no escape but by one door. Scarcely had the smith's neighbor, who was bath-keeper of the place, seen the animal than he became deadly pale, sprang up and exclaimed, in a horrified voice, “Good heavens! the dog is mad!” Then arose a terrible outery. The room was full of men and women, and the foaming beast stood before the only entrance--no one could leave without passing him. He snapped savagely right and left-no one could pass him without being bitten. This increased the fearful confusion. With horror depicted upon their countenances, all sprang up and shrunk from the dog. Who should deliver them from him? The smith also stood among them, and, as he saw the anguish of the people, it flashed across his mind how many of his happy and contented neighbors would be made miserable by a mad dog, and he formed a resolution, the like of which is scarcely to be found in the history of the human race, for noble self-devotion.

Back all!" thundered he, in a deep, strong voice. Let no one stir; for none can vanquish the beast but me! One victim must fall, in order to save the rest; I will be that victim; I will hold the brute, and while I do so, make your escape," The smith had scarcely spoken these words when the dog started towards the shrieking people. But he went not far. "With God's help," cried the smith, and he rushed upon the foaming beast, seized him with an iron grasp, and dashed him to the floor. A terrible struggle followed. The dog bit furiously on every side in a frightful manner. His long teeth tore the arms and thighs of the heroic smith, but he would not let him loose. Regardless alike of the excessive pain and the horrible death that must ensue, he held down with an iron grasp, the snapping, howling brute, till all had escaped.

He then flung the half-strangled beast from him against the wall, and, dripping with blood and venomous foam, he left the room, locking the door after him. Some persons then shot the dog through the windows. Weep

ing and lamenting, the people surrounded him who had saved their lives, at the expense of his own, "Be quiet, do not weep for me," he said, "one must die in order to save the others. Do not thank me--I have only performed my duty. When I am dead, think of me with love, and now pray for me, that God will not let me suffer long, nor too much. I will take care that no further mischief shall occur through me, for I must certainly become mad.

He went straight to his workshop and selected a strong chain, the heaviest and firmest from his whole stock; then, with his own hands, welded it upon his limbs, and around the anvil firmly. "There," said he, "it is done," after having silently and solemnly completed the work. "Now you are secured, and I am inoffensive. So long as I live bring me my food. The rest I leave to God, into his hands I commend my spirit."

Nothing could save the brave smith; neither tears, lamentations nor prayers. Madness seized him, and after nine days he died. He died, but his memory will live from generation to generation, and will be venerated to the end of time. Search history through, and you will not find an action more glorious and sublime than the deed of this simple-minded man, the smith of Ragenbach.

СС

TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL.
Forty little urchins

Coming through the door,
Pushing, crowding, making
A tremendous roar.
Why don't you keep quiet?
Can't you keep the rule?
Bless me, this is pleasant,
Teaching public school!

Forty little pilgrims

On the road to fame;
If they fail to reach it,

Who will be to blame?
High and lowly stations.
Birds of every feather,

On a common level

Here are brought together.

Dirty little faces,

Loving little hearts, Eyes brimful of mischief, Skilled in all its arts. That's a precious darling!

What are you about?
"May I pass the water?"
Please, may I go out?"
Boots and shoes are shuffling,
Slates and books are rattling,
And in the corner yonder
Two pugilists are battling:
Others cutting didoes--
What a botheration!
No wonder we grow crusty
From such association!

Anxious parent drops in,
Merely to inquire
Why his olive branches

Do not shoot up higher;
Says he wants his children
To mind their p's and q's,
And hopes their brilliant talents
Will not be abused.

Spelling, reading, writing,

Putting up the young ones; Fuming, scolding, fighting,

Spurring on the dumb ones;

Gymnasts, vocal music

How the heart rejoices When the singer comes to Cultivate the voices!

Institute attending,

Making out reports,

Giving object lessons,
Class drills of all sorts;
Reading dissertations,
Feeling like a fool-
Ob, the untold blessing

Of the public school!

BILL AND JOE.-O. W. HOLMES.

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,-
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,

When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,

With HON. and LL. D.,

In big brave letters, fair to see

Your fist, old fellow! off they go!

How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermine robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again;
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens-
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe;

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaving flame.

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust:

A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,

Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go-
How vain it seems, this empty show!-
Till all at once his pulses thrill :

'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,-
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For earth-born spirits none too long,―
Just whispering of the world below,
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

THE ATHEIST.-WM. KNOX.

The fool hath said "There is no God!"
No God!-Who lights the morning sun,
And sends him on his heavenly road,
A far and brilliant course to run?
Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,
And bids the planets, one by one,
Steal o'er the night vales, dark and damp?

No God!-Who gives the evening dew,

The fanning breeze, the fostering shower? Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough, And plants the summer's noontide flower? Who spreads in the autumnal bower The fruit tree's mellow stores around, And sends the winter's icy power, To invigorate the exhausted ground?