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night! Strike eight bells! All's well at one o'clock in the morning! Strike two bells! How the water tosses from the iron prow of the Huron as she seems moving irresistibly on! If a fishing-smack came in her way, she would ride it down and not know that she touched it.

But, alas! through the darkness she is aiming for Nag's head! What is the matter with the compasses? At one o'clock and forty minutes there is a harsh grating on the bottom of the ship, and the cry goes across the ship, "What's the matter?" Then the sea lifts up the ship to let her fall on the breakersShock! shock! shock! The dreadful command of the captain rings across the deck and is repeated among the hammocks, "All hands save the ship." Then comes the thud of the axe in answer to the order to cut away the mast. Overboard go the guns. They are of no use in this battle with the wind and

wave.

Heavier and heavier the vessel falls till the timbers begin to crack. The work of death goes on, every surge of the sea carrying more men from the forecastle, and reaching up its briny fingers to those hanging in the rigging. Numb and frozen, they hold on and lash themselves fast; while some, daring each other to the undertaking, plunge into the beating surf and struggle for the land. Oh, cruel sea! Pity them, as, bruised and mangled and with broken bones, they make desperate efforts for dear life. For thirty miles along the beach the dead of the Huron are strewn, and throughout the land there is weeping and lamentation and great woe.

A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that the

conduct of the men was admirable. It is a magnificent thing to see a man dying at his post, doing his whole duty. Who can see such things without thinking of the greatest deed of these nineteen centuries, the pushing out of the Chieftain of the Universe to take the human race off the wreck of the world.

Rev. T. De Witt Talmage.

LITTLE FOXES.

LITTLE foxes spoiling

beloved vine

Trusted to my tending
By the One Divine-
Little foxes, wherefore
Have ye entrance found
To the vine so precious
Growing in my ground?

Have ye leaped the fences?
Have ye climbed the wall?
Were there tiny openings?
Ye are very small
And ye can creep slyly

Through a tiny space;
But, I thought I closed up
Every open place.

And I watch by daytime,
And I watch by night,
For the vine you're spoiling
Is my heart's delight!

I have kept the earth-worm
From its precious root;
I have trimmed its branches,
But they bear no fruit.

For the little foxes

Have assailed the vine Trusted to my tending By the One Divine;

And though I've been faithful Since its birthday morn, They were in the garden When the babe was born.

For they are the failings
That I would not see
When they were my failings,
When they dwelt in me;
Little faults unheeded

That I now despise,
For my baby took them
With my hair and eyes.

And I chide her often,
For I know I must,

But I do it always

Bowed down to the dust,

With a face all crimsoned
With a burning blush,
And an inward whisper
That I cannot hush.

And sometimes it seemeth

Like the voice of God

And it says, "Poor coward,
Using now the rod

On a child's frail body

Till I hear it moan,

And see its soft flesh quiver
For a sin thine own!"

Oh, my Father, pity,
Pity and forgive:
Slay the little foxes
I allowed to live
Till they left the larger
For the smaller vine,
Till they touched the dear life
Dearer far than mine.

Oh, my Father, hear me,
Make my darling thine,
Though I am so human,
Make her all divine!
Slay the little foxes,

That both vines may be
Ladened with fruit worthy

To be offered Thee.

Mrs. Mary Cram.

N

"NOT TO MYSELF ALONE."

OT to myself alone,"

The little opening flower transported cries, "Not to myself alone I bud and bloom; With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume, And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes.

The bee comes sipping every eventide
His dainty fill;

The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."

"Not to myself alone,"

The circling star with honest pride doth boast, "Not to myself alone I rise and set;

I write upon night's coronal of jet

His power and skill who formed our myriad hostA friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,

I gem the sky,

That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high."

"Not to myself alone,"

The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum,
"Not to myself alone, from flower to flower,
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come;
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile
With busy care,

Content if he repay my ceaseless toil
With scanty share."

"Not to myself alone,"

The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings,
"Not to myself alone I raise my song;

I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,

And God adore;

I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and soar."

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