Twelve years ago, at noon of life, Two children, boy and girl; a patch; I took him with me from the shore; I let him try help save a life: I drowned him, and it killed my wife!" The old man paused, and dashed his hand How rough men feel a rough man's woe. "Somebody stole a cask or bale,- When the last falsehood ground its heel,- To save the lives of periled men, Body and soul at once go down, And Heaven forget me as I drown!" It was a direful oath, as well When nothing more remained to tell, His wrong and hate the old man nursed. And some of us, at church and school, THE MUSICAL FROGS.-JOHN STUART BLACKIE. Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs! And sun myself to-day With you! No curtained bride, I ween, Nor silken lady gay, Lies on a softer couch. O Heaven! By keen-fanged inflammation, Might change his lot with yours, to float Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs! In the fragrant month of June; Of things beyond the moon; Of star-eyed speculation, Than, thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing, That with a murmurous joy dost sing Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs! Where the iron hail is pouring. Amid the croaking nation, With Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs! With you, ye boggy muses! But I must go and do stern battle The gentle rein refuses. And when, by Logic's iron rule, I've quashed each briskly babbling fool, And hum beside the tuneful pool Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex! coax! coax! O happy, happy frogs! THE GAMIN.-VICTOR HUGO. Paris has a child; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a sparrow; the child is called the gamin. His origin is from the rabble. The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. The street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and window was closed; in the background rose a wall built of paving stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen; nothing could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began to gather up the full cartridgeboxes of the National Guards who had been killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharpshooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered something moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier of his cartridges a ball struck the body. "They are killing my dead for me," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. A third upset his basket. Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, bis eyes fixed upon the National Guard, who were firing; and he sang: "They are ugly at Narterre- Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges which had fallen out, without losing a single one; and advancing towards the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge box. Then a fourth ball just missed him again; Gavroche sang: "I am only a scribe "Tis the fault of Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Rousseau." The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mocked the firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up; hid himself in a doorway, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes; the barricade was trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man; it was a strange, fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing: "I am buried in earth- He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir again. "That little great soul had taken flight. THE SECRETS OF MASONRY. The story is told of a Mason's wife, When Mary got mad, and what did she say? |