make out what he said (fact, my head was in sich a whirl that I'd hardly ha' knowed my own name,) but I'll be bound God heard it, every word. Then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly, 'I'm ready!'

"And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms, and kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one.

"God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you: you wouldn't tell a lie to save your life! Well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever forget you, then may God forget me!'

"And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge—it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I seed. And now, sir, axin' yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so I'll just wish yer good night."

15. THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow,

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye;
And he sang every night as he went to bed,
"Let us be happy down here below;

The living should live, though the dead be dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history, too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the littlest child he knew:
"Learn while you're young," he often said,

"There is much to enjoy, down here below;

Life for the living, and rest for the dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;

The rod was scarcely known in his school,
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule,

And too hard work for his poor old bones;
Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said:
"We should make life pleasant, down here below,
The living need charity more than the dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,

And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said;

"And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue long ago.

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all,
Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,

Over a pipe and a friendly glass:

This was the finest pleasure, he said,

Of the many he tasted, here below;

"Who has no cronies, had better be dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace,

Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles
"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said,
"I have lingered a long while, here below;
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air,

Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there,

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown: And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below; "Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door, one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,
While the odorous night-wind whispered, "Rest!"
Gently, gently, he bowed his head...

There were angels waiting for him, I know;
He was sure of happiness, living or dead,
This jolly old pedagogue, long ago!

152.-BETH GELERT.

W. R. SPENCER.

The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer:

"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh! where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race;

So true, so brave,—a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board

The faithful Gelert fed;

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare;

And small and scant the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips, his fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet:

His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed—
And on went Gelert too-

And still where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view!

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covers rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He called his child-no voice replied;
He searched-with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured!" The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;

But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap,

His hurried search had missed,

All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub-boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread

But the same couch beneath,

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds, would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gelert's Grave."

153.-POWER OF HABIT.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls, I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir ?"

"That," he said, "is Niagara River."

"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright and fair and glassy; how far off are the rapids?"

"Only a mile or two," was the reply.

"Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls ?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to the enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank: "Young men, ahoy!"

"What is it ?"

"The rapids are below you."

"Ha ha! we have heard of the rapids, but we are not