Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear:
She waded in the shallow sea;
She waved her hands, made signals clear,
"Swim! swim, and trust to me!"

"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try :
The woman's judgment may be right;
For, swim or sink, seven men must die
If here we swing to-night."

Far out he marked the gathering surge;
Across the bar he watched it pour,
Let go, and on its topmost verge
Came riding in to shore.

It struck the breaker's foamy track,--
Majestic wave on wave up-hurled,
Went grandly toppling, tumbling back,
As loath to flood the world.

There blindly whirling, shorn of strength,
The captain drifted, sure to drown;
Dragged seaward half a cable's length,
Like sinking lead went down.

Ah, well for him that on the strand
Had Mother Becker waited long!
And well for him her grasping hand
And grappling arm were strong!

And well for him that wind and sun,
And daily toil for scanty gains,
Had made such daring blood to run
Within such generous veins !

For what to do but plunge and swim?
Out on the sinking billow cast,

She toiled, she dived, she groped for him,
She found and clutched him fast.

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,
Far, far it blew the foam.

The frozen foam went scudding by,-
Before the wind, a seething throng,
The waves, the waves came towering high,
They flung the mate along.

The waves came towering high and white,
They burst in clouds of flying spray:
There mate and captain sank from sight,
And, clinching, rolled away.

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,
Three fathoms down she gripped them tight;
With both together up the bar

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 darker, darker grew the world:
Each man from off the breaker's crest
To gloomier deeps was hurled.

And still the gale went shrieking on,
And still the wrecking fury grew;
And still the woman, worn and wan,
Those gates of death went through,—

As Christ were walking on the waves,
And heavenly radiance shone about,―
All fearless trod that gulf of graves,
And bore the sailors out.

Down came the night, but far and bright,
Despite the wind and flying foam,
The bonfire flamed to give them light
To trapper Becker's home.

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,
Crossed channel-ice, burst in to find
Seven gallant fellows sick and sore,
A tender nurse and kind;

Shook hands, wept, laughed, were crazy-glad;
Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,

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,
I am here to give you a warning;
This life " a day's journey" is often called,
And this is your early morning.

There'll be dangerous places along the way,
There'll be scenes of brightness and beauty;
In the light and the dark there is one sure guide
To show you the path of duty.

Have you sometimes seen, as you walked the street,
A pitiful, loathsome creature

In the form of a man, but with strange, ill looks,
Dim-eyed and swollen feature?

Did he lift in anger a threatening hand,
And deep, mad curses mutter;

Or did he stagger from side to side,
And fall at last in the gutter?

Now take good heed, and whenever you see
A youth, no matter how charming,
Who takes his wine and his stronger drinks,
And says, "It is nothing alarming,"
Remember that fallen creature once

As gaily such word could utter;
Remember that wine and the stronger drinks
Bring the bravest young men to the gutter.
You will see the flush of the fragrant wine,
And how merry they grow who are drinking;
But be sure, however they laugh and sing,

Yet down toward the gutter they're sinking.
Trust not in mirth that is born of wine,

It endeth in sorrow and madness;

Taste it not, trust your guide, and your life may be
Full of beauty, and goodness, and gladness.

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