The boy, with mischievous delight,

A cunning plan had wrought.

Next morning Allan charged his class
To learn their lessons well,

For young Squire Poole that afternoon
Would come to hear them spell.
And this was all; they never knew
What else was on his mind,
Until the teacher gave out "smack,"
To be spelled and defined.

"Twas Allan's turn;-he raised his eyes

To watch the lawyer's face,

And spelled the short word slowly through
With calm and steady grace.

"Define it, sir," the mistress said,—

For, courage to acquire,

The boy had paused,—“Why, ma'am,” said he,
"It's what you gave the Squire."

THE LITTLE FIREMAN.-JOHN F. NICHOLLS.

What do you think o' my youngster,-he's a likely lad, sir, eh?

You wouldn't think he was a hero in the amateur-fireman

way.

But he is. I can tell you a story that'll make you look and

stare;

How he brought down a lad at a fire, sir, from the top of that building there.

It's a hospital, that's what it is, sir; and it's nearly a fort

night ago

Since a chum o' my Willie's went in, sir, on account of his health bein' low.

And my Will he got anxious and worried, for he missed his young playfellow bad,

And he went about gloomy and grumpy, and always looked lonely and sad.

He was constantly watching that window (the top one, up

there to the right),

And I'm certain, if I would a-let him, he'd a-looked at it all through the night;

For his playfellow's bed lay near it, and my Willie knew that

quite well,

And to look at that window was pleasure, far more than we can tell.

Well, he kept like that for some days, sir; he was always a-watching that place,

When he rushed in to me one evening, with a look of alarm on his face.

"It's on fire!" he shouted; "oh, father! the hospital's all in a blaze!"

And he looked at me with such eyes, sir, that I shrank from his terrified gaze.

"Oh, father!" he cried in his terror, and he seemed nigh ready to drop,

"How can they get at poor Tommy? he's right at the very tip-top,

It'll burn him right up to a cinder if he is obliged to stay; I'll run out and tell them to fetch him," and he instantly darted away.

I told him to stop, but he didn't; so I followed him, sir, like mad,

But he went on ahead like an engine, and the crush was fearfully bad;

The hospital, sir, was a-burning, and the flames getting fiercer and higher,

While the fireman were working their hardest to get some control o' the fire.

They were fetching the patients out, too, sir, as quickly as ever they could,

And the fire-escape men were all busy and doing a great deal of good;

But the friends of the patients were watching to see that they all were got out,

And above all the roar of the flames, sir, we presently heard a shout:

"There's a boy at the top forgotten," and I thought o' my Will's little chum;

And my eyes grew heavy and dim, sir, for the great salt tears would come.

The fireman seemed well nigh distracted,—the escape was on fire at the top;

And they said it was death to ascend it, for the ladder would certainly drop.

But a lad dashed up that escape, sir, as it seemed to his certain death;

While the crowd stood speechless and silent, and every one held his breath.

That boy was my Will, I could see him, by the light from the great red fire,

And I felt-well, I can't tell how, sir, as I saw him mount higher and higher.

For the ladder seemed all of a totter, but that boy of mine was so light

That he got to the window in safety; and we saw him get in all right;

But he came out again in a second, and he carried a small white pack;

That boy had gone in after Tommy, and was bringing him down on his back.

Such a cheer rent the heavens just then, sir, as I never shall hear again;

And the crowd got as mad as hatters, and shouted with might and main.

But the lads got down safe to the ground, sir, and both of 'em fainted away;

For after that dreadful excitement, 'twas no wonder at all, I

say.

What do you think of him now, sir? a likely lad, sir, eh! There's not many youngsters a-going as could act in that

sort of a way;

For he risked his own life for his playmate, and he's ready to do it still,

So I hope there's no harm in my saying I'm proud of my Fireman Will.

SUPPORTING THE GUNS.

Did you ever see a battery take position?

It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is a peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer.

We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has been emptied once and more, and a

fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the gap. Here comes help!

Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer would not drive a wagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling, the sight behind us makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be knighted.

A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired.

The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat,— misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before.

Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles--the roar shuts out all sounds from a battleline three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off--to mow great gaps in the bushes-to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it -aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush.

Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell

takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other.

Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass.

Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses a