UP-HILL.-CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Will the day's journey take the whole long day? But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin? Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? THE LETTER OF MARQUE.-CAROLINE F. ORNE. We had sailed out a Letter of Marque, And a costly freight our gallant barque We had ranged the seas the whole summer-tide, "A sail! a sail on the weather bow! Hand over hand, ten knots an hour!" Now God defend it ever should end That we should fall in the foeman's power!" 'Twas an English frigate came bearing down, Riding the waves that sent their spray Every stitch of our canvas set, Like a frightened bird our good barque flew; The wild waves lashed and the foam crests dashed, As we threaded the billows through. The night came down on the waters wide,- "By Heaven's help we'll see home once more," Our captain cried, "for nor-nor-west Lies Cape Cod Light, and the good old shore." Showed the frigate close on our track,- Shall we fall a prize to-night? The Shoal of George's lies sou-south-east, Hard up the helm was jammed. 66 Trained eye and hand in danger's school. 'Heave the lead!" The lead was hove; Sharp and short the quick reply; Steady rose the captain's voice, Dark fire glowed his swarthy eye; Right on the Shoal of George's steered, Urged with wild, impetuous force, Lost, if on either side we veered But a hand's breadth from our course. On and on our good barque drove, Leaping like mad from wave to wave, Hissing and roaring 'round her bow, Hounding her on to a yawning grave. God! 'twas a desperate game we played! White as the combing wave grew each cheek; Our hearts in that moment dumbly prayed, For never a word might our blenched lips speak. On and on the frigate drove, Right in our track, close bearing down; Our captain's face was still and stern, Every muscle too rigid to frown. On and on the frigate drove, Swooping down in her glorious pride; Gulfed in the closing grave! We were alone on the rolling sea; Man looked to man with a silent pain, Our helmsman bore on our course again. When the red morn glowed o'er the bay; A TEXAS STORY.-J. W. DONOVAN. In the summer of the year 1860, one hot night in July, a herdsman was moving his cattle to a new ranche further north, near Helena, Texas. As he passed down the banks of a stream his herd became mixed with other cattle that were grazing in the valley, and some of them failed to be separated. The next day about noon a band of a dozen mounted Texan Rangers overtook the herdsınan, and demanded their cattle, which they said were stolen. It was before the introduction of laws and court-houses in Texas, and one had better kill five men than steal a mule worth five dollars-and this herdsman knew it. He tried to explain, but they told him to cut his story short. He offered to turn over all the cattle not his own, but they laughed at his proposition, and hinted that they usually confiscated the whole herd in such cases, and that they usually left the thief hanging on a tree as a warning to others in like cases. The poor fellow was completely overcome. They consulted apart a few moments and then told him, if he had any explanations to make or business to do, they would allow him ten minutes to do it, and to defend himself. He turned to the rough faces, and commenced: "How many of you men have wives?" Two or three nodded. "How many of you men have children?" They nodded again. "Then I know who I am talking to, and you'll hear me," said the frightened herdsman, who continued: "I never stole your cattle; I have lived in these parts over three years; I came from New Hampshire; I failed there in the fall of '57, during the panic; I have been saving; I have lived on hard fare; I have slept out on the ground; I have no home here. My family remain East, while I go from place to place. These clothes I wear are rough, and I am a hard-looking customer, but this is a hard country. Days seem like months to me, and months like years; and, but for the letters from home (here he pulled out a handful of well-worn envelopes and letters from his wife) I should get discouraged. I have paid part of my debts. Here are the receipts, and he unfolded the letters of acknowledgment. I expected to sell out, and go home in November. Here is the Testament my good old mother gave me; here is my little girl's picture," and he kissed it tenderly. "Now, men, if you have decided to kill me for doing what I am innocent of, send these home, and send as much as you can from the cattle, when I am dead. Can't you send half their value? My family will need it." "Hold on, now; stop right thar!" said a rough Ranger. "Now, I say boys," he continued; "I say, let him go; he's no thief. That kind of men don't steal. We'll take our cattle, and let him go. Give us your hand, old boy;—that picture and them letters did the business. You can go free; but you're lucky, mind ye." "We'll do more'n that," said a man with a big heart, in Texan garb, and carrying the customary brace of pistols in his belt, "let's buy his herd, and let him go home now." They did, and when the money was paid over, and the man about to start, he was too weak to stand. The long strain of hopes and fears, being away from home under such trying circumstances, and the sudden deliverance from death, had combined to render him as helpless as a child. An hour later, however, he left on horseback for the nearest stage route; and, as they shook hands when bidding him goodby, they looked the happiest band of men I ever beheld. So says an eye-witness. THE ADVERTISEMENT ANSWERED.-FRANK M. THORN. Good mornin' til yez, yer honor! And are yez the gintlemon As advertised, in the paper, fur an active, intilligent b'y? Y' are? Thin I've brought him along wid me,—a raal, fine sprig iv a wan:— As likely a b'y iv his age, sur, as iver ye'd wish til empl'y. That's him. Av coorse I'm his mother! Yez can see his resimblance til me, Fur ivery wan iv his faytures, and mine, are alike as two paze, Barrin' wan iv his hivenly eyes, which he lost in a bit iv a spree Wid Hooligan's b'y, which intinded to larrup me Teddy wid aize; And his taythe, which hung out on his lip, like a pair iv big, shinin', twin pearls, Till wan iv thim taythe was removed by the fut iv a cow he was tazin; And his hair, that we niver cu'd comb, along iv bewhilderin' curls, So we kape it cropp'd short to save combin', and that makes our intercoorse plazin. And is it rid-headed, ye call him? Belike he is foxy, is Ted; And goold-colored hair is becomin' til thim that's complicted wid blonde! But who cares fur color? Sure, contints out-vally the rest iv the head! And Ted has a head full iv contints, as lively as t'hrout in a pond! Good timpered? Sure niver a bett'her. The paceablest, quiet, est lamb As lives the whole lin'th iv our st'hrate, where the b'ys is that kane fur a row That Ted has to fight iv'ry day, though he'd quarrel no more than a clam. Faith, thim b'ys 'ud provoke the swate angels, in hiven, to fight onyhow! Thim Hooligan b'ys is that d'hirty, they have to be washed wanst a wake: Faith, Hooligan finds it convanient to live down ferninst the canall Where the wat'her fur scrubbin' the mud off his child'hers is not far til sake. But Teddy is allus that nate that he niver nades washin' at all! |