9. They grappled with desperate madness
On the slippery edge of the wall,
They swayed on the brink, and together
Reeled out to the rush of the fall!
A cry of the wildest death anguish
Rang faint through the mist afar,
And the riderless mule went forward
From the fight of the Paso del Mar !

BAYARD TAYLOR.

LESSON XXII.

OVER THE RIVER.

Bock'on, to make a sign with a | Phăn'tom, spectral; ghostly.

motion of the hand; to sum

Răn'somed, redeemed; saved.
Mys'tie, mysterious; unknown.
Yearn'ing, sorrowing for ; long-
ing.

Aye, always; forever.

Sun'der, to tear; to sever.

VER the river they beckon to me—

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.

We saw not the angels that met him there;

The gates of the city we could not see;

ver the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me!

2. Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me!

3. For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts; and are gone for aye;

They cross the stream,

We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their bark no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me!

4. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit-land.

;

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me!

NANCY A. W. PRIEST.

LESSON XXIII.

HOME.

Ae'qui şi'tion, the act of get- Gäp'ing, opening as a gap;

ting. Ex elu'sive, having the power of preventing entrance; possessed and enjoyed alone, with

out the intrusion of others.

Fertile, fruitful; productive. Cön'duits (Kŏn'dits), things which conduct or convey; as pipes and canals convey water. De'vi ous, out of a straight line;

winding.

TH

showing cracks or fissures. Öf'fal, that which is thrown

away; rubbish.

Ăn'gu lar, having angles;
pointed.

Freaks, causeless changes of the
mind; whims; pranks.
As suā ́ģes, eases or lessens, as
pain or grief.

Re

spon'si bil'i ties, things

for which one is accountable.

THE acquisition of a good home is one of the first objects of life-a home where the soul has exclusive rights—a home where it may grow undisturbed, sending out its roots into a fertile society, and lifting up its branches into the sunlight of heaven-a home out from which the soul may go on its errands, and to which it may return for its rewards-a home which, along the conduits of memory may bear pure nourishment to children and children's children while it stands, and even after it has fallen.

2. I recall a home like this, long since left behind in the journey of life; and its memory floats back to me

with a shower of emotions and thoughts towards whose precious fall my heart opens itself greedily, like a thirsty flower. It is a home among the mountains-humble and lowly—but priceless in its wealth of associations.

3. The waterfall sings again in my ears, as it used to sing through the dreamy, mysterious nights. The rose at the gate, the patch of tansy under the window, the neighboring orchard, the old elm, the grand machinery of storms and showers, the little smithy under the hill that flamed with a strange light through the dull winter evenings, the wood-pile at the door, the ghostly white birches on the hill, and the dim blue haze upon the retiring mountains all these come back to me with an appeal which touches my heart and moistens my eyes.

4. I sit again in the door-way at summer nightfall, eating my bread and milk, looking off upon the darkening landscape, and listening to the shouts of boys upon the hill-side, calling or driving home the reluctant herds. I watch again the devious way of the dusty night-hawk along the twilight sky, and listen to his measured note, and the breezy boom that accompanies his headlong plunge toward the earth.

5. Even the old barn, crazy in every timber and gaping at every joint, has charms for me. I try again the breathless leap from the great beams into the bay. I sit again on the threshold of the widely open doorsopen to the soft south wind of spring-and watch the cattle, whose faces look half human to me, as they sun themselves and peacefully ruminate, while, drop by drop, the dissolving snow from the roof drills holes through the eaves, down into the oozing offal of the yard.

6. The first little lambs of the season toddle by the side of their dams, and utter their feeble bleatings,

while the flock nibble at the hayrick, or a pair of rival wethers try the strength of their skulls in an encounter, half in earnest and half in play. The proud old rooster crows upon his homely throne, and some delighted member of his silly family leaves her nest and tells to her mates that there is another egg in the world.

7. The old horse whinnies in his stall, and calls to me for food. I look up to the roof and think of last year's swallows-soon to return again—and catch a glimpse of angular sky through the diamond-shaped opening through which they went and came. How, I know not, and can not tell, but that old barn is a part of myself— it has entered into my life, and given me growth and wealth.

8. But I look into the house again where the life abides which has appropriated these things, and finds among them its home. The hour of evening has come, the lamps are lighted, and a good man in middle life--though very old he seems to me-takes down the well-worn Bible, and reads a chapter from its hallowed pages.

9. A sweet woman sits at his side, with my sleepy head upon her knee, and my brothers and sisters are grouped reverently around. I do not understand the words, but I have been told that they are the words of God, and I believe it. The long chapter ends, and then we all kneel down, and the good man prays.

10. I fall asleep with my head in the chair; and the next morning remember nothing of the way in which I went to bed. After breakfast the Bible is taken down again, and the good man prays, and again and again is the worship repeated, through all the days of many golden years.

11. The pleasant converse of the fireside, the simple songs of home, the words of encouragement as I bend