Page images
PDF
EPUB

He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed
The bush on the path he followed that night.
He was early home, and the dead dukite
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
At sunrise next morning he started away
To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride

Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride
And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse
And entered-to look on his young wife's corse,
And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes
As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose

From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head
Of the terrible dukite, as if it said,

"I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had."
And so had the snake-David Sloane was mad!

I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door
With an awful feeling of coming woe:

The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor,
The man held the hand of his wife,- his pride,

His poor life's treasure,-and crouched by her side.
O God! I sank with the weight of the blow.
I touched and called him: he heeded me not,
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,

And lifted them both,-her boy on her breast,-
And laid them down in the shade to rest.
Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
But he cried so wofully, "Let me stay
Till she comes again!" that I had no heart
To try to persuade him then to part
From all that was left to him here,-her grave;
So I stayed by his side that night, and save
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,-
O God! that wail-like the wail of a hound!
'Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
Since that fearful night no one has heard
Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
You have seen to-day how he always goes:
He's been given that suit of convict's clothes
By some prison officer. On his back

You noticed a load like a peddler's pack?

Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went,
Still memory lived, for his days are spent
In searching for dukites; and year by year
That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
For he's clearing this bush of the dukite snakes.

CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM.-CHARLES A. WILEY.

In the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous Maelstrom or whirlpool. Many are the goodly ships that have been caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a company of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away; and, in accordance with their ancient custom, they are holding a greeting to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the light step of the dance.

At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised,— soon it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool.

Moving slowly and without an effort-presently faster, at length the boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working of the oars; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them," Beware of the whirlpool!" But they laugh at fear, -they are too happy to think of returning: "When we see there is danger then we will return." Oh, that some good angel would come with warning unto them, "Unless ye now turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the soul of the impenitent, "Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved."

The boat is now going at a fearful rate; but, deceived by the moving waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow rumbling at the whirlpool's centre. The voices from the shore are no longer audible, but every effort

for

is being used to warn them of their danger. They now, the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy! Two of the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope! and some, for the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God,that they are saved. But suddenly, CRASH, goes an oar! and such a shriek goes up from that ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost drops into perdition!

The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel and skips on with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the vessel approaches the centre; then whirling for a moment on that awful brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the sea gives up its dead!

And so, every year, aye, every month, thousands, passing along in the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. And, notwithstanding the earnest. voices of anxious friends, “Beware of the gutter! of the grave! of hell!" they continue their course until the "force of habit" overpowers them; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged below.

THE TWO STAMMERERS.

In a small, quiet country town
Lived Bob-a blunt but honest clown-
Who, spite of all the school could teach,
From habit, stammered in his speech;
And second nature, soon, we're sure,
Confirmed the case beyond a cure.
Ask him to say, "Hot rolls and butter,"
A hag-a-gag, and splitter-splutter
Stopped every word he strove to utter.

It happened, once upon a time—
I word it thus to suit my rhyme,
For all the country neighbors know
It can't be twenty years ago—
Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike,
Was busy delving at his dyke;
Which, let me not forget to say,
Stood close behind a public way:
And, as he leaned upon his spade
A youth, a stranger in that place,
Stood right before him, face to face.
P-p-p-p-pray," says he,

66

"How f-f-f-f-far may't be

To-o," the words would not come out, "To-o Borough-Bridge, or thereabout ?"

Our clown took huff; thrice hemmed upon't, Then smelt a kind of an affront.

Thought he "This bluff, foolhardy fellow,
A little cracked, perhaps, or mellow,
Knowing my tongue an inch too short,
Is come to fleer and make his sport:
Wauns! if I thought he meant to quarrel,
I'd hoop this roynish rascal's barrel!
If me he means, or dares deride,
By all that's good, I'll tan his hide!
I'll dress his vile calf's skin in buff,
And thrash it tender where 'tis tough!"
Thus, full resolved, he stood aloof
And waited mute for farther proof.
While t'other, in a kind of pain,
Applied him to his tongue again—
'Speak, friend; c-c-c-c-can you, pray,
Sh-sh-sh-show me-on my way?
Nay, sp-e-eak!-I'll smoke thy bacon!
You have a t-ongue, or I'm mistaken."

66

"Yes-that, th-that I-I-I have; But not for y-y-you-you knave!" "What!" cried the stranger, "wh-wh-what! D'ye mock me? T-t-take you that!"

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Hugh! you mock-me!" quoth Hob, amain So t-t-take you that again!"

Then to't they fell, in curious plight,

While each one thought himself i' th' right;

And if you dare believe my song,

They likewise thought each other wrong.

The battle o'er and somewhat cool,

Each half suspects himself a fool,

For, when to choler folks incline 'em,
Your argumentum baculinum

Administered in dose terrific,

Was ever held a grand specific.

Each word the combatants now uttered,
Conviction brought, that both dolts stuttered;
And each assumed a look as stupid,

As, after combat, looks Dan Cupid:

Each scratched his silly head, and thought
He'd argue ere again he fought.

Hence I this moral shall deduce-
Would anger deign to sign a truce
Till reason could discover truly,
Why this mad madam were unruly,
So well she would explain their words,
Men little use could find for swords.

ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH.--GEORGE HOEY.

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say:

"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you,

Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to.

Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son,

Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them doomed every one

To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch,

Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch."

I sprang up amazed-scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so;

I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below,

I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned,

But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand.

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum,

Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum;

What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain?

What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train.

« PreviousContinue »