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sudden had been the second attack, that it was impossible to avoid the full impetus of his bound, and he staggered and fell upon his knee. The monster's paw was upon his shoulder, and he felt his hot fiery breath upon his cheek, as it rushed through his wide distended nostrils. The Nazareng drew a short dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to re. gain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, precipitating himself upon him, threw himn with violence to the ground.

The excitement of the populace was now wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited the result with breathless suspense. A low growl of satisfaction now announced the noble animal's triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon his prostrate enemy. But it was of short duration; the dagger of the gladiator pierced his vitals, and together they rolled over and over, across the broad arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the monster’s blood, and again a roar of anguish re. verberated through the stately edifice.

The Nazarene, now watching his opportunity, sprang with the velocity of thought from the terrific embrace of his enfeebled antagonist, and regaining his falchion which had fallen to the ground in the struggle, he buried it deep in the heart of the infuriated beast. The noble king of the forest, faint from the loss of blood, concentrated all his remaining strength in one mighty bound; but it was too late; the last blow had been driven home to the centre of life, and his huge form fell with a mighty crash upon the arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the populace.

LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE.

Not long ago, I wandered near

A play-ground in the wood;
And there heard words from a youngster's lips,

That I never quite understood.
“Now let the old cat die!” he laughed;

I saw him give a push,
Then gaily scamper away as he spied

My face peep over the bush.
But what he pushed, or where he went,

I could not well make out,

On account of the thicket of bending boughs

That bordered the place about.
“The little villain has stoned a cat,

Or hung it upon a limb,
And left it to die all alone,” I said,

“But I'll play the mischief with him.” I forced my way through the bending boughs,

The poor old cat to seek,
And what did I find but a swinging child,

With her bright hair brushing her cheek!
Her bright hair floated to and fro,

Her little red dress flashed by;
But the loveliest thing of all, I thought,

Was the gleam of her laughing eye.
Swinging and swinging, back and forth,

With the rose ght in her face,
She seemed like a bird and a flower in one,

And the forest her native place.
“Steady! I'll send you up, my child,”

But she stopped me with a cry, “Go 'way, go 'way! don't touch me, please;

I'm letting the old cat die." " You ’re letting him die!" I cried, aghast,

Why, where's the cat, my dear ?" And lo! the laugh that filled the wood

Was a thing for the birds to hear. "Why, don't you know," said the little maid,

The sparkling, beautiful elf, "That we call it'letting the old cat die,'

When the swing stops all of itself?" Then swinging and swinging, and looking back,

With the merriest look in her eye, Bhe bade me “Good-bye,” and I left her alɔne,

“Letting the old cat die.”

SHUN THE BOWL.-ELIZA H. BARKER.

By thy dread of sin and sorrow,

By thy fear of shame and strife,
By each dark, despairing morrow,

Lengthening still a wretched life;
By the chains that, worse than iron,

Burn the brain, and sear the soul,
By the torments it environ,

Dearest children, shun the bowl!
JUUU

By the hopes thou wouldst not wither,

By the love that round thee clings,
Never turn thy footsteps whither

Wild the maniac drunkard sings!
Enter not the poisoned vapor,

Where oaths and fumes together roll,
Kneel and pray by lonely taper,

Pray for strength to shun ihe bowl.
By bleared eye, and voice whose quaking

Fills the agony within,
By the palsied hand, which shaking

Ever lifts the draft of sin,
By the torment still increasing

Gnawing brain, and harrowing soul,
Thirst unsated and unceasing,

Dearest children, shun the bowl!
By each holy kiss, thy mother

On thy infant forehead pressed,
Love of father, sister, brother,

All that purifies thy breast;
By the hope of Heaven within thee,

Oh! debase not mind and soul,-
Let not sin's own chalice win thee;-

Dearest children, shun the bowl.

A SAILOR'S STORY.-Mrs. C. H. N. THOMAS.

My home was on the mountain side,

I ne'er had seen the sea,
But ev'ry tale of ocean life

I read most eagerly.
I fashioned mimic ships and boats

Like the piciures I had seen,
And played with them, while others played

Upon the village green.
I learned the songs the sailors sung

About the “deep blue sea,"
And said, that when I grew a man,

A sailor I would be !
My mother's face grew pale; for her

The ocean had no charms,
And she would wake with shivering dread

And fold me in her arms.

I was not strong and stalwart

Like my brothers, Rob and John,
And so they planned a scholar's life

For me, the youngest one.
They would go out into the world

And win their daily bread,
While I with mother should remain

And stand in father's stead.
I studied much and studied long,

Lest I should give them pain,
And in that time I learned to love

My little neighbor, Jane.
I loved them all, and yet my thoughts

Were ever of the sea;
By day, by night, awake, asleep,

'I heard its me dy! And then, I think, my brain grew wild,

And I could bear no more;
I fled, nor stayed my feet until

I heard the ocean's roar.
I loved them all, and yet I left

Without a parting word,
And sailed the sea exultingly

As any uncaged bird.
My soul was sated with delight,

I roamed the wide world o'er;
We touched at many a fertile islo

And many a desert shore.
We traded much from port to port,

And much I found my gain;
"And soon I shall go home,” I said,

"And marry little Jane." How shall I tell what followed,

Of storm and wreck at sea ?
How shall I tell of long, long years

Of sad captivity ?
I reached my mountain home at last,

A weary man and worn,
Unknowing and unknown, I sat

In the cot where I was born.
A stranger's fire was on the hearth,

And none a welcome gave,
For Rob and John were far away,

My mother in her grave!

Jane was a thrifty farmer's wifs

With children at her knee;
I would not mar her happiness

With any thought of me.
I stood, a beggar, at her door,

She waited my command;
I humbly asked a little bread,

And took it from her hand.
She pitied me, and she was kind;

What could I ask for more?
And with a murmured word of thanks

I left her cottage door.
My home is now upon the wave,

Naught else remains to me;
And when this wasted life shall end,

Bury me in the sea !

WHEN TO WORSHIP.

Worship the Father, when the lovely morn

Shows her pure beams below;
Worship the Father, when the early birds

On their light pinions go!
Worship the Father, when the loving flowers

Spread forth their leaves to Him:
When living things, that dwell amid the woods,

Gambol from limb to limb.
Worship the Father, in the solemn hush

Twilight breathes gently round;
By the clear lake-side, by the slumbering stream,

In the deep woods profound.
Worship the Father in the moonlight pure,

Sanctified unto God;
While earthly things seem dead, and heavenly life

Floats o'er the withered sod.
Worship the Father, when the door is shut,

Silence with God is filled :
He moves in the deep quiet of the air :

Let man's quick pulse be stilled!
Worship the Father, 'mid the busy hum,

Working with heart and hand;
The soul inay minister in all it doth-

Laboring by sea or land.
Worship the Father, Oh, thou human heart!

Yield unto Him thy will

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