My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free: At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed! Until upon the azure sky a lessening spot they seemed. "The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew; A mote upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view, But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. "All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached! "I clambered up that rugged cliff-I could not stay away,I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred: The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head." That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers, passing by, Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go without a sigh; And as I journeyed, the next morn, along the sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. THE TWO ANCHORS.-R. H. STODDARD. It was a gallant sailor man, Had just come from sea, And as I passed him in the town, He sang "Ahoy!" to me. I stopped, and saw I knew the man,- I made a song for him one day,- I gave his hand a hearty grip. "So you are back again? They say you have been pirating Or was it some rich Indiaman Of course you have been breaking hearts "I heard last night that you were in: I want to go on board of her." "But there are many things to do You know the song you made for me? 'The little anchor on the left, The great one on the right.'' "But how's your wife and little one?" He hugged his wife and child; he sang, His spirits were so light, "The little anchor on the left, The great one on the right." 'Twas supper-time, and we sat down,- And he and I: he looked at them, "I think of this when I am tossed And, though a thousand leagues away, "I see, in dreams at night, This little anchor on my left, THE RUM FIEND'S PORTRAIT.-T. DE WITT TALMAGE This foul thing gives one swing to its scythe, and our best merchants fall; their stores are sold, and they sink into dishonored graves. Again it swings its scythe, and ministers of the gospel fall from the heights of Zion, with long-resounding crash of ruin and shame. Some of your own households have already been shaken. Perhaps you can hardly admit it; but where was your son last night? Where was he Friday night? Where was he Thursday night; Wednesday night; Tuesday night; Monday night? Nay, have not some of you in your own bodies felt the power of this habit? You think that you could stop? Are you sure you could? Go on a little further, and I am sure you cannot. I think, if some of you should try to break away, you would find a chain on the right wrist, and one on the left; one on the right foot, and another on the left. This serpent does not begin to hurt until it has wound round and round. Then it begins to tighten, and strangle, and crush, until the bones crack, and the blood trickles, and the eyes start from their sockets, and the mangled wretch cries: "Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! help! help!" But it is too late and not even the fires of woe can melt the chain when once it is fully fastened. I have shown you the evil beast. The question is, who will hunt him down, and how shall we shoot him? I answer, first, by getting our children right on this subject. Let them grow up with an utter aversion to strong drink. Take care how you administer it even as medicine. If you find that they have a natural love for it, as some have, put in a glass of it some horrid stuff, and make it utterly nauseous. Teach them, as faithfully as you do the catechism, that rum is a fiend. Take them to the almshouse, and show them the wreck and ruin it works. Walk with them into the homes that have been scourged by it. If a drunkard hath fallen into a ditch, take them right up where they can see his face, bruised, savage, and swollen, and say: “Look, my son! Rum did that!" Looking out of your window at some one who, intoxicated to madness, goes through the street, brandishing his fist, blaspheming God, a howling, defying, shouting, reeling, raving and foaming maniac, say to your son: Look; that man was once a child like you!" As you go by the grogshop, let them know that that is the place where men are slain, and their wives made paupers, and their children slaves. Hold out to your children all warnings, all rewards, all counsels, lest in after-days they break your heart and curse your gray hairs. A COOK OF THE PERIOD. The looks of yer, ma'am, rather suits me And nixt, are yous reg'lar at male-times? And have yer the laste of objiction That frayquintly brings me the news. THE SISTERS.-JOHN G. WHITTIER. Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, The rush of wind, the ramp and roar "I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, "What is it to thee, I fain would know, No lover of thine's afloat to miss "But I heard a voice cry out my name, "Twice and thrice have I heard it call, On her pillow the sister tossed her head. "Hall of the Heron is safe," she said. "In the tautest schooner that ever swam "And, if in peril from swamping sea But the girl heard only the wind and tide, "O Sister Rhoda! there's something wrong; "Annie! Annie!' I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall." Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, "Thou liest! He never would call thy name! |