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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.
You see the gentle water,
How silently it floats,
It moves the sleepy boats;
It strews along the sand,
When summer is at hand.
But you know it can be angry,
And thunder from its rest,
Are flying at its breast;
And draw your chairs around,
When you were sleeping sound.
The merry boats of Brixham
Go out to search the seas;
Who love a swinging breeze;
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,
And ply their toils at home.
When the winds began to roar,
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;
Was something to be felt.
The wind, like an assassin,
Went on its secret way,
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
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,
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,
“ 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 stay a little while;
Too tired to speak or smile.
So one by one they struggled in,
All that the sea would spare-
The names that were not there;
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.