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purer air.

during such circumstances is very often disturbed, and always much less refreshing than when enjoyed in a well-ventilated apartment. It often happens indeed that such repose, instead of being followed by renovated strength and activity, is succeeded by a degree of heaviness and langour which is not overcome till the person has been some time in a

Nor is this the only evil arising from sleeping in ill-ventilated apartments. When it is known that the blood undergoes most important changes in its circulation through the lungs by means of the air we breathe, and that these vital changes can only be effected by the respiration of pure air, it will be easily understood how the healthy functions of the lungs must be impeded by inhaling, for many successive hours, the vitiated air of our bedrooms, and how the health must be as effectually destroyed by respiring impure air, as by living on unwholesome, or innutritious food. In the case of children, or young persons predisposed to consumption, it is of still more urgent consequence that they should breathe pure air by night as well as by day, by securing a continuous renewal of the air in their bedrooms, nurseries, schools, &c. Let a mother, who has been made anxious by the sickly looks of her children, go from pure air into their bedrooms in the morning, before a door or window has been opened, and remark the state of the atmosphere—the close and oppressive odour of the room—and she may cease to wonder at the pale, sickly aspect of her children. Let her pay a similar visit some morning after means have been

taken by the chimney ventilator, or otherwise, to secure a full supply, and constant renewal of the air in the bedrooms during the night, and she will be able to account for the more healthy appearance of her children which is sure to be the consequence of supplying them with pure air to breathe.

Sir James Clarke.

18.—THE WIVES OF BRIXHAM.

cautiously
twi-light

stead-i-ly
stag-ger-ing

tu-mult
froz-en

You see the gentle water,

How silently it floats,
How cautiously, how steadily

It moves the sleepy boats;
And all the little loops of pearl,

It strews along the sand,
Steal out as leisurely as leaves,

When summer is at hand.

But you know it can be angry,

And thunder from its rest,
When the stormy taunts of winter

Are flying at its breast;
And if you like to listen,

And draw your chairs around,
I'll tell you what it did one night

When you were sleeping sound.

The merry boats of Brixham

Go out to search the seas;
A staunch and sturdy fleet are they,

Who love a swinging breeze;
And along the woods of Devon,

And the silver cliffs of Wales, You may see, when summer evenings fall,

The light upon their sails.

But when the year grows darker,

And grey winds hunt the foam,
They go back to little Brixham

And ply their toils at home.
And so it chanced, one winter's day,

When the winds began to roar,
That all the men were out at sea,

And all the wives on shore.

Then, as the storm grew fiercer,

The women's cheeks grew white;It was fiercer through the twilight,

And fiercest through the night; · And strong clouds set themselves like ice,

With not a star to melt;
And the blackness of the darkness

Was something to be felt.

The wind, like an assassin,

Went on its secret way,
And struck a hundred barks adrift

To reel about the bay ;

They meet, they crash—God keep the men !

God give a moment's light! There is nothing but the tumult,

And the tempest, and the night.

The men on shore were trembling,

They grieved for what they knew; What do

you

think the women did ? Love taught them what to do. Up spoke a wife, “ We've beds at home,

We'll burn them for a light,
Give us the men and the bare ground-

We want no more to-night."

She took the grandame's blanket,

Who shivered and bade them go; They took the baby's pillow,

Who could not say them no; And they heaped a great fire on the pier,

And they knew not all the while If they were heaping a bonfire,

Or only a funeral pile.

And fed with precious food, the flame

Shone bravely on the black,
Till a cry went through the people,

“ A boat is coming back!” Staggering dimly through the fog,

They see and then they doubt; But when the first prow strikes the pier,

Cannot you hear them shout ?

Then all along the breadth of flame

Dark figures shrieked and ran, With, “ Child, here comes your father ! ”

Or, “ Wife, is this your man?”
And faint feet touch the welcome stone,

And stay a little while;
And kisses drop from frozen lips,

Too tired to speak or smile.

So one by one they struggled in,

All that the sea would spare-
We will not reckon through our tears

The names that were not there;
But some went home without a bed

When all the tale was told, Who were too cold with sorrow

To know the night was cold.

And this is what the men must do

Who work in wind and foam, And this is what the women bear

Who watch for them at home; So when you see a Brixham boat

Go out to meet the gales, Think of the love that travels Like light upon her sails.

M. B. Smedley.

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