But out he went. Up shallow sweeps

Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb:
The wind, the wind that lashed the deeps,
Far, far it blew the foam.

The frozen foam went scudding by,-
Before the wind, a seething throng,
The waves, the waves came towering high,
They flung the mate along.

The waves came towering high and white,
They burst in clouds of flying spray :
There mate and captain sank from sight,
And, clinching, rolled away.

O Mother Becker! seas are dread,

Their treacherous paths are deep and blind!
But widows twain shall mourn their dead
If thou art slow to find.

She sought them near, she sought them far,
Three fathoms down she gripped them tight;
With both together up the bar

She staggered into sight.

Beside the fire her burdens fell:

She paused the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!"

Sure, life is dear, and men are brave:

They came, they dropped from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave,

And dive beyond the bar?

And still the gale went shrieking on,
And still the wrecking fury grew;
And still the woman, worn and wan,
Those gates of Death went through,——

As Christ were walking on the waves,
And heavenly radiance shone about,-
All fearless trod that gulf of graves,
And bore the sailors out.

Down came the night, but far and bright,
Despite the wind and flying foam,
The bonfire flamed to give trem light
To trapper Becker's home.

Oh! safety after wreck is sweet!

And sweet is rest in hut or hall:
One story Life and Death repeat,—
God's mercy over all.

Next day men heard, put out from shore,
Crossed channel-ice, burst in to find
Seven gallant fellows sick and sore,

A tender nurse and kind;

Shook hands, wept, laughed, were crazy-glad;
Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,

Poor dying, drowning sailors had

A better friend than she.

"Billows may tumble, winds may roar,

Strong hands the wrecked from Death may

snatch

But never, never, nevermore

This deed shall mortal match!"

Dear Mother Becker dropped her head, She blushed as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said.

"More than I ought to do."

AMANDA T. JONES.

WE

THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY.

ELL, no! my wife aint dead, sir, but I've lost her
all the same;

She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame.
It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree-
When you hear the circumstances-'twas rather rough

on me.

She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern

Hill;

And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him

still;

But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to

see

A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me.

The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow

Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their snow.

I think she loved me some-I'm bound to think that of

her, sir ;

And as for me-I can't begin to tell how I loved her!

Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless;

And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness; 'Twas hers-'twas mine; but I've no language to explain to you

How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew!

Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath,

Dumb, with an awful, worldless woe, we waited for its

death;

And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together

there,

For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless

prayer.

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could tell?

Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell.

Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome

guest.

Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ring

ing;

Early and late you'd find me there a-hammering and

singing;

Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to

song,

And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous

strong!

One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail

a shoe,

And while I was at work we passed a compliment or two; I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot

away

At Malvern Hill. "At Malvern Hill! Did you know Robert May?"

"That's me," said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking with horrid doubt:

"If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mystery out!"

With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God! 'Twas true!

Then the bitterest pangs of misery unspeakable I knew.

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, despairing moan.

'Twas he, the husband of her youth, now risen from the

dead;

But all too late-and with bitter cry, her senses fled.

What could be done? He was reported dead, On his

return

He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to

learn.

'Twas well that he was innocent! Else I'd've killed him,

too,

So dead he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew!

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, And each by her decision would sacredly abide.