Quick gallops up, with headlong speed,
A noble Count on noble steed!

And, lo! on high his fingers hold

A purse well stored with shining gold.

"Two hundred pistols for the man who shall save Yon perishing wretch from the yawning wave!"

Who is the Brave Man, say, my song:
Shall to the Count thy meed belong?

Though, Heaven be praised, right brave he be,
I know a braver still than he:

O, Brave Man! O, Brave Man! arise, appear!
O, speed, for the terrible death draws near!

And ever higher swell the waves,
And louder still the storm-wind raves,
And lower sink their hearts in fear-

O, Brave Man! Brave Man! haste, appear!
Buttress and pillar, they groan and strain,
And the rocking arches are rent in twain!

Again, again before their eyes,

High holds the Count the glittering prize;
All see, but all the danger shun-

Of all the thousand stirs not one.

And the toll-man in vain, through the tumult wild, Outscreams the tempest with wife and child.

But one amid the crowd is seen,
In peasant garb, with simple mien,
Firm, leaning on a trusty stave,
In form and feature tall and grave!

He hears the Count and the scream of fear;
He sees that the moment of death draws near!

Into a skiff he boldly sprang;

He braved the storm that round him rang;
He called aloud on God's great name,

And backward a deliverer came.
But the fisher's skiff seems all too small
From the raging waters to save them all.

The river round him boiled and surged; Thrice through the waves his skiff he urged, And back through the wind and waters' roar He bore them safely to the shore:

So fierce rolled the river, that scarce the last In the fisher's skiff through the danger passed.

Who is the Brave Man? Say, my song,
To whom shall that high name belong?
Bravely the peasant ventured in,

But 'twas, perchance, the prize to win.
If the generous Count had offered no gold,
The peasant, methinks, had not been so bold.

Out spake the Count, "Right boldly done!
Here, take thy purse; 'twas nobly won."
A generous act, in truth, was this,
And truly the Count right noble is;
But loftier still was the soul displayed
By him in the peasant garb arrayed.

"Poor though I be, thy hand withhold;
I barter not my life for gold!
Yon hapless man is ruined now;
Great Count, on him thy gift bestow."
He spake from his heart in his honest pride,
And he turned on his heel and strode aside.

Then loudly let his praises swell
As organ blast or clang of bell;

Of lofty soul and spirit strong,

He asks not gold, he asks but song!

So glory to God, by whose gift I raise

The tribute of song to the Brave Man's praise!

The Life Boat

ANONYMOUS.

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark,
That drives before the blast!

There's a rock ahead, the fog is dark,
And the storm comes thick and fast.
Can human power, in such an hour,
Avert the doom that's o'er her?

Her mainmast is gone, but still she drives on
To the fatal reef before her.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! hark! hark! the gun
Booms through the vapory air;

And see! the signal flags are on,
And speak the ship's despair.
That forked flash, that pealing crash,
Seemed from the wave to sweep her:
She's on the rock, with a terrible shock-
And the wail comes louder and deeper.
The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See-the crew
Gaze on their watery grave:
Already some, a gallant few,

Are battling with the wave;

And one there stands, and wrings his hands,
As thoughts of home come o'er him;

For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,
He sees on heights before him.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!
And, as they pull the oar,

From shore and ship a cheer arose
That startled ship and shore.
Life-saving ark! yon fated bark

Has human lives within her;

And dearer than gold is the wealth untold
Thou'lt save if thou canst win her.

On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,
Though darkly the reef may frown;
The rock is there-the ship is gone
Full twenty fathoms down.

But, cheered by hope, the seamen cope
With the billows single-handed:

They are all in the boat! hurrah! they're afloat!—
And now they are safely landed

By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

The Divine Fire

BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER

He who hath the sacred fire

Hidden in his heart of hearts,

It shall burn him clean and pure,
Make him conquer, make endure.

He to all things may aspire

King of days, and souls, and arts.
Failure, fright, and dumb dismay
Are but wings upon his way.
Imagination and desire

Are his slaves and implements.
Faiths and foul calamities,

And the eternal ironies,

Are but voices in his choir.
Musician of decreed events,
Hungers, happinesses, hates,
Friendships lost, all adverse fates.
All passions and all elements,
Are but golden instruments
In his glorious symphonies.
Subject to his firm decrees.
Are the heavens, are the seas;
But in utter humbleness

Reigns he, not to ban but bless

Cleansed, and conquering, and benign
Bearer of the fire divine.

Ben Butler's Last Race*

BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

[The story before the opening of this chapter tells of the love of Captain Tom Travis for Miss Alice Westmore. A cousin, Richard Travis, has a passionate desire to win Alice for himself. His designs are checked by his overseer, who is called "the Bishop of Cottontown," on account of his benevolent interest in the welfare of the villagers. The Bishop's pet hope is to raise money for his church, and he finally succeeds by winning the race described in this chapter.]

T was the last afternoon of the fair, and the great race was to come off at three o'clock.

There is nothing so typical as a fair in the Tennessee Valley. It is the one time in the year when everybody meets everybody else. Besides being the harvest time of crops, of friendships, of happy interchange of thought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfected horseflesh. The forenoon had been given to social intercourse, the display of livestock, the exhibits of deft women fingers, of housewife skill, of the tradesman, of the merchant, of cotton-cotton, in every form and shape. And now, after lunch, the grandstand had been quickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved a horse-race. Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand!

A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.

Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding-Trumps-and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare-Trombine-had her partisans, who were also vociferous. But Travis' entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.

The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers,

*From "The Bishop of Cottontown. Copyright by The John C. Winston Co.