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“Nay, ere you drink, I implore you,
By all that you hold divine,
Pledge a woman in tear-drops
Rather by fur than in wine !
“By the woes of the drunkard's mother,
By his children who beg for bread,
By the fate of her whose beloved one
Looks on the wine when 'tis red,
By the kisses changed to curses,
By the tears more bitter than brine,
By many a fond heart broken-
Pledge no woman in wine.
“What has wine brought to woman?
Nothing but tears and pain,
It has torn from her heart her love,
And proven her prayers in vain ;
And her household goods, all scattered,
Lie tangled up in vine.
Oh! I prithee, pledge no woman
In the curse of so many-wine !"
THE DUKITE SNAKE.-J. BOYLE O'REILLY.
AN AUSTRALIAN BUSIIMAN'S STORY.
Well, mate, you've asked me about a fellow
You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow
Chain-gang suit, with a peddler's pack,
Or with some such burden, strapped to his back.
Did you meet him square? No, passed you by ?
Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye,
You'd have felt for your irons then and there;
For the light in his eye is a madmau's glare.
Ay, mad, poor fellow! I know him well,
And if you're not tired just yet, I'll tell
His story,-a strange one as you ever heard
Or read; but I'll vouch for it, every word.
That man who goes
Through the bush with the pack and the convict's clothes
Has inad for years; but he does no harm,
And our lonely settlers feel no alarm
When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane
Was a settler once, and a friend of my own.
Some eight years back, in the spring of the year,
Dave came from Scotland, and settled here.
A splendid young fellow he was just then,
And one of the bravost and truest men
That I ever met: he was kind as a woman
To all who needed a friend, and no man-
Not even a convict---met with his scorn,
For David Sloane was a gentleman born.
Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer:
There's plenty of blue blood Howing out here.
Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun;
He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run.
This bush at that time was a lonesome place,
So lonesome the sight of a white man's face
Was a blessing, unless it came at night,
And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright
Of a runaway convict; and even they
Were welcome, for talk's sake, while they could stay.
Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned
The tricks of the bush,-how the snare was laid
In the wallaby track, how traps were made,
How 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed ;
And when that was learned, I helped him to build
From mahogany slabs a good bush hut,
And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut.
I lived up there with him, days and days,
For I loved the lad for his honest ways.
I had only one fault to find : at first
Dave worked too hard; for a lad who was nursed,
As he was, in idleness, it was strange
How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range.
From the morning light till the light expired
He was always working, be never tired;
Till at length I began to think his will
Was too much settled on wealth, and still
When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye
Clear, open, my heart gave such thought the lie.
But one day-for he read my mind-he laid
His hand on my shoulder: "Don't be afraid,"
Said he, “ that I'm seeking alone for pelf.
I work hard, friend: but 'tis not for myself.”
And he told me, then, in his quiet tone,
Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own, -
His wife,-'t was for her: 't was all he could say,
And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away.
After that he told me the simple tale:
They had married for love, and she was to sail
For Australia when he wrote home and told
The oft-watched-for story of finding gold.
In a year he wrote, and his news was good:
He bad bought some cattle and sold his wood.
He said, “Darling, I've only a hut,,but come.”
Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home;
And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand
To make neat the house, and prepare the land
For his crops and vines; and he made that place
Put on such a smiling and homelike face,
That when she came, and he showed her round
His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground,
And spoke of the future, they cried for joy,
The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy.
Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss
Ever comes from the upper world to this,
It came into that manly bushman's life,
And circled him round with the arms of his wife.
God bless that bright memory! Even to me,
A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be,
While living, an angel of God's pure love,
And now I could pray to her face above.
And David he loved her as only a man
With a heart as large as was his heart can.
I wondered how they could have lived apart,
For he was her idol, and she his heart.
Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell:
I was talking of angels a while since. Well,
Now I'll change to a devil,--ay, to a devil!
You needn't start: if a spirit of evil
Ever came to this world its hate to slake
On mankind, it came as a dukite snake.
Like? Like the pictures you've seen of sin,
A long red snake -
-as if what was within
Was tire that gleamed through his glistening skin.
And his eyes !--if you could go down to hell
And come back to your fellows here and tell
What the fire was like, you could find no thing,
Here below on the earth, or up in the sky,
To compare it to but a dukite's eye!
Now, mark you, these dukites don't go alone:
There's another near when you see but one;
And beware you of killing that one you see
Without finding the other; for you may be
More than twenty miles from the spot that night,
When camped, but you're tracked by the lone dukite,
That will follow your trail like death or fate,
And kill you as sure as you killed its mate!
Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here
Three months,-'twas just this time of the year.
He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse,
And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass
A long red snake: he had never been told
Of the dukite's ways,-he jumped to the road,
And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!
He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed
The bush on the path he followed that night.
He was early home, and the dead dukite
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
At sunrise next morning he started away,
To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride
Brought him back : he gazed on his home with pride
And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse
And entered-to look on his young wife's corse,
And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes
As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose
From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head
Of the terrible dukite, as if it said,
"I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had."
And so had the snake-David Sloane was mad!
I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door
With an awful feeling of coming woe:
The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor,
The man held the hand of his wife,, his pride,
His poor life's treasure,-and crouched by her side.
O God! I sank with the weight of the blow.
I touched and called him: he heeded me not,
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,
And lifted them both,-her boy on her breast, -
And laid them down in the shade to rest.
Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
But he cried so wofully, “Let me stay
Till she comes again !" that I had no heart
To try to persuade him then to part
From all that was left to him here,-her grave;
So I stayed by his side that night, and save
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound, -
O God! that wail-like the wail of a hound!
'Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
Since that fearful night no one has heard
Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
You have seen to-day how he always goes :
He's been given that suit of convict's clothes
By some prison officer. On his back
You noticed a load like a peddler's pack ?
Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went,
Still meinory lived, for his days are spent
In searching for dukites; and year by year
That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
For he's clearing this bush of the dukite snakes.
CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM.-CHARLES A. WILEY.
In the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous Maelstrom or whirlpool. Many are the goodly ships that have been caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a company of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away; and, in accordance with their ancient custom, they are holding a greeting to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the light step of the dance.
At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised,soon it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool
Moving slowly and without an effort-presently faster, at length the boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working of the oars; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them,“ Beware of the whirlpool!" But they langh at fear, —they are too happy to think of returning: “When we see there is danger then we will return." Oh, that some good angel would come with warning unto them, “Unless ye now turn back ye cannot be saved.” Like as the voice of God comes to the soul of the impenitent, “Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved."
The boat is now going at a fearful rate; but, deceived by the moving waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow rumbling at the whirlpool's centre. The voices from the shore are no longer audible, but every effort