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Do you wonder what I am seeing
In the heart of the fire, aglow
Like cliffs in a golden sunset,
With a summer sea below!

I see, away to the eastward,

The line of a stormbeat coast,

And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves
Like the tramp of the mailèd host.

And up and down in the darkness,
And over the frozen sand,
I hear the men of the coast-guard
Pacing along the strand,

Beaten by storm and tempest,

And drenched by the pelting rain,
From the shores of Carolina

To the wind-swept bays of Maine.
No matter what storms are raging,
No matter how wild the night,
The gleam of their swinging lanterns
Shines out with a friendly light.
And many a shipwrecked sailor
Thanks God, with his gasping breath,
For the sturdy arms of the surfmen
That drew him away from death.

And so, when the wind is wailing,
And the air grows dim with sleet,
I think of the fearless watchers
Pacing along their beat.

I think of a wreck fast breaking
In the surf of a rocky shore,
And the life boat leaping onward
To the stroke of the bending oar.

I hear the shouts of the sailors,
The boom of the frozen sail,
And the creak of the icy halyards
Straining against the gale.
"Courage!" the captain trumpets,
"They are sending help from land!”
God bless the men of the coast-guard,
And hold their lives in His hand!

EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

THERE'S A WIDENESS

There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea;
There's a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of man's mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.

FABER.

TRIPLEFOOT

I opened up my cabin one winter morning, at daylight, to find the dooryard covered with two inches of light snow. A mass of fox tracks centred about a piece of meat, which was nailed to the trunk of a pine-tree. When the fox left, about daylight, it went down the old highway, and this is the trail it made:

8.

8.

8. 8. 8. Two tracks started from a cluster near the meat, followed by a space, then three tracks followed by another space, and so on, in regular order, three tracks and a space. I had no difficulty in solving the mystery.

The fox had been trapped some time in the past, and had regained its liberty by the loss of a foot. The space in the trail represented the missing foot. This fox was no stranger to my dooryard, and months before I had named her Triplefoot, because she traveled on three feet. She had a charmed life, for the fox-hunters had failed in their efforts to shoot her, so far, although for over a year she was the only fox in this locality, and the hounds hazed her night and day.

After breakfast I started on Triplefoot's trail. There was a good tracking snow, and I was determined to trail the fox to her den. The trail led down the old highway, but turned off to visit Solomon's Orchard. This was a spot containing two ruined cellars, a large clump of barberry bushes, and some wild apple-trees, descendants of a cultivated orchard. The fox did some foraging under the barberry bushes, and a drop or two of blood on the snow indicated that she was successful in capturing a wood-mouse. While I was looking for the trail out of the orchard I heard two hounds give tongue and the tone told me that they were hot on the trail. These hounds had come up the old highway, and had struck the fox's trail just south of Solomon's Orchard. Triplefoot had scented the hounds, and turned to the west, into Magnolia Swamp. I pushed my way through the dense shrubbery, the tracks of two dogs and a fox making a well defined trail. The trail led through the swamp and over the ridge to Wallace's Pond. The trail crossed on the ice, and led me over Magnolia Avenue, just below the lily pond. I had come to the conclusion that Triplefoot was hunting water, so as to throw the hounds off the scent. The cold weather was against her. All the brooks and ponds were covered with ice. The trail, after it crossed the road, led along the ridges to Mount

Ann. From this point the fox had shaped her course to Coffin's Beach. It was a long, weary tramp, but I had enlisted and was bound to see it through.

When I had reached the sand-dunes of Coffin's Beach, I found the snow had melted under the combined influence of sun and sand. Here Triplefoot had thrown the hounds off, and had left me out of the hunt, too. Not a track could be seen in the shifting white sand. It was an old trick of the foxes, to resort to the sand-dunes, when there was a dearth of water. There was one of two things for me to do: give up the hunt and go home, or skirt the woods for Triplefoot's trail, where she had left the beach. I decided on the latter course, and, as luck was with me, found the trail in less than ten minutes. The fox returned by way of Mount Ann and Dyke's Meadow, crossing Magnolia Swamp south of Solomon's Orchard, and took to the ridges neår the old quarry. The den was under a big boulder, and, strange to tell, was only eight minutes' walk from my cabin. It was dark when I found the den, so I had thrown away a whole day looking for a thing that was in my own dooryard, so to speak.

Triplefoot reared a family during the season. In April she stored two hens and a grouse in her den, so she would not have to hunt when her cubs were born. I saw the feathers of the fowls, and knew that the wise creature was putting food in cold storage for a day of need.

When the fox cubs were old enough to come outside and play, I put in many hours watching them with a good glass. There was no time that I saw more than three, and I think that was the size of the family. There was a flat boulder over the den, which sloped from the ground upward. I was standing on this boulder one eve, when one of the cubs came out of the den, and

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