with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hill-side of water moving on shoreward from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound,—and the ship was gone!

They drew him to my very feet, insensible, dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and every means of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for

ever.

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned, and all was done, a fisherman who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door.

'Sir, you will come over yonder?"

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look, and I asked him, "Has a body come ashore ?"

"Yes."

"Do I know it?"

He answered nothing. But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children,-on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat blown down last night had been scattered by the wind,-among the ruins of the home he had wronged,-I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE SWEETEST PICTURE.

A

MONG the beautiful pictures That hang on memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth the best of all; Nor for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe;

Nor for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below; Nor for the milk-white lilie

That lean from the fragrant hedge;

Nor for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest; Nor the pink, nor the pale, sweet cowslips, It seemed to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep-
In the lap of that olden forest
He lieth in peace asleep.
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers-
The summers of long ago.

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn days

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in sweet embrace
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face ;-

And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore of all the pictures,
That hang on memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest

Seemeth the best of all.

ALICE CARY.

GRACIE'S KITTY.

RACIE'S kitty, day by day,

Moped beside the fire and pined;
Would no longer frisk or play,
Or the worsted ball unwind.
Gracie coaxed, "Play, kitty, do!"
Kitty answered sadly, "Mew!"

All in vain were dainty fare,

Bread and milk all warm and new,

Downy nest and tender care;
Thinner, weaker still she grew,
Could no longer run or purr,
Lay in bed and would not stir.

Gracie trailed her long white gown
Down the stairs at early light,
Wondering "if kitty'th grown
Any better over night;"
Found poor kitty cold and dead
In her pretty basket bed.

Gracie made another bed,

Where the morning glories climb;

With red rose-leaves lined and spread,
And perfumed with pinks and thyme,
Rarely has a human head

Found so soft and sweet a bed.

Gracie's little tender hands

End at last their loving task;
Sobbing by the grave she stands,
Then she lifts her face to ask,
While the slow tears downward roll,
"Mamma, where ith kitt'th thoul ?"

THE SOLDIERS' HOME, WASHINGTON.

THE monument, tipped with electric fire,

Blazed high in a halo of light below
My low cabin door on the hills that inspire;
And the dome of the Capitol gleamed like snow
In a glory of light, as higher and higher
This wondrous creation of man was sent
To challenge the lights of the firmament.

A tall man, tawny and spare as bone,

With battered old hat and with feet half bare, With the air of a soldier that was all his ownMaybe something more than a soldier's air Came clutching a staff as in sheer despair;

Limped in through my gate—and I thought to beg— Light clutching a staff, slow dragging a leg.

The moon, like a sharp-drawn cimeter,

Kept watch in heaven. All earth lay still. Some sentinel stars stood watch afar,

Some crickets kept clanging along the hill,

As the tall, stern relic of blood and war

Limped in, and, with hand up to brow half raised,
Looked out as one that is dazed or crazed,—

His gaunt face pleading for food and rest,
His set lips white as a tale of shame,
His black coat tight to a shirtless breast,
His black eyes burning in mine like flame.

Aye, black were his eyes; but doubtful and dim
Their vision of beautiful earth, I think.
And I doubt if the distant, dear worlds to him
Were growing brighter as he neared the brink
Of dolorous seas where phantom ships swim.

For his face was as hard as the hard, thin hand
That clutched the staff like an iron band.

"Sir, I am a soldier!" The battered old hat
Stood up as he spake, like to one on parade-
Stood taller and braver as he spake out that—
And the tattered old coat, that was tightly laid
To the battered old breast, looked trim thereat.

"I have wandered and wandered this twenty years;
Searched up and down for my regiments.

Have they gone to that field where no foes appear?
Have they pitched in Heaven their cloud-white tents?
Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find them here

On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home,
Where the weary soldiers have ceased to roam?

"Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier!
Is this the way to the Soldiers' Home?
There is plenty and rest for us all, I hear,

And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam,