make out what he said (fact, my head was in sich a whirl that I'd hardly ha' knowed my own name,) but I'll be bound God heard it, every word. Then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly, 'I'm ready!' "And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms, and kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one. "God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you: you wouldn't tell a lie to save your life! Well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever forget you, then may God forget me!' "And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge—it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I seed. And now, sir, axin' yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so I'll just wish yer good night." 15. THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. GEORGE ARNOLD. 'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; The living should live, though the dead be dead," He taught his scholars the rule of three, And the wants of the littlest child he knew: "There is much to enjoy, down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead!" With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, The rod was scarcely known in his school, And too hard work for his poor old bones; He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue long ago. But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Over a pipe and a friendly glass: This was the finest pleasure, he said, Of the many he tasted, here below; "Who has no cronies, had better be dead!" Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown: And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below; "Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door, one midsummer night, There were angels waiting for him, I know; 152.-BETH GELERT. W. R. SPENCER. The spearman heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last "Oh! where does faithful Gelert roam? So true, so brave,—a lamb at home, 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, In sooth, he was a peerless hound, But now no Gelert could be found, And now, as over rocks and dells That day Llewellyn little loved And small and scant the booty proved, Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, But when he gained his castle door, The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, His favorite checked his joyful guise, And still where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view! O'erturned his infant's bed he found, He called his child-no voice replied; "Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured!" The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant, as to earth he fell, But still his Gelert's dying yell Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub-boy he kissed. Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread But the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead- Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain! Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe; The frantic deed which laid thee low, And now a gallant tomb they raise, There never could the spearman pass, There oft the tear-besprinkled grass And there he hung his horn and spear; In fancy's piercing sounds, would hear And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 153.-POWER OF HABIT. JOHN B. GOUGH. I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls, I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir ?" "That," he said, "is Niagara River." "Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright and fair and glassy; how far off are the rapids?" "Only a mile or two," was the reply. "Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls ?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to the enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank: "Young men, ahoy!" "What is it ?" "The rapids are below you." "Ha ha! we have heard of the rapids, but we are not |