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. Coming through the door, Forty little pilgrims On the road to fame; Who will be to blame? 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? Anxious parent drops in, Do not shoot up higher; 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, Of the public school! BILL AND JOE.-O. W. HOLMES. Come, dear old comrade, you and I When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail, You've won the great world's envied prize, 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; The chaffing young folks stare and say, How Bill forgets his hour of pride, Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame? A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, A few swift years, and who can show The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" And shall we breathe in happier spheres No matter; while our home is here THE ATHEIST.-WM. KNOX. The fool hath said "There is no God!" 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? |