A YARN.-MARY E. HEWITT.

""Tis Saturday night, and our watch below—
What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow,
While our cans are brimmed with the sparkling flow?
Come, Jack-uncoil, as we pass the grog,
And spin us a yarn from memory's log.'

Jack's brawny chest like the broad sea heaved,
While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved;
And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeve
Across his mouth, as he drained the can,
And thus to his listening mates began:

"When I sailed a boy, in the schooner Mike,
No bigger, I trow, than a marlinspike-
But I've told ye the tale ere now, belike?"
Go on!" each voice re-echoćd,

And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said:

"A stanch-built craft as the waves e'er bore--
We had loosed our sail for home once more,
Freighted full deep from Labrador,
When a cloud one night rose on our lee,
That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see.

"And voices wild with the winds were blent,
As our bark her prow to the waters bent;
And the seamen muttered their discontent-
Muttered and nodded ominously-
But the mate, right carelessly whistled he.

"Our bark may never outride the gale-
'Tis a pitiless night! the pattering hail
Hath coated each spar as 'twere in mail;
And our sails are riven before the breeze,
While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze!'

"Thus spake the skipper beside the mast,
While the arrowy sleet fell thick and fast;
And our bark drove onward before the blast
That goaded the waves, till the angry main
Rose up and strove with the hurricane.

Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay-
'Shall we at this hour to fear give way?
We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray:
Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail,
That flutters in ribands before the gale!'

Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shrick-
'Save, save! we are sinking!-A leak! a leak!'
And the hale old skipper's tawny cheek
Was cold, as 'twere sculptured in marble there,
And white as the foam, or his own white hair.

"The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud-
It shrieked 'mong the cordage, it howled in the shroud,
And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud:
But high over all, in tones of glee,

The voice of the mate rang cheerily

"Now, men, for your wives' and your sweethearts' sakes! Cheer, messmates, cheer!-quick! man the breaks! We'll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes;

And though our peril your hearts appall,

Ere dawns the morrow we'll laugh at the squall.'

"He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats,
He played with his fingers like castanets:
Yet think not that he, in his mirth forgets
That the plank he is riding this hour at sea,
May launch him the next to eternity!

"The white-haired skipper turned away,
And lifted his hands, as it were to pray;
But his look spoke plainly as look could say,
The boastful thought of the Pharisee-
'Thank God, I'm not hardened as others be!'

"But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low,
And the winds, o'erwearied, forbore to blow;
And our bark lay there in the golden glow-
Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine,
An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold still brine.

"Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun-
The cold and the tempest their work had done,
And I was the last, lone, living one,

Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck,
While the dead around me bestrewed the deck.

"Yea, the dead were round me everywhere!

The skipper gray, in the sunlight there,

Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer;

And the mate, whose tones through the darkness leapt, In the silent hush of the morning, slept.

"Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save

Our storm-tossed bark, from the pitiless wave,

And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave,

SSS*

Crying, 'Messmates, cheer!' with a bright, glad smile,
And praying, 'Be merciful, God!' the while.

"True to his trust, to his last chill gasp,
The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp―
You might scarcely in death undo the clasp:
And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin,
And the icicles hung from his bearded chin.
"My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale;
And when life's tempests this hulk assail,
And the binnacle-lamp in my breast burns pale,
'Cheer, messmates, cheer!' to my heart I say,
'We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray."

BUILDING THE CHIMNEY.

"Father will have done the great chimney to-night, won't he mother?" said little Tommy Howard, as he stood waiting for his father's breakfast which he carried to him at his work every morning.

"He said that he hoped that all the scaffolding would be down to-night," answered the mother, "and that'll be a fine sight; for I never like the ending of those great chimneys; it is so risky for father to be last up."

66

'Oh! then, but I'll go and seek him; and help 'em to give a shout before he comes down," said Tom.

66

"And then," continued the mother, "if all goes on right, we are to have a frolic to-morrow, and go into the country, and take our dinner, and spend all the day in the woods." 'Hurrah!" cried Tom as he ran off to his father's place of work, with a can of milk in one hand and some bread in the other. His mother stood at the door watching him, as he went merrily whistling down the street, and she thought of the dear father he was going to, and the dangerous work he was engaged in; and then her heart sought its sure refuge, and she prayed to God to protect and bless her trea

sures.

Tom, with a light heart, pursued his way to his father, and leaving him his breakfast, went to his own work, which was at some distance. In the evening, on his way home, he went around to see how his father was getting on.

James Howard, the father, and a number of other workmen, had been building one of those lofty chimneys which, in our manufacturing towns, almost supply the place of other architectural beauty. The chimney was one of the highest and most tapering that ever had been erected; and as Tom shaded his eyes from the slanting rays of the setting sun, and looked up in search of his father, his heart sank within him at the appalling sight. The scaffold was almost down, the men at the bottom were removing the beams and poles. Tom's father stood alone on the top.

He then looked around to see that everything was right, and then, waving his hat in the air, the men below answered him with a long, loud cheer, little Tom shouting as loud as any of them. As their voices died away, however, they heard a different sound, a cry of horror and alarm from above. The men looked around, and coiled upon the ground lay the rope, which before the scaffolding was removed should have been fastened to the chimney for Tom's father to come down by! The scaffolding had been taken down without remembering to take the rope up. There was a dead silence. They all knew it was impossible to throw the rope up high enough to reach the top of the chimney, or even if possible, it would hardly be safe. They stood in silent dismay, unable to give any help or think of any means of safety.

And Tom's father! He walked round and round the little circle, the dizzy height seeming more and more fearful, and the solid earth further and further from him. In the sudden panic he lost his presence of mind, his senses failed him. He shut his eyes; he felt as if the next moment he must be dashed to pieces on the ground below.

The day passed as industrious as usual with Tom's mother at home. She was always busily employed for her husband and children in some way or other, and to-day she had been harder at work than usual, getting ready for the holiday tomorrow. She had just finished her arrangements, and her thoughts were silently thanking God for the happy home, and for all these blessings, when Tom ran in.

His face was white as ashes, and he could hardly get his words out:

66 Mother! mother! he cannot get down!"

Who, lad-thy father?" asked the mother.

"They have forgotten to leave him the rope," answered Tom, still scarcely able to speak. The mother started up, horror struck, and stood for a moment as if paralyzed, then pressing her hand over her face, as if to shut out the terrible picture, and breathing a prayer to God for help, she rushed out of the house.

When she reached the place where her husband was at work, a crowd had gathered round the foot of the chimney, and stood quite helpless, gazing up with faces full of sorrow. "He says he will throw himself down!" said they.

"Thee munna do that, lad," cried the wife, with a clear, hopeful voice; "thee munna do that-wait a bit. Take off thy stocking, lad, and unravel it; let down the thread with a bit of mortar. Dost thou hear me, Jem?"

The man made a sign of assent; for it seemed as if he could not speak, and taking off his stocking, unraveled the worsted yarn, row after row. The people stood round in breathless silence and suspense, wondering what Tom's mother could be thinking of, and why she sent him in such haste for the carpenter's ball of twine.

"Let down one end of the thread with a bit of stone, and keep fast hold of the other." cried she to her husband. The little thread came waving down the tall chimney, blown hither and thither by the wind, but it reached the out-stretched hands that were awaiting it. Tom held the ball of twine, while his mother tied one end of it to the thread.

"Now, pull it slowly," cried she to her husband, and she gradually unwound the string until it reached her husband. "Now, hold the string fast, and pull it up," cried she, and the string grew heavy and hard to pull, for Tom and his mother had fastened a thick rope to it. They had it gradually and slowly uncoiling from the ground, and the string was drawn higher.

There was but one coil left. It had reached the top. “Thank God!" exclaimed the wife. She hid her face in her hands in silent prayer, and tremblingly rejoiced.

The iron to which it should be fastened was there all right, but would her husband be able to make use of it? Would