Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear: "My men," the captain cried, "I'll try : Far out he marked the gathering surge; It struck the breaker's foamy track,-- There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, Ah, well for him that on the strand And well for him that wind and sun, For what to do but plunge and swim? She toiled, she dived, she groped for him, She climbed the reef, she brought him up, She laid him gasping on the sands; Built high the fire and filled the cup,Stood up and waved her hands! Oh, life is dear! The mate leaped in. "I know," the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell. "I'll start and meet him in the wave." "Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you? And I shall have you both to save, Must work to pull you through!" But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lashed the deeps, The frozen foam went scudding by,- The waves came towering high and white, Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find! She sought them near, she sought them far, She staggered into sight. Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paused the cheering draught to pour: Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!" Sure, life is dear, and men are brave: They came, they dropped from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave, And dive beyond the bar? Dark grew the sky from east to west, And still the gale went shrieking on, As Christ were walking on the waves, Down came the night, but far and bright, Oh, safety after wreck is sweet! And sweet is rest in hut or hall: One story life and death repeat,God's mercy over all. Next day men heard, put out from shore, Shook hands, wept, laughed, were crazy-glad; Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she. "Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wrecked from death may snatch: But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!" Dear Mother Becker dropped her head, She blushed as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said, "More than I ought to do." TASTE IT NOT. A word with you, dear children, all, There'll be dangerous places along the way, Have you sometimes seen, as you walked the street, In the form of a man, but with strange, ill looks, Did he lift in anger a threatening hand, Or did he stagger from side to side, Now take good heed, and whenever you see As gaily such word could utter; Yet down toward the gutter they're sinking. It endeth in sorrow and madness; Taste it not, trust your guide, and your life may be A WESTERN ARTIST'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS. "Do you-ahem!-do you ever print any art items in your paper?" asked a rather seedy looking man with long hair, a slouch hat, and paint on his fingers, softly edging into the inner sanctum the other day. The managing editor glanced savagely up from his noonday sandwich, and after evidently repressing the desire to add the long-haired party to his viands, replied in the affirmative. "Because," continued the young man, scowling critically at a cheap chromo on the wall," because I thought if you cared to record the progress of real esthetic art culture on this coast, you might send your art critic around to my studio to take some notes." "Might, eh?" said the editor between chews. "Yes, sir. For instance there's a mammoth winter storm landscape I've just finished for Mr. Mudd, the bonanza king. It's called 'A Hail-storm in the Adirondacks,' and a visitor who sat down near it the other day caught a sore throat in less than fifteen minutes. The illusion is so perfect, you understand. Why, I had to put in the finishing touch with my ulster and Arctic overshoes on!" "Don't say ?" "Fact, sir; and then there's a little animal gem I did for Governor Clerkings the other day,-portrait of his Scotch terrier Snap. The morning it was done a cat got in the studio, and the minute it saw that picture it went through the window sash like a ten-inch shell." "Did, eh?" "Yes, and the oddest thing about it was that when I next looked at the canvas the dog's hair was standing up all along his back like a porcupine. Now, how do you account for that?" 66 Dunno." "It just beats me. When the governor examined the work he insisted on my painting in a post with the dog chained to it. Said he didn't know what might happen." "Good scheme," growled the president maker. "I don't do much in the animal line, though," continued the artist thoughtfully; "that is, since last summer I painted a setter dog for an English tourist, and shipped it to him at Liverpool. But it seems the fleas got into the box and bit so many holes in the canvas, that he threw it back on my hands." "Too bad." "Wasn't it, though? My best hold, however, is water views. You know George Bromley, and how abstracted he is sometimes? Well, George dropped in one morning and brought up before an eight by twelve view of the San Joaquin river with a boat on the bank in the |