GETTING UNDER WAY.

MARK TWAIN.

All day Sunday at anchor. The storm had gone down a great deal, but the sea had not. It was still piling its frothy hills in air outside, as we could plainly see with the glass. We must lie still until Monday, and we did. The next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea. It was a great happiness to get away after the dragging, dispiriting delay. I thought there never was such gladness in the air before, such brightness in the sun, such beauty in the sea. All my malicious instincts were dead within me; and as America faded out of sight, I think a spirit of charity rose up in their place, that was boundless for the time, as the broad ocean that was heaving its billows about us. I wished to express my feelings; I wished to lift up my voice and sing; but I did not know anything to sing, and so I was obliged to give up the idea. It was no loss to the ship, though, perhaps.

It was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough. One could not promenade without risking his neck; at one moment the bowsprit was taking a deadly aim at the sun in mid-heaven, at the next it was trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean. What a weird sensation it is to feel the stern of the ship sinking swiftly from under you, and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds! One's safest course, that day, was to clasp a railing and hang on; walking was too precarious a pastime.

Soon a remarkable fossil, shawled to the chin and bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and the next lurch of the ship shot him into my arms. I said: "Good morning, sir. It is a fine day."

He put his hand on his stomach and said, "Oh my!" and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a skylight.

Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door, with great violence. I said:

"Calm yourself, sir. There is no hurry. It is a fine day, sir."

He, also, put his hand on his stomach, and said, Oh my!" aud reeled away.

In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving support. I said:

Good morning, sir.

were about to say-"

Oh my!"

It is a fine day for pleasuring. You

I thought so. I anticipated him anyhow. I staid there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour perhaps ; and all I got out of any of them was "Oh my!"

I went away, then, in a thoughtful mood. I said this is a grand pleasure excursion. I like it. The passengers are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. I like these old people,

but somehow they all seem to have the "Oh my!" rather bad.

JOHN MAYNARD.

ANONYMOUS.

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse,

One bright midsummer day,

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam,
That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger, awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene-

Could dream that ere an hour had sped,

That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale,

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench the insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly faces everywhere
Looked from the doomèd ship.

Is there no hope-no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore;

"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,—

By name John Maynard, eastern born,—
Stood calmly at the wheel.

Head her south east!" the captain shouts

Above the smothered roar,

"Head her south-east without delay! Make for the nearest shore !"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As in a sailor's measured tone

His voice responds, “Ay, Ay !"

Three hundred souls,-the steamer's freight,

Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreadful flames

Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still, with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

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He steered the ship to land.

'John Maynard," with an anxious voice,

The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we will reach the shore."

Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly, still

Unawed, though face to face with death,

"With God's good help I will !"

The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hands and brow;
One arm disabled seeks his side,
Ah, he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set,
He crushes down the pain,—
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er !
The pebbles grate beneath the keel,
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voices rise,
In praise to God, that He

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from th' engulfing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel-

His nerveless hands released their task,
He sank beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corpse,

Blackened with smoke and fire.

God rest him! Hero never had

A nobler funeral pyre!

STRAWBERRIES.

TROWBRIDGE.

Little Pearl Honeydew, six years old,

From her bright ear parted the curls of gold;
And laid her head on the strawberry-bed,

To hear what the red-cheeked berries said,

Their cheeks were blushing, their breath was sweet,
She could almost hear their little hearts beat;
And the tiniest lisping, whispering sound

That ever you heard, came up from the ground.

"Little friends," she said, I wish I knew
How it is you thrive on sun and dew!"
And this is the story the berries told
To little Pearl Honeydew, six years old.

"You wish you knew? and so do we!
But we can't tell you, unless it be

That the same kind Power that cares for you,
Takes care of poor little berries too.

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"Tucked up snugly, and nestled below
Our coverlid of wind-woven snow,

We peep and listen, all winter long,

For the first spring day and the blue-bird's song.

"When the swallows fly home to the old brown shed

And the robins build on the bough overhead,

Then out from the mould, from the darkness and cold
Blossom, and runner, and leaf unfold.

"Good children then, if they come near,

And hearken a good long while, may hear

A wonderful tramping of little feet,—

So fast we grow in the summer heat.

"Our clocks are the flowers; and they count the hours Till we can mellow in sun and showers,