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A leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,-and the bluodiest

grave below! But the critter was smart and mad with fear, and he went

like a bolt from a bow. Close after him came the devil's limb, with his eyes as wild

as death, But when he came to the gulch's brim, I reckon he paused

for breath. For breath at the brink! but—a white man shrink, when a

red had passed so neat? I knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd turn his back dead

beat! He takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds from the

slippery ledge, And he clears the hole, but—God help his soul! just touches

the other edge! One scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from the men that

stand and stare,Black in the blue where the sky looks through, he staggers,

dwarfed up there; The edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches the rock-my

eyes grow dimI turn away-what's that they say?-he's a-hanging on to

the briin? ... On the very brink of the fatal chink a wild thin shrub

there grew,

And to that he clung, and in silence swung betwixt us and

the blue, And as soon as a man could run I ran the way I'd seen

them flee, And I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side and—what do you

think I see? All up? Not quite. Still hanging? Right! But he'd torn

away the shrub; With lolling tongue he clutched and swung-to what? ay,

that's the rub! I saw him glare and dangle in air,--for the empty hole, you

know,Helped by a pair of hands up there!—The Injin’s? Yes,

that's so ! Now, boys, look here! for many a year I've roughed in this

here landAnd many a sight both day and night I've seen that I think

grand; Over the whole wide world I've been, and I know both

things and men, But the biggest sight I've ever seen was the sight I saw just

then.

I held my breath-so nigh to death the cuss swung hand

and limb, And it seemed to me that down he'd flee, with the Panther

after him; But the Injin at length puts out his strength, and another

minute passed, -And safe and sound to the solid ground he drew Phil Blood

at last. Saved? True for you! By an Injin too!-and the man he

meant to kill ! There all alone, on the brink of stone, I see them standing

still; Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle and fright, like a great

mad bull at bay, And the Injin meanwhile, with a half-skeered smile, ready

to spring away. What did Phil do? Well, I watched the two, and I saw Phil

Blood turn back, Then he leant to the brink and took a blink into the chasm

black, Then, stooping low for a moment or so, he drew his bowie

bright, And he chucked it down the gulf with a frown, and whistle,

and lounged from sight. Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent, thoughtful, and

grim, While the Panther, grinning as he passed, still kept his eyes

on him; Phil Blood strolled slow to his mates below, down by a moun

tain track, With his lips set tight and his face all white, and the Pan

ther at his back. I reckon they stared when the two appeared! but never a

word Phil spoke, Some of them laughed and others jeered,—but he let thein

have their joke; He seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the sun in his

eyes too bright, And, in spite of their cheek, for many a week, he never of

fered to fight. And after that day he changed his play, and kept a civiller

tongue, And whenever an Injin came that way, his contrairy head

he hung; But whenever he heard the lying word, “It's a lie!" Phil

Blood would groan; "A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake! but an Injin's flesh and

bone!"

SOME TIME.
Some time, when all life's lessons have been learned,

And suns and stars forevermore have set,
The things which our weak judgments here have spurned,

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us amid life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans were right,

And what most seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me, How, when we called, He heeded not our cry,

Because His wisdom to the end could see; And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath

Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that sometimes the sable pall of death

Conceals the fairest boon His love can send; If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within, and all God's working see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife,

And for each mystery find there a key. But not to-day. Then be content, poor

heart! God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold;
And, if, through patient toil, we reach the land

Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest,
Where we shall clearly know and understand,

I think that we shall say, “ God knew the best.”

THE KING OF DENMARKS RIDE.-CAROLINE NORTON.

Word was brought to the Danish king

(Hurry!)
That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring.

(Oh, ride as though you were flying !)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl,
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and peari;

And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)
Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need.

(Oh, ride as though you were flying !)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened and girths were burst,
But, ride as they would, the king rode first,

For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are heaten one by one;

(Hurry!)
They have fainted and faltered and homeward gone;
His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying !
The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in

Where his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn;

(Silence !)
No answer came, but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold, gray morn,

Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide-
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying.
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,

Stood weary.
The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eying,
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck;
“O steed, that every nerve didst strain-
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying !"

MUMFORD'S PAVEMENT,

Some person accidentally upset a bucket of water on Mumford's pavement one of those snapping cold evenings last week, and Jack Frost slipping along soon after transformed it into a sheet of glistening, bone-breaking ice.

Mumford, wholly unconscious of the pitfall in front of his door, had just taken his seat at the basement window, when a stout old gentleman came along, carrying a half-peck of Cranberries tied up in brown paper, and softly humming to himself:

“I wish I was a turtle dove,
I wish I was a sparrow,

I'd fly away to Je-ru-salem !” he exclaimed, as his legs spread themselves suddenly apart. A frightened, dazed look crept into his eyes, and a minute later he had burst the suspender buttons off his pantaloons, and hopelessly ruined a new eight-dollar silk hat trying to butt a barrel of ashes into the gutter, while the air in that vicinity was filled with blue profanity and red cranberries.

Owing to the thermometer being down one flight of stairs below zero, and the old gentleman not having a calcium light in his vest pocket, he concluded not to pick the eightyeight-thousand-and-odd scattered cranberries, but contented himself by shaking his fist violently in Mumford's direction and yelling as he moved away:

“I can lick the stuffing out of a hull cart-load of such 'smartys' as you!"

“ Mercy, what a funny old gentleman! first he falls down, and then he jumps up and blames me for it,” remarked Mumford to his wife, who was sitting by the light, sewing.

He can't to this hour recollect what reply his wife made, his whole attention being suddenly riveted upon a very tall, thin woman with a long nose and big bustle, who was dragging a fat, dumpling-built little boy along by the hand. She had reached about the same spot where the old gentleman a moment before had been performing, when she stopped suddenly, clutched wildly at vacancy, tried to kick her bonnet off, missed it by a few of the shortest kind of inches, tripped up the boy and sat down on him with a force that threatened to drive him through the earth to China.

The prompt use of the boy preserver saved her bones and bustle from destruction, but it flattened the sacrificing youth to a thickness of a Jack of Clubs in a euchre deck.

“Don't you grin at me, you nasty big baboon, you !" she screamed, nodding her head at Mumford, while she groped

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