When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal,
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sung "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!"
As the warring waters doused them
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
Iis filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches,
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) Came on the deck astonished, By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle;
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gaily he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "George, some brandy and water!"
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,—
And, as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,—
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME AGAIN?
AN EPISODE OF THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR.
In his wind-shaken tent the soldier sits,
Beside him flares an oil-lamp smokily,
Whose dim light glooms and flickers on the sheet
Of rustling paper that, with eager eyes
And heart, intent, he reads. Now with a smile
The flaxen-bearded, sunburnt face lights up.
A smile that in the smiling breeds a pain
Within his yearning heart; the gentle hand
That those sweet loving words hath traced, will he
Ever again in his protecting clasp
Enfold it? Who can tell! He can but kiss,
With wild intensity, the page that hand
Hath touched. Each line, each word read and re-read,
At last there is no more. With swimming eyes
He looks, and drinks her name into his soul.
Yet see those lines with pencil widely ruled,
Where largely sprawl big letters helplessly;
What do they say, those baby characters,
So feebly huge:
When will you come home again?
My own dear Papa!”
As he reads this the tent to him grows darker,
His strong hand trembles, and the hot tears burn
In his blue eyes, and blur the straggling words.
What need to see? The words are stamped upon
His heart, and his whole soul doth feel them there.
The wind on gusty wings speeds by, and lo!
With its wild voice, his child's sweet treble mingles
In accents faintly clear:
"Loved Papa, when will you come home again?
My own dear Papa!"
And now his head is bowed into his hands,
His brave heart for a moment seems to climb
Into his throat and choke him. Hark! what sound
Thus sharply leaps among, and slays the sad
Wind-voices of the autumn night, with shrill
And sudden blast? The bugle-call "To arms!"
And startled sleepers, at its fierce appeal,
Half-dreaming, clutch their swords, and gasping wake;~
How many soon to sleep again-in death!
And on that father's heart the pealing cry
Strikes cold as ice, though soldier there's none braver,
For still above the bugle's thrilling breath
That pleading child-voice sweetly calls:
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again?
My own dear Papa!”
Across a rough hillside the light of dawn
Doth coldly creep, with ruthless touch revealing
All that by darkness had been hid, and there,
Among the stalwart forms that stiffening lie
Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they lie thickest,
There is one found, with flaxen hair and beard
Dark dyed with gore, a bullet in his heart!
A crumpled paper in his hand was clutched,
'Gainst the cold lips, the rigid hand did press
Some childish writing by his life-blood stained.
What are the words? One scarce can read them now: "Loved Papa, when will you come home again? My own dear Papa!"
SIC VITA.-HENRY KING.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,-
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot!
THE DEAD STUDENT.-WILL CARLETON.
It doesn't seem-now does it, Jack?—as if poor Brown were dead;
'Twas only yesterday at noon he had to take his bed.
The day before he played first base, and ran M’Farland down;
And then, to slip away so sly,-'twas not at all like Brown.
The story seems too big to take. 'Most any one will find
It's sometimes hard to get a man well laid out in his mind.
And Brown was just afire with life. "Twouldn't scare me, I
avow,
To hear a whoop, and see the man go rushing past here now.
Poor Brown! he's lying in his room, as white as drifted snow.
I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago.
A-rushing into Brownie's room seemed awkward-like and
queer:
We haven't spoken back and forth for something like a year.
We didn't pull together square a single night or day;
Howe'er I went he soon contrived to find another way.
He ran against me in my loves: we picked a dozen bones
About that girl you used to like,-the one that married Jones.
He worked against me in the class, before my very eyes.
He opened up and scooped me square cut of the Junior prize.
In the last campus rush we came to strictly business blows,
And from the eye he left undimmed I viewed his damaged
In fact, I came at last to feel-and own it with dismay— That life would be worth living for, if Brown were out the
But when I heard that he was dead, my feelings tacked; and then
I would have given half my life to get his back again.
I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago.
The room was neat beyond excuse,-the women made it so.
Be sure he had no hand in that, and naught about it knew.
To see the order lying round had made him very blue.
A sweet bouquet of girlish flowers smiled in the face of Death. Straight through the open window came the morning's fragrant breath.
Close-caged, a small canary-bird, with glossy, yellow throat, Skipped drearily from perch to perch, and never sung a note.
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