But going to see my nephew Sam
At Thresher's, The Birches, Whippingham,
Was a day of days, a red-letter day;
And under visitorial
pressure,
The encyclopædian eye of Thresher
From his pupils wandered away.

Then a youngster bold, at the board who sat, Who had got no lean, 'cause he could not eat fat,

Put out his fist like a cannon shot,
And thinking nobody saw the act,
(And this, I declare, is a positive fact,)
Made a grab at the mustard-pot!
He made a grab at the mustard-pot.
He spooned it out, and a lot he got,

Then he daub'd his meat with the pungent
mixture,

Took it and tears were in his eyes--
At stolen pleasures tears arise-

He took it-and sat like a fixture.

There was a smart for the heedless boySorrow is sister-twin to Joy

The hot tears starting to his eyes, Made him feel "horrid," that's the word. Nothing at all but this occurred,

But the tears were a word to the wise.

To learn at once that fleeting pleasure
Has to be paid for, measure for measure;
That he is wise who, cold or hot,
Content with plain, unseasoned fare,
Is playing fair and has no share

IN MAKING A GRAB AT A MUSTARD-POT!

T. O. D.

ANOTHER MORALITY.

ONCE in my life I got up early,

And I went out a-fishing; The dew upon the grass was pearly, Welcome to early purl so early,

And I went out a fishing.

The early worm I'd captured over night,
Or rather bought him at a shop in town,
And sure was I that something soon would

bite

If a fish would not, perhaps a cross dog might, And I have something to take back to

town.

I used the gentle as I would a friend,

And made him comfortable on the hook; Then I a line did drop, and sat and thought Of Izaak Walton, I his book had bought, And read it-with a hook.

Sudden-a strain-a trout had made a bite,

I pulled and saw him, but 'tis sad to say, He took my bait but would not take my hook, Took bait and hooked it, and my fingers

shook,

For I, not he, was caught, 'tis sad to say.

Thus doth it happen, the fact is very plain, The moral suits me, and I musing sit: Those who would take others, may themselves be ta'en,

The tables turn, and turn, and turn again, THE BITING BITER MAY BE THE BITER BIT! T. 0. D.

So autumn, thou hast come at last,
With thy refreshing dews;
The trees their leafy coats now cast,
Excepting the bright yews,
Which still retain their cov'ring green,
And through the Winter still
Will do so, though the wind blows keen,
And whistles o'er the hill.

Yet, Autumn, still we love to see Thy bright and smiling face; For now the fruit doth every tree In our fine orchards grace.

The birds, they now begin to fly,
Some warmer clime to seek ;
For now to Winter, cold and dry,

We fast approach each week.
The nights are often bleak and cold,
Yet still we'll grumble not;
For, as we need not to be told,
E'en in the humblest cot,
We now may gather round the fire,
And listen to such tales

That oft the mind with dread inspire,
Of shipwrecks, storms, and gales.
W. H. WOOL.

23. SPEECH OF SPARTACUS TO HIS FELLOWGLADIATORS. (E. Kellogg.)

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace, with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound is heard but the last sob of the retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all is still, as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, when Spartacus, rising in their midst, thus addressed them:

met

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has upon the arena every shape of man, or beast, the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and never yet lowered his arms. And if there is one among you who can say that ever, in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and do it! If there be three, in all your company, dare face me on the bloody sand, let them COME ON!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My father was a Thracian of Pieria, a pious man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. My ancestors came from Greece, and settled among the vineclad rocks and citron groves of Syrasello. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I played; and when, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade to play upon the shepherd's flute, I had friend, the son of our neighbour, to share the pleasure. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

a

"One evening, after the sheep were folded,

and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not know what war meant then; but my cheek did burn, I knew not why; and I did clasp the knees of the venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales, and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shores; and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that nourished me trampled by the iron heel of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of his dwelling. I killed a man to-day in the arena; and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold! IT WAS MY FRIEND! He knew me,-smiled faintly,gasped, and died! The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff, to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home, in childish triumph. I told the prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral pile, and mourn over him.

"Ay! on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, with tears, I begged that boon; while all the Roman maids, and matrons, and those holy virgins they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted as if mad, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble, like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but he drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!'

"And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander a hapless ghost beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look—and look— and look in vain, to the bright Elysian fields, where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you; and so must I, die like dogs.

"O Rome! Rome! I thank thee! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher sound than flute-notes, muscles of iron and a heart

of flint; taught him to drive the sword through bones, and rugged brass, and plaited mail; and warm it in the marrow of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smoothcheeked boy upon a laughing girl; and he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest oozing, life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here now, like giants, as ye are ; the strength of brass is in your toughened fibres ;-but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odours from his curling locks, shall come and, with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces npon your blood!

"Listen! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye will be a dainty meal for him. If ye are brutes, then stand like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; but if ye are men, then FOLLOW ME! Strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes; and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins? that you do crouch and cower, like a belaboured hound, beneath his master's lash? Oh, comrades! warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the free sky, by the bright waters, IN NOBLE, HONOURABLE BATTLE!"