every jump he gin he shed some sassers, an' every squirm he fetched he dripped some candy! An' blistered! why, bless your soul, that pore creetur couldn't reely set deown comfortable fur as much as four weeks.

THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY.-GEORGE L. CATLIN.

Dong-Dong-the bells rang out

Over the housetops; and then a shout
Of" Fire!" came echoing up the street,
With the sound of eager, hurrying feet.
Dong-Dong-the sonorous peal

Came mingled with clatter of engine wheel
And whistle shrill, and horse's hoof:
And lo! from the summit of yonder roof
A flame bursts forth, with a sudden glare.
Dong-Dong-on the midnight air

The sound goes ringing out over the town;
And hundreds already are hurrying down,
Through the narrow streets, with breathless speed
Following whither the engines lead.
Dong-Dong-and from windows high
Startled ones peer at the ruddy sky,
And still the warning loud doth swell
From the brazen throat of the iron-tongued bell,
Sending a shudder, and sending a start
To many a home, and many a heart.

Up in yon tenement, where the glare
Shines dimly forth on the starlit air
Through dingy windows; where flame and smoke
Already begin to singe and choke,

See the affrighted ones look out

In helpless terror, in horrible doubt,
Begging for succor. Now behold

The ladders, by arms so strong and bold,

Are reared; like squirrels the brave men climb
To the topmost story. Indeed, 'twere time—
"They all are saved!" said a voice below,
And a shout of triumph went up. But no-
“Not all—ah! no!"-'twas a mother's shriek;
The cry of a woman, agonized, weak,

Yet nerved to strength by her deep woe's power,
"Great God, my child!"- -even strong men cower
'Neath such a cry. "Oh, save my child!"
She screamed in accents sorrowful, wild.

Up the ladders, a dozen men

Rushed in generous rivalry then,

Bravely facing a terrible fate.
Breathless the crowd below await.
See! There's one who has gained the sill
Of yonder window. Now, with a will,
He bursts the sash with his sturdy blow;
And it rattles down on the pave below.
Now, he has disappeared from sight-
Faces below are ashen and white,
In that terrible moment. Then a cry
Of joy goes up to the flame-lit sky-
Goes up to welcome him back to life.
God help him now in his terrible strife.
Once more he mounts the giddy sill,
'Cool and steady and fearless still;
Once more he grasps the ladder-see!
What is it he holds so tenderly?
Thousands of tearful, upturned eyes
Are watching him now; and with eager cries
And sobs and cheerings, the air is rent
As he slowly retraces the long descent,
And the child is saved!

Ah! ye who mourn
For chivalry dead, in the days long gone,
And prate of the valor of olden time,
Remember this deed, of love sublime,
And know that knightly deeds, and bold,
Are as plentiful now as in days of old.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Written in the Chapel of the Manger, in tire Convent Church of Bethlehem, Palestine:

In the fields where, long ago,

Dropping tears, amid the leaves,
Ruth's young feet went to and fro,
Binding up the scattered sheaves,
In the field that heard the voice
Of Judea's shepherd King,
Still the gleaners may rejoice,

Still the reapers shout and sing.
For each mount and vale and plain
Felt the touch of holier feet.
Then the gleaners of the grain
Heard, in voices full and sweet,
"Peace on earth, good will to men,"

Ring from angel lips afar,

While, o'er every glade and glen,

Broke the light of Bethlehem's star.

Star of hope to souls in night,
Star of peace above our strife,
Guiding, where the gates of death
Ope to fields of endless life.
Wanderer from the nightly throng
Which the eastern heavens gem;
Guided, by an angel's song,
To the Babe of Bethlehem.

Not Judea's hills alone

Have earth's weary gleaners trod,
Not to heirs of David's throne

Is it given to "reign with God."
But where'er on His green earth
Heavenly faith and longing are,
Heavenly hope and life have birth,
'Neath the smile of Bethlehem's star.
In each lowly heart or home,

By each love-watched cradle-bed,
Where we rest, or where we roam,
Still its changeless light is shed.
In its beams each quickened heart,
Howe'er saddened or denied,
Keeps one little place apart

For the Hebrew mother's Child.

And that inner temple fair

May be holier ground than this,
Hallowed by the pilgrim's prayer,
Warmed by many a pilgrim's kiss.
In its shadow still and dim,

Where our holiest longings are,
Rings forever Bethlehem's hymn,
Shines forever Bethlehem's star.

THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.-THOS. F. MARSHALL

Sir, if there be within this hall an individual man who thinks that his vast dignity and importance would be lowered, the laurels which he has heretofore won be tarnished, his glowing and all-conquering popularity at home be lessened, by an act designed to redeem any portion of his colleagues or fellow-men from ruin and shame, all I can say is, that he and I put a very different estimate upon the matter. I should say, sir, that the act was not only the most benevolent, but, in the present state of opinion, the most politic, the most popular, the very wisest thing he ever did in his life.

Think not, sir, think not that I feel myself in a ridiculous situation, and, like the fox in the fable, wish to divide it with others, by converting deformity into fashion. Not so; my honor as a gentleman, not so! I was not what I was represented to be. I had, and I have shown that I had, full power over myself. But the pledge I have taken renders me secure forever from a fate inevitably following habits like mine--a fate more terrible than death. That pledge, though confined to myself alone, and with reference to its effect upon me only, my mind, my heart, my body, I would not exchange for all earth holds of brightest and best. No, no, sir; let the banner of this temperance cause go forward or backward-let the world be rescued from its degrading and ruinous bondage to alcohol or not-I for one shall never, never repent what I have done. I have often said this, and I feel it every moment of my existence, waking or sleeping. Sir, I would not exchange the physical sensations—the mere sense of animal being which belongs to a man who totally refrains from all that can intoxicate his brain or derange his nervous structure-the elasticity with which he bounds from his couch in the morning--the sweet repose it yields him at night-the feeling with which he drinks in, through his clear eyes, the beauty and grandeur of surrounding nature;-I say, sir, I would not exchange my conscious being as a strictly temperate man-the sense of renovated youth-the glad play with which my pulses now beat healthful music-the bounding vivacity with which the life-blood courses its exulting way through every fibre of my framethe communion high which my healthful ear and eye now hold with all the gorgeous universe of God-the splendors of the morning, the softness of the evening sky-the bloom, the beauty, the verdure of earth, the music of the air and the waters-with all the grand associations of external nature reopened to the fine avenues of sense;―no, sir, though poverty dogged me-though scorn pointed its slow finger at me as I passed-though want and destitution and every element of earthly misery, save only crime, met my waking eye from day to day ;--not for the brightest and the noblest wreath that ever encircled a statesman's brow-not, if some angel commissioned by heaven, or some demon,

rather, sent fresh from hell, to test the resisting strength of
virtuous resolution, should tempt me back, with all the
wealth and all the honors which a world can bestow;
not for all that time and all that earth can give, would I cast
from me this precious pledge of a liberated mind, this talis-
man against temptation, and plunge again into the dangers
and the horrors which once beset my path;-so help me
Heaven! sir, as I would spurn beneath my very feet all the gifts
the universe could offer, and live and die as
sober.

am, poor but

THE WIDOW.-C. F. GELLERT.
[Translated by Longfellow.]

Dorinda's youthful spouse,

Whom as herself she loved, and better too-
Better?"-methinks I hear some caviler say,
With scornful smile; but let him smile away!
A true thing is not therefore the less true,
Let laughing cavilers do what they may.
Suffice it, death snatched from Dorinda's arms-
Too early snatched, in all his glowing charms—
The best of husbands and the best of men;
And I can find no words,-in vain my pen,
Though dipped in briny tears, would fain portray,
In lively colors, all the young wife felt,

As o'er his couch in agony she knelt,

And clasped the hand, and kissed the cheek, of clay.

The priest, whose business 'twas to soothe her, came;
All friendship came, in vain;

The more they soothed, the more Dorinda cried;
They had to drag her from the dead one's side.

A ceaseless wringing of the hands

Was all she did; one piteous "Alas!"

The only sound that from her lips did pass:

Full four-and-twenty hours thus she lay.

Meanwhile a neighbor o'er the way

Had happened in, well skilled in carving wood.
He saw Dorinda's melancholy mood,

And, partly at her own request,

Partly to show his reverence for the blest,

And save his memory from untimely end,

Resolved to carve in wood an image of his friend.

Success the artist's cunning hand attended;
With most amazing speed the work was ended;
And there stood Stephen, large as life.