He had seized the gun and the money from the rascal's trembling hand.

Jack fled at the sound of footsteps, and the rest you can understand.

The word that he might have spoken he kept to himself

to save,

For the sake of the dying father, the pitiful thief and

knave.

He knew that the blow would hasten the death of one who had done

More for him than a father-who had treated him as a

son.

And so he had suffered in silence, all through the weary

years,

The felon's shame and the prison, and the merciless taunts and jeers.

Hark! there's the organ pealing-see how the crowd divides.

Room for the best of fellows-room for the Queen of Brides.

Look at their happy faces-three cheers for the faithful

Eve,

And three times three and another for Ned, the "Ticke o' Leave."

GEO. R. SIMS.

CATCHING THE COLT.

WITH forehead star and silver tril,

And three white feet to match,

The gay, half-broken, sorrel colt
Which one of us could catch?

"I can," said Dick; "I'm good for that;"
He slowly shook his empty hat.

"She'll think 'tis full of corn," said he;
"Stand back, and she will come to me."
Her head the shy, proud creature raised
As 'mid the daisy flowers she grazed;
Then down the hill, across the brook,
Delaying oft, her way she took;

Then changed her pace, and, moving quick,
She hurried on, and came to Dick.

"Ha! ha!" he cried,. "I've caught you, Beck!" And put the halter round her neck.

But soon there came another day,
And, eager for a ride-

"I'll go and catch the colt again:
I can," said Dick with pride.

So up the stony pasture lane,
And up the hill, he trudged again;
And when he saw the colt, as slow
He shook his old hat to and fro,
"She'll think 'tis full of corn," he thought,
"And I shall have her quickly caught."
"Beck! Beck!" he called; and at the sound,
The restless beauty looked around,
Then made a quick, impatient turn,
And galloped off among the fern.
And when beneath a tree she stopped,
And leisurely some clover cropped,
Dick followed after, but in vain;

His hand was just upon her mane,
When off she flew as flies the wind,
And, panting, he pressed on behind.

Down through the brake, the brook across.
O'er bushes, thistles, mounds of moss,
Round and around the place they passed,
Till breathless Dick sank down at last;
Threw by, provoked, his empty hat,-
"The colt," he said, "remembers that!
There's always trouble from deceit

I'll never try again to cheat!"

MARIAN DOUGLAS,

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan— Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar
A like the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving: boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and, if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.

BYRON.

IT

THE CLOWN'S BABY.

T was out on the Western frontierThe miners, rugged and brown, Were gathered around the posters ; The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness, Like a wonderful palace of light, And rough men crowded the entranceShows didn't come there every night!

Not a woman's face among them;
Many a face that was bad,
And some that were only vacant,
And some that were very sad.
And behind a canvas curtain,
In a corner of the place

The Clown, with chalk and vermillion,

making up" his face.

A weary looking woman,

With a smile that still was sweet,

Sewed on a little garment,

With a cradle at her feet.

Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,
It was time for the going on,
But the Clown in vain searched wildly;
The "property-baby" was gone!

He murmured impatiently hunting;

'It's strange that I cannot find— There! I've looked in every corner;

It must have been left behind;"