with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hill-side of water moving on shoreward from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound,—and the ship was gone! They drew him to my very feet, insensible, dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and every means of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever. As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned, and all was done, a fisherman who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door. 'Sir, you will come over yonder?" The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look, and I asked him, "Has a body come ashore ?" "Yes." "Do I know it?" He answered nothing. But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children,-on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat blown down last night had been scattered by the wind,-among the ruins of the home he had wronged,-I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school. CHARLES DICKENS. THE SWEETEST PICTURE. A MONG the beautiful pictures That hang on memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth the best of all; Nor for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Nor for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Nor for the milk-white lilie That lean from the fragrant hedge; Nor for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest; Nor the pink, nor the pale, sweet cowslips, It seemed to me the best. I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep- Free as the winds that blow, But his feet on the hills grew weary, I made for my little brother Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in sweet embrace And when the arrows of sunset Seemeth the best of all. ALICE CARY. GRACIE'S KITTY. RACIE'S kitty, day by day, Moped beside the fire and pined; All in vain were dainty fare, Bread and milk all warm and new, Downy nest and tender care; Gracie trailed her long white gown Gracie made another bed, Where the morning glories climb; With red rose-leaves lined and spread, Found so soft and sweet a bed. Gracie's little tender hands End at last their loving task; THE SOLDIERS' HOME, WASHINGTON. THE monument, tipped with electric fire, Blazed high in a halo of light below A tall man, tawny and spare as bone, With battered old hat and with feet half bare, With the air of a soldier that was all his ownMaybe something more than a soldier's air Came clutching a staff as in sheer despair; Limped in through my gate—and I thought to beg— Light clutching a staff, slow dragging a leg. The moon, like a sharp-drawn cimeter, Kept watch in heaven. All earth lay still. Some sentinel stars stood watch afar, Some crickets kept clanging along the hill, As the tall, stern relic of blood and war Limped in, and, with hand up to brow half raised, His gaunt face pleading for food and rest, Aye, black were his eyes; but doubtful and dim For his face was as hard as the hard, thin hand "Sir, I am a soldier!" The battered old hat "I have wandered and wandered this twenty years; Have they gone to that field where no foes appear? On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home, "Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier! And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam, |