up their mouths, but this is not only cruel but unnecessary, as a muzzle may be constructed with some string placed behind the animal's two tusks, and tied in a firm knot round its mouth; or a line may be attached to their necks with a small buckle and strap. Care should be taken to prevent the ferret from over-feeding the day before it is wanted, as it then becomes lazy, and sleeps composedly in the hole, from which it is not obtained without much trouble. As soon as the ferret has been put into the hole, old Velveteens, who has laid down his gun at the foot of a moss-covered tree, enjoins the strictest silence. The boys who have been watching the proceedings talk in whispers, and step cautiously to some particular net, ready to pounce upon their unfortunate victims. Several long minutes have elapsed without any sport, when suddenly a noise is heard in the burrow, and a rabbit rushes into the treacherous net, and is clutched by one of the youths aforesaid, who terminates its misfortunes with its life. This success lasts some little time, when a long interlude ensues; the ferret has not been seen for some time, neither have any rabbits bolted. Velveteen mutters in a low tone that the ferret has laid in; the boys look disconsolate, but this is of no avail; so Velveteen, who has been used to these emergencies before, takes his gun, which has been totally forgotten by his juvenile companions, and fires a charge of gunpowder into the hole, filling it up immediately; soon the smoke makes its appearance in a dense blue cloud at the others, driving the unfortunate

ferret, almost suffocated, to breathe the fresh air. A grand inspection of the ferret's teeth and claws takes place directly after its capture, when it is discovered, by the quantity of fur on its claws, that there is a rabbit in the hole; but as old Velveteen assures them that the rabbit would scarcely be worth the trouble of digging out, the boys are content to walk off with the game already caught. Sometimes the ferret will not come out for the firing of the gun; then the time passes slowly along, and the spectators stand shivering over the burrow as the chill wintry wind whistles through the trees.

Rabbits are occasionally caught in wooden traps; but there is no way of capturing them which affords the juvenile portion of the community more amusement than with the old-fashioned nets. These nets are four feet high and seventy yards long, with a cord passed through the top and bottom, and are suspended with sticks across a wood. A number of persons with dogs and sticks start from the farther end of the copse, driving the affrighted rabbits with repeated shouts and cries precipitately into the nets, when some person who has been previously stationed there rushes out and soon settles bunny's grievances with a severe rap on the head. A large number of rabbits may be caught in this manner, especially if the burrows have been ferreted the previous day.

The shooting of rabbits gives much pleasure to the youth of England in the short days of winter, but it has one great drawback, and that is the great risk the sportsmen run of either shooting themselves, or being shot by one of their more reckless companions.

Boys are apt to fire at a rabbit without once considering if they may not shoot one of their companions, who, though only a few yards before, is completely concealed by the thick underwood. The great error with novices is firing at the rabbits too soon; they do not recollect that the shot fired at the distance of a few yards hits the mark almost like a bullet; if they wait till the rabbit is about forty yards off, they have a far greater chance of killing it, as the shot not only scatters more, but the angle of aim is less acute.

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