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And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
As his slender, childish hand.
Unused to fearful scenes;
The dreadful thing that means.
Grows faint that cry to hear,
Turns white with mortal fear.
To a flood in a single night;
When loosed in its angry might.
And, shouting a wild alarm,
With the strength of his single arm!
Of a footstep passing nigh;
The answer to his cry.
And the waters rise and fall,
Save the echo of his call.
His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post. So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,
Come out for company;
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
Of himself as dying--and dead; And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast. The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
As yester-eve she had done;
Against the rising sun?
Something straight to her door;
As he ever came before.
And the startled father hears,
And fears the thing she fears:
Thrills the stricken man and wife-
And God has saved his life !"
They knelt about the boy;
In tearful, reverent joy.
When the sea roars like a flood,
Who is brave and true and good.
Takes his son by the hand,
Whose courage saved the land.
Remembered through the years;
Is named with loving tears.
And told the child on the knee,
Divide the land from the sea.
THE SINGER'S ALMS.
In Lyons, in the mart of that French town,
Years since, a woman, leading a fair child, Craved a small alms of one who, walking doirn
The thoroughfare, caught the child's glance and smiled
To see behind its eyes a noble soul;
This chance of pearl to do another good;
The asked-for penny, then aside he stood, And, with his hat held as by limb the nest, He covered his kind face and sang his best. The sky was blue above, and all the lane
Of commerce where the singer stood was filled, And many paused, and, listening, paused again
To hear the voice that through and through them thrilled; I think the guardian angel helped along That cry for pity woven in a song. The singer stood between the beggars there
Before the church; and overhead the spire,
Held toward heaven, land of the heart's desire,
Into the woman's lap, who drenched with tears
And noon in her glad heart drove forth her tears.
Cheer after cheer went up from that wild throng,
The tumult of the welcome, save the song
Only for self, and pawns his years away
But feels his heart shrink slowly, day by day,
And broad and open as the sea or sky,
And glow in gold in God's great book on high ;
THE WATER-MILL.-D. C. McCallum.
Oh! listen to the water-mill, through all the live-long day, As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour av. ; How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the widered
leaves, As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the
sheaves! A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, * The inill will never grind again with water that is past." The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth
and main, The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain; The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and
still, But never glideth back again to busy water-mill. The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too; Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broad
cast"The mill will never grind again with water that is past.” Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpennel,
unheard. Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past.” Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength
and will, The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking waterNor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, For all that thou canst call thine own, lies in the phrase
"to-day:" Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at
last"The mill will never grind again with water that is past.” Oh! love thy God and fellow man, thyself consider last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the
Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from
view, And heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true. Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and
vast. "The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP.-J. G. HOLLAND. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of them? Sixty thousand! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, lie down in the grave of a drunkard! Every year during the past decade has witnessed the same sacrifice; and sixty regiments stand behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp-the sounds ome to us in the echoes of the footsteps of the army just expired; tramp, tramp, tramp-the earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing; tramp, tramp, tramp-comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life flows resistlessly to its death. What in God's name are they fighting for? The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the burden of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining fortunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of destroying both body and soul in hell before their time.
The prosperity of the liquor interest, covering every department of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without it. It never did live without it. So lorig as the liquor interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it will cost America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable froin the cause. The cost to the country of the liquor traffic is a sum so stupendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of life absolutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the