So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stayI only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept away.

I was up at my cottage, younder, where the wife lay nigh her end,

She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud make her mend.

The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed,

With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be stayed.

I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form, And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin'

storm;

The wreck of my little homestead-the wreck of my dear old

wife,

Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves

of life,

And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbor

lights,

To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights.

She knew she was sinkin' quickly-she knew as her end was

nigh,

But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must

lie,

For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son— He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done; Then he'd bolted, his masters told us-he was allus what folks call wild.

From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled. We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went, And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never

sent.

I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse, So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and worse.

And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands
I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands.
She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide,
And she seemed to be seekin' somethin' as she looked from side

to side;

Then half to herself she whispered,

good-bye?

"Where's Jack, to say

It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die !"

I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek,

And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak, When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside

With the news that the boat was launchin'.

their leader cried.

You're wanted!"

"You've never refused to go, John: you'll put these cowards

right,

There's a dozen of lives, maybe, John, as lie in our hands to

night!"

'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain; he'd laughed at the women's

doubt.

We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out.

I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed"I can't go, mate," I murmured; "in an hour she may be dead. I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."

As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was

thrown ;

And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me, While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin'

sea.

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Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, Go, and God's will be done!

For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son,"

Her head was full of the boy, sir-she was thinking, maybe,

some day

For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away.

Go, John, and the I ord watch o'er you,! and spare me to see the light,

And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the storm tonight."

Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three hearty

cheers;

But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said,

"I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea gives up its dead.”

We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in view,

And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through.
But our boat she stood it bravely, and weary and wet and weak,
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek.
But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll,
And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul !
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark—
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin'
bark.

I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry,

And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave

dashed by ;

I stretched out my hand to seize it, I dragged it aboard, and

then

I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben.
I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more
Till I came to my senses here, sir-here, in my home ashore.
My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed-
I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rullock had struck my

head,

Then my mates came in and whispered; they'd heard I was comin' round.

At first I could scarcely hear 'em, it seemed like a buzzin' sound;

But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em

speak,

I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week. I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old shipmate's sake.

I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break;

So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, "Look

here!

I'm able to bear it now, lad-tell me, and never fear."

Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out,
And the others slinks away like, and I says,

about?"

"" What's this

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Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead.
Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head.
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry John !"
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon
For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was my wife,
And who do ye think was with her? Why, Jack, as large as
life!

It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the life boat went

To the wreck of the Royal Helen; 'twas that as the vision

meant.

They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's

bed,

And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the

dead;

And mother and son together had nursed me back to life,

And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and

wife,

Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled him through

He's allus the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew.

APPEEL FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT OF THE BRICK MEETINOUSE.

O sextant of the meetinouse, wich sweeps.

And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers,
And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose,
In which case it smells orful-worse than lampile;

And wrings the Bel and toles when men dyes

To the grief of surviving pardner, and sweaps pathes;
And for the servases gits $100 per annum,
Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it;
Getin up befoar starlite in all wethers and
Kindling fiers when the wether is as cold

As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers ;
I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some.

But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity

Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin,
Worth more than any thing exsep the Sole of Mann;
I mean pewer Are, sextant, i mean pewer Are!
O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no
What on airth to do with itself, but flys about
Scatterin leavs and blowin off men's hatts;

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In short, its jest free as are" out dores.
But o sextant, in our church it's scarce as piety,
Scarce as bank bills when agints beg for mischuns.
Wich some say is purty often (taint nothin to me,
Wat i give aint nothin to nobody ;) but o sextant,
U shet 560 men, wimmin and children,

Speshally the latter, up in a tite place—
Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete,

Some is fevery, some is scroflous, and some has bad teath,
And some haint none, and some aint over cleen;