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6. Whene'er he comes--that dreadful man-
Disguise it as I may,

I know that, like an autumn rain,
He'll last throughout the day.
In vain I speak of urgent tasks,
In vain I scowl and pout;
A frown is no extinguisher-
It does not put him out!

7. I mean to take the knocker off,
Put crape upon the door,
Or hint to John that I am gone
To stay a month or more.
I do not tremble when I meet
The stoutest of my foes,

But Heaven defend me from the friend

Who never, never goes!

JOHN G. SAXE.

LESSON LXXIII.

A RACE WITH THE TIDE.

Pas'sion week, the week im- | Swathed, bound, as with a band

mediately preceding the fes-
tival of Easter.

Vo lu'mi nous, consisting of

age.

edly.

Sin'u oùs ly, windingly; crook

many coils or complications; Pō'tent, powerful; forcible; efhaving many volumes or

books..

Păl lor, deathly paleness.

A băn'don, to give up; yield;

surrender; desert.

TH

ficient.

Spěnt, exhausted; as, a spent

wave.

HE long winter passed. March blew down warm gales that thawed the ice; the snow melted away; in April the bare willow boughs reddened like flames;

spring came early across the fields, and with the spring came Passion-week. It was Good Friday. After church Miss Yuler walked on an errand for Madam Van Voorst to the village beyond, and, the day being so balmy, took her way along the shore.

2. She had very seldom followed this path; her walks had always been in another direction-for to people who have a narrow, personal melancholy, the sea is never grateful; and, except to watch the picturesque tides of the Bay of Fundy, she had no fancy now for looking over its stretches of color and foam. The tide was out; she walked rapidly, reached the village, and performed her errand.

3. It was about two hours past noon when, bathed and refreshed, Van came down stairs. He looked into the drawing-room to see his grandmother sitting there, her spectacles dropping from her nose, the prayer-book in her lap, the April sun overlying her as she nodded away to the tune of her dream.

"Grandma!" he cried, abruptly, "where's Miss Yuler?"

4. "Which?" said the old lady, giving her shoulder a little shake, and righting herself.

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'Has Miss Yuler got home?"

"Not that I know of. Why, what's the matter?" "What time does the tide full?"

"About four."

5. "It wants a quarter. Good God, she'll be overtaken!" And he dashed out to the stable. Madam Van Voorst followed quickly.

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What are you about?" she cried, as he flung the saddle on Fautour. "You are not going to cross the sands now? Van! Van! You'll be drowned!"

6. He flung her off like a rain-drop, sprang to the saddle, and was away like the wind.

As is very well known, it is impossible for any one to cross the head of the bay when the roar of the distant tide has once been heard; the rushing torrent overtakes the adventurous runner, and the fleetest horse cannot escape its speed. As Van's Fautour leaped down the rocks to the sand, and opened a hard gallop along the edge, a whisper like the rustle of wind in the pine-tops shivered through the air.

7. Van's eyes grew fiercer; he turned the spurs in and flew forward. The whisper crept hoarsely on his ear; it became voluminous and panting; it gathered and swept its swift sighs, and swelled, and broke into a low roar, as if a lion shook his bristling mane and glared around his distant den. Still Van bounded on; the horse was stung with fright; the sand shook with shocks of sound; he stood in the stirrup, and strained his sight along the shore; the wind of the advancing tide blew in his uncovered hair.

8. Suddenly, at a third of the distance across, Fautour swerved and stood with a quiver. Miss Yuler was standing quietly before him on the beach, her bonnet in her hand. She appeared to have been running, but must now have been motionless for several minutes; she had found it useless to make any further effort, and had abandoned the idea of life. Whatever grace of nature enriched her soul, she had in this moment surrendered herself to its sway. On her face shone the awful pallor of those who confront Death, and await him. There was, besides, some eagerness in her glittering eye to catch the beauty of her destroyer.

9. She saw Van; the color rushed up again into her cheek and lip; he gave his foot for a step, without a word, seized her hands, lifted her before him, turned Fautour about with a savage rapidity, and flew back.

It was better to die so than alone. His eyes were fastened on the misty shore; she only looked out and down the bay; neither spoke. It was now a race for life.

10. On, spear's length by spear's length, bounded the horse; on, rushing and seething, chased the tide; its chill breath stole across them, its damp swathed them, white wreaths of mist curled over their heads. At the right the banks and crags seemed awaiting its flood; at the left a narrow line of low waves crept sinuously, peering into the bay, and tossing their snowy crests like troops of wild horses. Fautour felt the danger, and did not need the red spur; with his double burden he doubled his strides, and left his shadow behind him.

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11. On they raced; an element raced after. The dull and muffled tone broke in full and sonorous; the separate hiss and splash became distinct; scenting their prey, three feet at a time the waves came leaping in, receding and foaming, and eddying up again, till a wall of quartz-like transparency towered between them and the western sky, and rolled, in shattered light and fusing volume, to fill its destined depth of fathom, with the noise of many waters and the speed of wind.

12. Off from the trembling sand to the rocks sprang Fautour; up he clambered from steep to steep; the early sunset was bathing all summits in soft crimson warmth, the pale gold of the orbed moon hung in the east with all her potent influences, foam-flakes fell heavily on their hair, another step would save them. A plunge the crest curled under them, and the last wave sent its spent torrent to cool the burning hoofs that were planted rigid as iron-and the tide was full. HARRIET E. P. SPOFFORD.

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HE sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.

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