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 cir cles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them," Beware of the whirlpool!" But they laugh 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

is being used to warn them of their danger. They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy! Two of the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope! and some, for the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God,-But suddenly, CRASH, goes an oar! and such a shriek goes up from that ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost drops into perdition!

that they are saved.

The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel and skips on with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the vessel approaches the centre; then whirling for a moment on that awful brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the sea gives up its dead!

And so, every year, aye, every month. thousands, passing along in the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends," Beware of the gutter! of the grave! of hell!" they continue their course until the "force of habit" overpowers them; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged below.

THE TWO STAMMERERS.

In a small, quiet country town
Lived Bob-a blunt but honest clown-
Who, spite of all the school could teach,
From habit, stammered in his speech;
And second nature, soon, we're sure,
Confirmed the case beyond a cure.
Ask him to say, "Hot rolls and butter,"
A hag-a-gag, and splitter-splutter
Stopped every word he strove to utter.

It happened, once upon a time-
I word it thus to suit my rhyme,
For all the country neighbors know
It can't be twenty years ago—
Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike,
Was busy delving at his dyke;
Which, let me not forget to say,
Stood close behind a public way:
And, as he leaned upon his spade
A youth, a stranger in that place,
Stood right before him, face to face.
P-p-p-p-pray," says he,

"How f-f-f-f-far may't be

To-o," the words would not come out, "To-o Borough-Bridge, or thereabout?"

Our clown took huff; thrice hemmed upon't, Then smelt a kind of an affront.

Thought he "This bluff, foolhardy fellow,
A little cracked, perhaps, or mellow,
Knowing my tongue an inch too short,
Is come to fleer and make his sport:
Wauns! if I thought he meant to quarrel,
I'd hoop this roynish rascal's barrel!
If me he means, or dares deride,
By all that's good, I'll tan his hide!
I'll dress his vile calf's skin in buff,
And thrash it tender where 'tis tough!"
Thus, full resolved, he stood aloof
And waited mute for farther proof.
While t' other, in a kind of pain,
Applied him to his tongue again—
"Speak, friend; c-c-c-c-can you, pray,
Sh-sh-sh-show me-on my way?
Nay, sp-e-eak!-I'll smoke thy bacon!
You have a t-ongue, or I'm mistaken."
"Yes-that, th-that I-I-I have;
But not for y-y-you-you knave!"
"What!" cried the stranger, "wh-wh-what!

D'ye mock me? T-t-take you that!"

Hugh! you mock-me!" quoth Hob, amain

"So t-t-take you that again!"

Then to't they fell, in curious plight,

While each one thought himself i' th' right;

And if you dare believe my song,

They likewise thought each other wrong.

The battle o'er and somewhat cool,

Each half suspects himself a fool,

For, when to choler folks incline 'em,
Your argumentum baculinum

Administered in dose terrific,

Was ever held a grand specific.

Each word the combatants now uttered,
Conviction brought, that both dolts stuttered;
And each assumed a look as stupid,

As, after combat, looks Dan Cupid:

Each scratched his silly head, and thought
He'd argue ere again he fought.

Hence I this moral shall deduce-
Would anger deign to sign a truce
Till reason could discover truly,
Why this mad madam were unruly,
So well she would explain their words,
Men little use could find for swords.

ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH.--GEORGE HOEY.

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say:

"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you,

Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to.

Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son,

Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them doomed

every one

To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch,

Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch."

I sprang up amazed-scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so;

I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below,

I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned,

But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand.

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum,

Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum;

What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain?

What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train.

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place;

So I stood with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face;

Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch,-

The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch.

I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track;

The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back;

On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash;

I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash.

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell;

My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,-For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of hus bands and wives,

And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for their lives;

Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild;

Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like & child;

Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one perhaps dead.

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide

me away,

When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay

A little white hand: she who owned it was doubtless an object of love

To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she guarded him now from above;

I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side; How little she thought of her journey when she left for this

dark fatal ride!

I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of life,

Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized— Maggie, my wife!

O Lord! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shat

tered my pride;

My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side.