He 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; his 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

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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.

THE FLAG OF WASHINGTON.

F. W. GILLETT.

DEAR banner of my native land! ye gleaming, silver stars,
Broad, spotless ground of purity, crossed with your azure bars-
Clasped by the hero-father's hand-watched over in his might,
Through battle-hour and day of peace, bright morn and moonless

night,

Because, within your clustering folds, he knew you surely bore
Dear Freedom's hope for human souls to every sea and shore!
O precious Flag! beneath whose folds such noble deeds are done-
The dear old Flag! the starry Flag! the Flag of Washington!

Unfurl, bright stripes-shine forth, clear stars-swing outward to the breeze

Go bear your message to the wilds-go tell it on the seas,

That poor men sit within your shade, and rich men in their prideThat beggar-boys and statesmen's sons walk 'neath you, side by side;

You guard the school-house on the green, the church upon the hill,
And fold your precious blessings round the cabin by the rill,
While weary hearts from every land beneath the shining sun
Find work, and rest, and home beneath the Flag of Washington.

And never, never on the earth, however brave they be,
Shall friends or foes bear down this great, proud standard of the

Free,

Though they around its staff may pour red blood in rushing waves,
And build beneath its starry folds great pyramids of graves;
For God looks out, with sleepless eye, upon his children's deeds,
Amd sees, through all their good and ill, their sufferings and their
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.

BLUFF Harry the Eighth was out hunting one day,
And outrode his henchman, and then lost his way:
He stumbled and grumbled, till weary and late,
He came to fair Waltham, and knock'd at the gate.
"So ho! worthy father, a yeoman is here,
Who craves for a bed, and a tithe of your cheer."
So they led him at once, to the large guesten hall,
And summoned the abbot, who came to the call.

ANONYMOUS.

Now the abbot was plump, as an abbot should be.
He ordered a chine and some good Malvoisie,

“

And," quoth he, "honest yoeman, now spare not, I pray,

No beef have I tasted for many a day;

For, alas! I must own, that except for a bone

Of a capon or turkey, my appetite's gone.

I would give half my abbey for hunger like thine."

Said the King to himself," You shall soon have a chine."

At sunrise the abbot took leave of his guest,
Who, grace to the beef, had enjoyed a good rest,
But ere the next sun in the west had gone down,
The Abbot of Waltham was summoned to town.
He was lodged in the Tower, and there, day by day,
Fed on dry bread alone, till his flesli fell away,
When a rich juicy chine on his table was placed,
And to do it full justice the abbot made haste.

ODE TO AN INFANT SON.

Such a dinner few abbots had certainly made,
His mouth and his teeth kept good time to his blade,
He ground it, and found it most excellent meat,
And vow'd that a monarch would find it a treat.
"Ha! ha" cried bluff Harry, who entered his cell,
"I have helped your digestion, Lord Abbot, right well.
Go home to your monks, for your health is now sure,
But half of your abbey I claim for the cure!"

ODE TO AN INFANT SON.

THOMAS HOOD.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But, stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)
Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing spirit,

With spirits, feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin;
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck,

Light as the singing bird that rings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stairs !)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parent's;-(Hang the boy!
There goes my ink.)

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Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit play-fellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble! 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!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk!

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

THE SCHOLAR'S MISSION.

THE wants of our time and country, the constitution of our modern society, our whole position, personal and relative,

GEORGE PUTNAM.