upon his foes, the brave girl-for, slender in form, and wildly beautiful in face, she is a brave girl, a Hero-Woman - had managed, as if by instinctive impulse, to load a rifle. She handed it to her father, and then loaded another, and another. Wasn't that a beautiful sight? A fair young girl grasping powder and ball, with the ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers!

Now look down to the wall again. The refugees are clambering over its summit — again that fatal aim — again a horrid cry, and another wounded man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades!

will

But now look! A smoke rises there; a fire blazes up around the wall; they have fired the gate! A moment, and the bolt and the lock will be burnt from their sockets the passage be free. Now is the fiery moment of the old man's trial! While his brave daughter loads, he continues to fire with that deadly aim, but now- -O horror! he falls, he falls, with a musket-ball driven into his breast! The daughter's outstretched arms receive the father, as, with the blood spouting from his wound, he topples back from the window.

Ah, it is a sad and terrible picture!

That old man, writhing there on the oaken floor, the young daughter bending over him, the light from the window streaming over her face, over her father's gray hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber affords a dim background to the scene!

Now hark! The sound of axes at the hall door - shouts hurrahs

curses.

"We have the old rebel at last!"

The old man raises his head at that sound, makes an effort to rise, clutches for a rifle, and then falls back again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce pain of that wound quivers through his heart.

Now watch the movements of that daughter. Silently she loads a rifle, silently she rests its barrel against the head of that powder-keg, and then, placing her finger on the trigger, stands over her father's form, while the shouts of the enraged soldiers come thundering from the stairs. Yes, they have broken the hall door to fragments, they are in possession of the old blockhouse, they are rushing towards that chamber, with murder in their hearts and in their glaring eyes! Had the old man a thousand lives they were not worth a farthing's purchase

now.

Still that girl-grown suddenly white as the kerchief round her neck-stands there, trembling from head to foot, the rifle in her hand, its dark tube laid against the powder-keg.

The door is burst open-look there! Stout forms are in the doorway with muskets in their hands; grim faces stained with blood glare into the room.

Now, as if her very soul was coined into the words, that young girl, with her face pale as ashes, her hazel eye glaring with deathly light, utters this short yet meaning speech:

"Advance one step into the room, and I will fire this rifle into the powder there!"

No oath quivers from the lips of that girl to confirm her resolution, but there she stands, alone with her wounded father, and yet not a soldier dare cross the threshold! Embrued as they are in deeds of blood, there is something terrible to these men in the simple words of that young girl, who stands there with the rifle laid against the powder-keg.

They stood as if spell-bound on the threshold of that chamber. At last, one bolder than the rest, a bravo whose face is half-concealed in a thick red beard, grasps his musket and levels it at the young girl's breast.

"Stand back, or, by

I will fire!"

Still the girl is firm. The bravo advances a step, and then starts back. The sharp "click" of that rifle falls with an unpleasant emphasis upon his ear.

66

Bess, I am dying," gasps the old man, faintly extending his arms. "Ha, ha, we foiled the Britishers! Come-daughterkneel here; kneel and say a prayer for me, and let me feel your warm breath upon my face, for I am getting cold. Oh, dark and cold!"

Look! As those trembling accents fall from the old man's tongue those fingers unloose their hold of the rifle already the troopers are secure of one victim, at least, a young and beautiful girl; for affection for her father is mastering the heroism of the moment - look! She is about to spring into his arms! But now she sees her danger! again she clutches the rifle; again although her father's dying accents are in her ears stands there, prepared to scatter that house in ruins if a single rough hand assails that veteran form.

There are a few brief, terrible moments of suspense. Then a hurried sound far down the mansion; then a contest on the stairs; then the echo of rifle-shot and the light of rifle-blaze then those ruffians in the doorway fall crushed before the strong

arms of Continental soldiers. Then a wild shriek quivers through the room, and that young girl that Hero-Woman — with one bound springs forward into her brothers' arms, and nestles there; while her dead father - his form yet warm - lays with fixed eyeballs upon the floor. GEORGE LIPPARD.

THE SONG OF THE NORTH.

"AWAY, away!" cried the stout Sir John,

"While the blossoms are on the trees;
For the summer is short, and the time speeds on
As we sail for the Northern Seas.

Ho! gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James!
We will startle the world, I trow,

When we find a way through the Northern Seas,
That never was found till now!

A stout good ship is the 'Erebus,'

As ever unfurled a sail;

And the Terror' will match with as brave a one
As ever outrode a gale!"

So they bade farewell to their pleasant homes,
To the hills and valleys green,

With three hearty cheers for their native isle,
And three for the English Queen.

They sped them away beyond cape and bay,
Where the day and night are one ;

Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright,
And flamed like a midnight sun.

There was naught below save the fields of snow,
That stretched to the icy Pole ;

And the Esquimau, in his strange canoe,

Was the only living soul.

Along the coast, like a giant host,

The glittering icebergs frowned;

Or they met, on the main, like a battle-plain,
And crashed with a fearful sound.

The seal and the bear, with a curious stare,
Looked down from the frozen heights;
And the stars in the skies, with great wild eyes,
Peered out from the Northern Lights.

The gallant Crozier, and the brave Fitz James,

And even the stout Sir John,

Felt a doubt, like a chill, through their warm hearts thrill,
As they urged the good ships on.

They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
Where even the tear-drops freeze;
But no way was found, by strait or sound,
To sail through the Northern Seas.

They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
And they sought, but they sought in vain ;
For no way was found, through the ice around,
To return to their homes again.

But the wild waves rose, and the water froze,
Till they closed like a prison wall;
And the icebergs stood, in the silent flood,
Like jailers grim and tall.

O God! O God it was hard to die

In that prison-house of ice!

For what was fame, or a mighty name,

When life was the fearful price ?

The gallant Crozier, and the brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,

Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled
As the weeks and months passed on.

Then the Ice-King came, with his eyes of flame,
And looked on the fated crew:

His chilling breath was as cold as death,
And it pierced their warm hearts through.

A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep,
Came over their weary eyes;

And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams,
And the blue of their native skies.

The Christmas-chimes of the good old times

Were heard in each dying ear,

And the darling feet, and the voices sweet,

Of their wives and children dear.

But it faded away

away-away

Like a sound on a distant shore;

And deeper and deeper came the sleep,

Till they slept to wake no more.

Oh, the sailor's wife, and the sailor's child,
They weep, and watch, and pray;
And the Lady Jane she will hope in vain
As the long years pass away.

The gallant Crozier, and the brave Fitz James,
And the good Sir John have found

An open way to a quiet bay,

And a port where all are bound.

Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore
That circles the frozen Pole ;

But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep,
That can hold the human soul!

LIZZIE DOTEN.

NO COLOR LINE IN HEAVEN.

BRUDDERS, de lub ob de Lord am a wonderful ting. Nobody would tink dat a poor ole darky's life was wuff much ennyhow; but de Scripter says de fust shall be last, an' vice versey, an' dat is de chief hold we hab; for I 'clude from dat sayin' dat de cullud pusson what shines boots, an' charges only de reg'lar price, has a tol❜ble show for de nex' world, though he hain't much ob a chance here. From a 'ligious pint ob view, it's just as 'portant to shine boots well as to run a fust-class saw-mill. De Lord he neber axes you wat you been doin', but how you been doin' it ; an' when you get to de judgment-day, some ob you pore washerwomen, who wasn't mean 'bout de starch, but put plenty ob it in de clothes, will be a flutterin' ob yer wings in Paradise, while de white man wat made you wait for yer munny will be a-lookin' for a shady spot, an' a wishin' he had a bit ob ice. You know what I's think just at dis time? I's thinkin' dat some dese white folks wat 'magines dat dey'll hab a fedder-bed in de nex' world, an' free or four angels to keep de flies off, will find when dey's lookin' roun' for dere reserved seat in glory dat dey's got a cinder in dere eye, an' can't see it. How 'll you feel, white man, when you find yerself 'mongst a big crowd ob or'nary folks way up in de family circle, while some pore darky who did yer chores like an honest man, is 'ducted by de hebbenly ushers to a orchestra-seat, right down clus to de mewsic? An' how 'll you feel, brudder, when dose angels say to you, ""Tain't no matter what color you be, yer name's been called, an' we's d'rected to show you a seat