8. Saint Mary, mend my fiery mood!

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,-
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle walls.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LESSON LIX.

THE PICTURE-BOOK.

Ruddy, of a red color.

¦ Vāgue, indefinite.

Făn'cies, images formed in the Tithe, a tenth part of anything.

mind.

THE

HE black walnut-logs in the chimney
Made ruddy the house with their light,
And the pool in the hollow was covered
With ice like a lid,—it was night;

2. And Roslyn and I were together,—
I know now the pleased look he wore,
And the shapes of the shadows that checkered
The hard yellow planks of the floor;

3. And how, when the wind stirred the candle,

Affrighted they ran from its gleams,

And crept up the wall to the ceiling
Of cedar, and hid by the beams.

4. There were books on the mantel-shelf, dusty,
And shut, and I see in my mind
The pink-colored primer of pictures
We stood on our tiptoes to find.

5. We opened the leaves where a camel Was seen on a sand-covered track, A-dying for water, and bearing

A great bag of gold on his back;

6. And talked of the free flowing river
A tithe of his burden would buy,
And said, when the lips of the sunshine
Had sucked his last water-skin dry,

7. With thick breath, and mouth gaping open,
And red eyes a-strain in his head,
His bones would push out as if buzzards
Had picked him before he was dead!

8. Then turned the leaf over, and finding A palace that banners made gay, Forgot the bright splendor of roses

That shone through our windows in May;

9. And sighed for the great beds of princes,
While pillows for him and for me

Lay soft among ripples of ruffles,
As sweet and as white as could be;

10. And sighed for their valleys, forgetting How warmly the morning sun kissed

Our hills, as they shrugged their green shoulders
Above the white sheets of the mist.

11. Their carpets of dyed wool were softer, We said, than the planks of our floor, Forgetting the flowers that in summer

Spread out their gold mats at our door.

12. The storm spit its wrath in the chimney, And blew the cold ashes aside,

And only one poor little fagot

Hung out its red tongue as it died,

13. When Roslyn and I through the darkness
Crept off to our shivering beds,
A thousand vague fancies and wishes
Still wildly astir in our heads:-

14. Not guessing that we, too, were straying
In thought on a sand-covered track,
Like the camel a-dying for water,
And bearing the gold on his back.

ALICE CARY.

LESSON LX.

AN ALPINE AVALANCHE.

PART FIRST.

Hór ́i zonʼtal, parallel to the
horizon; on a level.
In flex'ion, a bend; a fold.
In'eli na'tion, a leaning; the
angle made by a body with the
plane of another body or the
horizon.

Părʼal lel, extended in the same
direction, and in all parts
equally distant.

Ar ête, a bone; a skeleton; hence, a rocky ridge.

Ål'pen stock, a long staff point

WE

E had to go up a steep snow-field or couloir, about eight hundred feet high, as well as I remember. It was about one hundred and fifty feet broad at the top, and near five hundred at the bottom. During the ascent we sank about one foot deep at every step. Bennen did not seem to like the look of the snow very much. He asked the local guides whether avalanches ever came down this couloir, to which they answered that our position was perfectly safe.

2. We had mounted on the northern side of the couloir, and, having arrived one hundred and fifty feet from the top, we began crossing it on a horizontal curve. The inflexion or dip of the couloir was slight, not above twenty-five feet, the inclination near thirty-five degrees.

We were walking in the following order: Bevord, Nance, Bennen, myself, Boissonet, and Rebot.

3. Having crossed over about three quarters of the breadth of the couloir, the two leading men suddenly sank considerably above their waists. Bennen tightened the rope. The snow was too deep to think of getting out of the hole they had made, so they advanced one or two steps, dividing the snow with their bodies. Bennen turned round and told us he was afraid of starting an avalanche, and we asked whether it would not be better to return and cross the couloir higher up.

4. To this proposition the three Ardon men opposed themselves; they mistook our precaution for fear, and the two leading men continued their work. After three or four steps gained in the aforesaid manner, the snow became hard again. Bennen had not moved-he was evidently undecided what he should do; as soon, however, as he saw hard snow again, he advanced and crossed parallel to, but above, the furrow the Ardon men had made.

5. Strange to say, the snow supported him. While he was passing I observed that the leader, Bevord, had about twenty feet of rope coiled round his shoulder. I of course told him to uncoil it at once and get on the arête, from which he was not more than fifteen feet distant. Bennen then told me to follow. I tried his steps but sank to my waist in the very first. So I went through the furrows, holding my elbows close to my body, so as not to touch the sides.

6. This furrow was about twelve feet long, and, as the snow was good on the other side, we had all come to the false conclusion that the snow was accidentally softer there than elsewhere. Boissonet then advanced; he had made but a few steps when we heard a deep,