Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea.

Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.

Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!

Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread,

And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.

"She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!

God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those who drown?"

Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,

Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.

Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,

And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save.

"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet, shout away!"

'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.

Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no. There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?"

And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear.

Then they listened, "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,'" And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."

Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past,"

Singing bravely o'er the waters. "Oh, receive my soul at last."

He could have no other refuge, "Hangs my helpless soul on thee."

"Leave, oh! leave me not"-the singer dropped at last into the sea.

And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim,

Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn.'

PIMPKIN VERSUS BODKIN.

Jeremiah Pimpkin was an honorable citizen and a householder, and among his class he was an oracle. He flattered himself on his shrewdness. He often declared that he should have been à lawyer. He fancied that Solon Bodkin, Esquire, would have fared but slimly against him in forensic contest. Pimpkin raised turkeys, and upon a certain occasion it happened that a prowling dog made a raid upon his flock and killed four fine gobblers that were being fatted for the Thanksgiving market. Pimpkin made due inquiry and in-. vestigation, and satisfied himself beyond a peradventure that the marauding canine was the property of Lawyer Bodkin. Here was an opportunity he had long coveted. He waited upon the lawyer in his office, and was warmly welcomed, and invited to a seat.

"Squire," said Pimpkin, "s'pose a neighbor's dog should kill a lot of my turkeys, could I recover damages by law?" Certainly,"replied Bodkin, "you can recover-that is, if you can prove the fact."

"Oh, I can prove it. I've got the evidence all right and tight. And so you think there can be no doubt ?"!

"Not in the least. And now, what are the circumstances?" "Well, Squire, last night your dog killed four of my best turkeys. What do you think about it now?"

"Why, my dear sir, I think you can recover. That is the law. What is the amount of damage?"

"Them turkeys was worth a dollar apiece, Squire, Four dollars will settle."

"All right," said Bodkin. "I wish to deal legally. Here is the sum.

And the lawyer handed over the four dollars which Pimpkin took with a chuckle, and then departed.

Jeremiah Pimpkin had reached his home, having related his sharp practice with the lawyer to all his friends whom he had met on the way, and had just told the story to his wife, when Deputy Sheriff Reacher unceremoniously entered his domicile.

"A small bill, Mr. Pimpkin, which Squire Bodkin says I will collect or he will sue it to-day."

"A bill!-Squire Bodkin!" echoed Pimpkin, aghast. "Yes," smiled the Sheriff, "a bill for professional services in the case of ‘Pimpkin versus Bodkin.' He says you sought The bill is advice upon legal points bearing on the case. five dollars, sir-expense of officer, one dollar-total, six dollars."

Pimpkin scratched his head vigorously, but he could scratch no path out from the trouble. He paid the bill, and from that time he was never heard to speak boastingly of his legal acumen.

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.-PHOEBE CARY.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:

"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,

While there is light to see,

To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;

And take these cakes I made for him,
They are hot and smoking yet;

You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,

And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;

And set the turf a-blazing,

And brought the coarse black bread;

That he might find a fire at night,

And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,

With whom all day he'd played,

And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;

And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,

Though he wouldn't be afraid to go

In the very darkest night!

For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;

He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.

Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland

Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;

And soon his joyous prattle

Made glad a lonesome place-
Alas! if only the blind old man

Could have seen that happy face-
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,

The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;

And saw the shadows deepen,

And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter

Along the level track.

But she said, "He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve-

Though it isn't like my boy at all

To stay without my leave."

But where was the child delaying?

On the homeward way was he,

And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.

He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,

As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.

"Ah! well for us," said Peter,

"That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!"
"You're a wicked sea," said Peter;
"I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes:
But our sluices keep you safe!"

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;

And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,

And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.

'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes;

But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,

And the bravest man in all the land

Turns white with mortal fear.

For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night;

And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,

He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound

Of a footstep passing nigh;

And lays his ear to the ground to catch
The answer to his cry.

And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.

He sees no hope, no succor,

His feeble voice is lost;

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post.

So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;

He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying-and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,