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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;
That I never quite understood.
I saw him give a push,
My face peep over the bush.
I could not well make out,
On account of the thicket of bending boughs
That bordered the place about.
Or hung it upon a limb,
“But I'll play the mischief with him.” I forced my way through the bending boughs,
The poor old cat to seek,
With her bright hair brushing her cheek!
Her little red dress flashed by;
Was the gleam of her laughing eye.
With the rose ght in her face,
And the forest her native place.
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,
Lengthening still a wretched life;
Burn the brain, and sear the soul,
Dearest children, shun the bowl!
By the hopes thou wouldst not wither,
By the love that round thee clings,
Wild the maniac drunkard sings!
Where oaths and fumes together roll,
Pray for strength to shun ihe bowl.
Fills the agony within,
Ever lifts the draft of sin,
Gnawing brain, and harrowing soul,
Dearest children, shun the bowl!
On thy infant forehead pressed,
All that purifies thy breast;
Oh! debase not mind and soul,-
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,
I read most eagerly.
Like the piciures I had seen,
Upon the village green.
About the “deep blue sea,"
A sailor I would be !
The ocean had no charms,
And fold me in her arms.
I was not strong and stalwart
Like my brothers, Rob and John,
For me, the youngest one.
And win their daily bread,
And stand in father's stead.
Lest I should give them pain,
My little neighbor, Jane.
Were ever of the sea;
'I heard its me dy! And then, I think, my brain grew wild,
And I could bear no more;
I heard the ocean's roar.
Without a parting word,
As any uncaged bird.
I roamed the wide world o'er;
And many a desert shore.
And much I found my gain;
"And marry little Jane." How shall I tell what followed,
Of storm and wreck at sea ?
Of sad captivity ?
A weary man and worn,
In the cot where I was born.
And none a welcome gave,
My mother in her grave!
Jane was a thrifty farmer's wifs
With children at her knee;
With any thought of me.
She waited my command;
And took it from her hand.
What could I ask for more?
I left her cottage door.
Naught else remains to me;
Bury me in the sea !
WHEN TO WORSHIP.
Worship the Father, when the lovely morn
Shows her pure beams below;
On their light pinions go!
Spread forth their leaves to Him:
Gambol from limb to limb.
Twilight breathes gently round;
In the deep woods profound.
Sanctified unto God;
Floats o'er the withered sod.
Silence with God is filled :
Let man's quick pulse be stilled!
Working with heart and hand;
Laboring by sea or land.
Yield unto Him thy will