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. Weeping 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.

TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL.

FORTY little urchins

Coming through the door,
Pushing, crowding, making
A tremendous roar.
Why don't you keep quiet?
Cant'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-
Oh, 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 as 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 luck less 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 leaping 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?

CC*

sturdy oak that has withstood the blasts of fourscore winters. The purling rivulet, meandering through downy meads and verdant glens, and Niagara's tremendous torrent, leaping over its awful chasm, and rolling in majesty its broad sheet of waters onward to the ocean, unite in proclaiming "THERE IS A GOD."

"Tis heard in the whispering breeze and in the howling storm; in the deep-toned thunder, and in the earthquake's shock; 'tis declared to us when the tempest lowers,when the hurricane sweeps over the land,-when the winds moan around our dwellings, and die in sullen murmurs on the plain, when the heavens, overcast with blackness, ever and anon are illuminated by the lightning's glare.

Nor is the truth less solemnly impressed on our minds in the universal hush and calm repose of nature, when all is still as the soft breathings of an infant's slumber. The vast ocean, when its broad expanse is whitened with foam, and when its heaving waves roll mountain on mountain high, or when the dark blue of heaven's vault is reflected with beauty on its smooth and tranquil bosom, confirms the declaration. The twinkling star, shedding its flickering rays so far above the reach of human ken, and the glorious sun in the heavens,—all—all declare, there is a universal FIRST CAUSE.

And Man, the proud lord of creation, so fearfully and wonderfully made,-each joint in its corresponding socket, each muscle, tendon, and artery, performing their allotted functions with all the precision of the most perfect mechanism,-and, surpassing all, possessed of a soul capable of enjoying the most exquisite pleasure, or of enduring the most excruciating pain, which is endowed with immortal capacities, and is destined to live onward through the endless ages of eternity,-these all unite in one general proclamation of the eternal truth, there is a Being, infinite in wisdom, who reigns over all, undivided and supreme,-the Fountain of all life, Source of all light, from whom all blessings flow, and in whom all happiness centres.