When the hard day's work was over, when the crescent silver

moon

Arose above the mountain pines, we met at " Blood's saloon,"
When Ben Bolton used to give us exhibitions of his skill
In bending iron crowbars or in twisting off a drill.

One day Ezekiel Parsons sent to 'Frisco on the sly,
And bought a bar of tempered steel, for brawny Ben to try.
The boys who understood the game came down to Blood's
one night,

And stood serenely round the bar and waited for the sight. Ben Bolton grasped the bar of steel, he brought it to his knee,

And like a locomotive puffed,-the trick he could not see; The sweat ran down his honest face, upon his hands he spit, He tugged and worked with all his might, it would not budge a bit.

Ezekiel Parsons shook his sides, the boys all laughed aloud,
Ben lost his reputation and had to treat the crowd.

It cut him so completely, and it made him feel so mean,
He quit the camp next morning with the little Leontine.
A storm comes up the valley, a cloud bursts on the hills,
The stream becomes a river, that sweeps away the mills.
And downward through the hollow the maddened torrent

roars,

O'er rocks, through glens and gulches, and mining camps it pours.

A cry comes from the hollow, and rushing down the ridge The miners see Ben Bolton, like a giant, at the bridge. The water settles round him, the bridge rocks to and fro; He holds it with a crowbar,-in a minute it must go.

Beneath the narrow ledge near by, with bright disheveled hair,

They see the little Leontine,-her hands are clasped in prayer.

The structure quakes, the strong man shakes, no fear is in his face:

"Ho! save the child," he shouts aloud, "I'll hold the bridge in place."

Zeke Parsons bounds upon the bridge, the women wail with

fear;

He lifts the child in his strong arms, the miners loudly

cheer;

He leaps upon the trembling logs, the waters round him

roar;

He slips, he falls, he creeps, he crawls, he springs upon the shore.

The child is saved, Ben Bolton, but who will help you now? The crowbar in your brawny hands breaks like a rotten

bough,

And down the glen goes bridge and man, with broken logs and stones

That rend and gash his stalwart form and crush and break his bones.

Adown the hill the miners run, with outcries of despair; They find him wedged between the rocks, and hanging helpless there.

They bear his mangled form away, without the glen they

pass;

With words of pity and of love they lay him on the grass. The crimson blood runs down his face, he shudders and he

sighs;

His pale lips move, he moans, he groans, then to a comrade

cries:

"I've saved the little Leontine, be kind to her, dear Joe, I'm bent and broke, Zeke Parsons, and I'm ready now to go!" His head droops limp and lifeless down, his eyes grow dull and dim,

His broad breast heaves, a shiver runs through every broken limb.

Then, with a smile upon his lips, he sinks upon the sod, And the soul of brave Ben Bolton is at peace with man and God.

MUSIC EVERYWHERE.-WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.

There is music in the ocean,

There is music wild and grand,
With its surges aye in motion,
Breaking fiercely on the land:
Swept by breezes soft and vernal,
Lashed by tempests bold and free,
There is melody eternal

In the deep and mighty sea.

There is music in the mountains,
In the immemorial hills;

From the depths of silver fountains,
From the beds of sun-bright rills:
From the loud-voiced, rain-swelled river,
Whose wild stream the valley fills,
Seaward rushing, tameless ever,—
There is music in the hills.

There is music in the thunder,—
There is music deep to hear:
When the dun clouds leap asunder,
And the lightnings blue appear;
When the startled sleepers waken
And the abject sinners kneel,
When the dome of heaven is shaken,
There is music in its peal.

There is music in the forest:

When the mighty trees are stirred By the north wind, foe the sorest

To the earth-fed beast and bird; When the oak its strength is feeling, When the pine trees, dark and tall, To and fro are madly reeling,

There is music in them all.

There is music in the summer;

There is music in the spring,
When the bee, the busy hummer,
And the lark, upsoaring sing;
In the autumn, robed in glory
By the fullness of the year;
In the winter, dark and hoary,
There is music sweet to hear.
There is music in the pealing

Of the solemn Sabbath bells,
O'er the mountain summit stealing,
Sinking in the rocky dells,
Bidding young and old to gather

Where the dove, religion, dwells

Round the shrines of the Great Father,—

There is music in the bells.

There is music up in heaven,

Where the sun and planets shine,

Glorious ever, skyward driven,
By a harmony divine;

Angels swell the mighty chorus,
Seraph voices give reply,
Filling all the concave o'er us,—
There is music up on high.
There is music for the loving
In the earth, the sea, and air;
Wheresoe'er our steps are roving,
Let us hearken, it is there.
For the sad and for the grieving,
Who with patient spirit bear,
For the lowly, but believing,
There is music everywhere.

With the rude rock for his pillow,
With his canopy-the night,

Dashed by salt spray from the billow,

Drenched by snowflakes, cold and white,
Man may find, though tears should glisten
In his eyes froin awe and fear,

If with faith he bend to listen,

God's sweet music everywhere.

THE DEAD DOLL.-MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

You needn't be trying to comfort me-I tell you my dolly is dead!

There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in

her head;

It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day,

And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue,

As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?

You might make her look all mended-but what do I care

for looks?

Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awful

lest crack!

It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack

Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf,

Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?

I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!

And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat!

And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon-I was playing out in the yard

She said to me, most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."

And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.

Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of

course;

We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;

And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you

see

This dear little box-and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;

And he'll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word! I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is

dead;

She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

WILD GRAPES.

"Such a quantity of them," said the Widow Winton, "and doing nobody any good!"

The golden September sunshine was steeping all the