bones, the short, square face, the broad temples, the thick lips, which are yet firm as granite. A coarse, plebeian stamp of man, yet the whole figure and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy; and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him; for his name is Francis Drake. A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments, contrasting oddly with the huge gold chain about his neck, waddles up, as if he had been born, and had lived ever since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper half of his sharp, dogged visage seems of brick-red leather, the lower of badger's fur; and as he claps Drake on the back, and with broad Devon twang shouts, "Be you a coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake, or be you not? saving your presence, my lord," the Lord High Admiral only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his wine; for John Hawkins, Admiral of the Port, is the patriarch of Plymouth seamen, if Drake be their hero, and says and does pretty much what he likes in any company on earth, not to mention that to-day's prospect of an Armageddon fight has shaken him altogether out of his usual crabbed reserve, and made him overflow with loquacious good humor, even to his rival Drake. So they push through the crowd, wherein is many another man whom one would gladly have spoken with face to face on earth. Martin Frobisher and John Davis are sitting on that bench, smoking tobacco from long silver pipes; and by them are Fenton and Withrington, who have both tried to follow Drake's path round the world, and failed, though by no fault of their own. The man who pledges them better luck next time is George Fenner, known to "the seven Portugals," Leicester's pet, and captain of the galleon which Elizabeth bought of him. That short, prim man in the huge yellow ruff, with sharp chin, minute, imperial, and self-satisfied smile, is Richard Hawkins, the Complete Seaman, Admiral John's hereafter famous and hapless son. The elder who is talking with him is his good uncle William, whose monument still stands, or should stand, in Deptford Church; for Admiral John set it up there but one year after this time, and on it recorded how he was "A worshiper of the true religion, an especial benefactor of poor sailors, a most just arbiter in most difficult causes, and of a singular faith, piety, and prudence." That, and the fact that he got creditably through some sharp work at Porto Rico, is all I know of William Hawkins; but if you or I, reader, can have as much, or half as much, said of us when we have to follow him, we shall have no reason to complain. There is John Drake, Sir Francis' brother, ancestor of the present stock of Drakes; and there is George, his nephew, a man not overwise, who has been round the world with Amyas; and there is Amyas himself, talking to one who answers him with fierce, curt sentences,Captain Barker, of Bristol, brother of the hapless Andrew Barker who found John Oxenham's guns, and owing to a mutiny among his men perished by the Spaniards in Honduras twelve years ago. Barker is now captain of the Victory, one of the queen's best ships, and he has his accounts to settle with the dons, as Amyas has; so they are both growling together in a corner, while all the rest are as merry as the flies upon the vine above their heads. HOME, SWEET HOME JOHN HOWARD PAYNE ID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 'MID Be it never so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, Sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home- An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, BEN BOLT THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt — DNᎢ you Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, In the old church yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, And the shaded nook in the running brook Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, yet I hail Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, OLD CHUMS ALICE CARY NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Alice Cary was born in Cincinnati in 1820. She began writing sketches and poems for the press when very young. In 1852 she and her sister Phoebe removed to New York City, where they lived the rest of their lives. She wrote several novels, which are not now much read. She died in 1871. S it you, Jack? Old boy, is it really you? I shouldn't have known you, but that I was told Your hair! why, you've only a little gray fuzz! And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully dyed; And your legs aren't but just half as long as they was; And then stars and garters! your vest is so wide! Is this your hand? Lord, how I envied you that Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all. Turn round! let me look at you! isn't it odd, And what are these lines branching out from your nose? Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down, Why, Jack, if we'd happened to meet about town, |