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Ho must now cut his way in a new direction to get from under this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is flickering out in his bosom; its vital heat is fired by the increasing shouts of hundreds perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands, above, cr with ladders below. Fifty gains more must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. A spy-glass below watches and communicates to the multitude every mark of that faithful knife. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more and all will be over. That blade is worn up to the last half inch. The boy's head reels, his eyes are starting from their sockets; his last hope is dying in his breast; liis life must hang upon the next gain he cuts.
At the last faint gash he makes, his knife, his faithful knife, drops from his little nerveless hand, and, ringing along down the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs, like a death knell, through the channel below, and then all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly a thousand feet the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closing his eyes, commends his soul to God.
While he thus stands for a moment reeling, trembling, toppling over into eternity, a shout from above falls on his ear. The man who is lying with half his body projecting over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's shoulders, and a smothered exclamation of joy bursts from his lips. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes; half-unclosing his eyes, and with faint, convulsive effort, the boy drops his arms through the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words “God” and “Mother” on his lips, just loud enough to be heard in Heaven, the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. The hands of a hundred men, women and children aro pulling at that rope, and the unconscious boy is sus
THE FLAG OF WASHINGTON.
pended and swaying over an abyss, which is the closest representative of eternity that has yet been found in height or depth.
Not a lip moves while he is dangling there ; but when a sturdy Virginian draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms in view of the trembling multitude below, such shouting, such leaping for joy, such tears of gratitude, such notes of gladness as went up those unfathomable barriers, and were reiterated and prolonged by the multitude above, were alone akin to those which angels make when a straying soul comes home to God.
THE FLAG OF WASHINGTON.
F. W. GILLETT.
Dear banne: of my native land ! ye gleaming, silver stars,
the breezeGo bear your message to the wilds-go tell
seas, That poor men sit within .your shade, and rich men in their pride That beggar-boys and statesmen's sons walk 'neath you, side by
You guard the school-house on the green, the church upon the hill,
Though they around its staff may pour red blood in rushing waves,
needs; And He will watch, and He will keep, till human rights have won, The dear old Flag! the starry Flag! the Flag of Washington !
THE ABBOT OF WALTHAM.
Now the abbot was plum;), as an abbot should be.
At sunrise the abbot took leave of liis guest,
ODE TO AN INFANT SON.
Such a dinner few abbots had certainly made,
ODE TO AN INFANT SON.
Thoo happy, happy elf!
Thou tiny image of myself!
Thou little tricksy Puck!
Thou imp of mirth and joy !
Thou idol of thy parent's;-(Hang the boy !
Thou cherub, but of earth ;
In harmless sport and mirth,
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny, -(Another tuinble! That's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break that mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife !) Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John !
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)
THE SCHOLAR'S MISSION.
THE wants of our time and country, the constitution of our modern society, our whole position, personal and relative,