Will lightly turn to the fleeting joys
That perish with the using.

Summer blossoms and winter snows,
Love and its sweet Elysium;
Hope, like the siren, dim and fair,
Quickening our fainting vision;
Drooping spirit and failing pulse,
Where untold memories hover;
Eyelids touched with the seal of death,
And the fitful dream is over.

THE OVERFLOW OF GREAT RIVER, 1878.*
GEORGIA A. PECK.

December snows piled high the frozen earth,
Ice-bound the rivers lay, and brooks were still,
When lo! capricious Nature, tired of frost,
Sent pouring rains, with south winds rising high,
Until at nightfall, fields but yesterday

Deep hidden 'neath the snow, lay bare and brown.

Out from the window of her father's house
In Boston Highlands, gazed young Amy Wayne,
Watching with dreamy, unreflecting gaze,
The swift disrobing of the wintry earth,
Thinking of one who would to-morrow greet
The glad home-coming of his wife and child.
Poor dreamer! even as she mused, grim fate,
Relentless, menacing the distant home,
Turned all its joy to gloom.

With fond farewells,

Upon the morrow, Amy and her child,
The little Una, but two summers old,
Early responding to the engine's shriek,
Took first express to westward.

Happy thoughts

Of him, her husband, waiting their approach With many a teasing tale of single woe, Kept time to railway jarring, and the tones Of baby Una, prattling, "Is we home?" Written expressly for this collection.

Roused from her happy reveries by a call,
She looked up quickly for she caught a word
Familiar,-"Westfield." David's home and hers!
The newsboy passing with his droning cry,

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'Springfield Republican! Morning paper!

All about the Westfield flood! Morning paper!"

The flood--the Westfield flood! and David there!
Scarce could her trembling fingers lift the coin;
The vendor handed carelessly the sheet
And calling" Boston papers?" passed. All swam
A single moment, dim before her sight,
Then pushing back the sunny baby head
She snatched the import of the printed lines.

The heavy rains-the warm south wind-the thaw-
The rising river, fed by countless streams-

The treacherous dike-the overflow-the break-
The sweeping, seething flood-the heavy crash
Of falling buildings-panic, ruin, fire,—

Reported losses- With devouring glance,

Her eye ran down the long dread list, and stopped.
Dispatch! At 2 A. M. the great warehouse

Of David Wayne & Co. was swept away."

"David Wayne." "Swept away-" "Dispatch at 2—"
The letters blurred and swam, then stood distinct,
While swift imagination drew the scene:
The alarm-bell-people running to and fro-

The swollen stream-the threatened dike-the rush
Of men of business to the fated blocks-
The crash-the fall-the "warehouse swept away!"

"What matter, mamma? Is we there, mamma?"
The baby tugged and teased, but still and white
The mother sat, with fixed, strained gaze ahead.
Widow or wife? "O God, O God," she prayed,
"If David lives! if David only lives!

Though beggared all, O God, that David lives!"

Meantime the train sped onward-whistled-stopped. Hoarsely the brakeman calls, "Springfield! change cars! Passengers going west obliged to wait

Track washed away!"

Faintly the young wife rose,

Lifted her child, and left the car. 'Papa!"

Cried Una, "where papa, mamma? Is we home?" "Home, darling? poor, poor darling, no!" she sobbed.

A moment desolate she stood, the tears

Forcing their way. Stay-one faint gleam of hope,
The telegraph-she turned and faltered out,
"Send dispatch to David Wayne, of Westfield,

Quickly! 'Are you safe?' signed 'Amy."" "Wire's down,"
The operator said, "it must go round,

"Twill take an hour or more."

She turned away..

"Then come, my darling; papa'll send us word At sister's. Darling baby, come!"

But there,

The hopeful, soothing words, the tenderness,
Met no response. Tearless, all day she watched,
And listened, hushing her slow-beating heart
To hear the messenger's sharp ring. Hours passed,
No word, no sign, and early night came down.
The homesick child cried "Papa!" and despair,
Heavy and chill, fell on the mother's heart.

The early night came down. With burning brow
Pressed to the window-pane, eyes closed, she stood
While, like a knell, her heart throbbed one refrain,
"David, my husband! Lost-my David, lost!"

An opening door-a step, and Una cried,
"Papa! Oh, Papa's come!" Two strong, glad arms
Caught child and mother. David's voice was heard:
"Your message reached me late. Darling, they ran
An engine through. I thought I'd come myself!"
Nature could bear no more. One look, one kiss,
And crying, "David! safe!" she swooned and fell.
What though she woke to know their all was gone,
Life lay before them-hearts were strong-the flood
Might sweep all else, husband and child were hers,
With love, that many waters cannot quench!
So hand in hand, and heart in heart, they went
Out with thanksgiving, strong to do and bear.

ME AND BILL.-ROBERT OVERTON.

A FISHERMAN'S STORY.

We was more like brothers than anything else, me and Bill; and if we had drawn from the same breast, God knows we couldn't ha' loved each other better and more hearty than we did. Many a night we slept under one of these 'ere old boats together, when the drink was in my father and he turned me out, and the drink was in his father and he turned him out. And many a time we young warmints made vows as 'ow I were to 'eave Bill's father overboard, and Bill were to 'eave my father overboard, when we growed up-because, you see, as Bill said, it would be sort of unnatural for a bloke to 'eave his own old 'un overboard. But Providence took that 'ere job out of our hands, for one squally night the old gen'l'men went out and got drownded of themselves, just as me and Bill were beginning for to pick up a little rhino on board the smacks. "Well," says me and Bill, "their loss is our gain, which is Scripter; and it ain't no manner o' use for to repine." So we goes in steady for 'ard work, to keep up the homes for our mothers and the little ones; and boys as we was, we managed to bring enough shot to the locker, till there came a very bad season, and then me and Bill determined to sailorin' together to furrin parts. So we went up to London and shipped for a long cruise aboard the "City of Dublin," and was away two or three years, always sticking close to each other, and came back to the old place more like brothers than ever we was, and growed to that extent as our old mates scarcely knowed us again.

go

A noble-lookin' young chap were Bill,-straight and broad and stout-lookin', with arms and 'ands like iron, and heart of oak.

The old place seemed to me very much the same as it was afore we went away, and so did most of the people; but there was one exception, and that were Mary Wilson,

the coast-guardsman's daughter. When I knowed her afore, she were a little pale girl, with nothing uncommon special about her, but when I come back, I found her a fine strapping lass, likely enough to turn the heads of a whole fleet's crew, with her sweet face and winsome ways. Accordin', old Wilson and me became great chums, and I used to sit for hours in his little room yonder, a-talkin' to him and a-lookin' at her. Somehow me and Bill used to meet there sometimes, but I never give it a thought that Bill was beginnin' for to love the girl as I had give my heart to, till one night me and him was sittin' at the winder of my little cottage, havin' a quiet glass and pipe together, and talkin' about our plans for the future.

"I'll

Bill," I says, "I'll give you a toast," says I; give yer the lass whose colors I've run up to the masthead, never to be hauled down again; the girl of my heart, Mary Wilson."

Then poor Bill turned quite pale, and I see his great 'and tremblin' as he raised it; and I saw how 'twas. Neither of us spoke a word for a bit, and then I says: "Shipmate:"

"Aye, aye, Ben," says he.

"Do you love her too, shipmate?”

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By

I do!" he busts out, and we stands up and looks at each other straight. By-and-by I 'olds out my 'and, and Bill takes 'old on it tight.

'Brother," says I, "you speak to her fust."

"No, no," says he; but after a bit he consented.

Next morning he starts off for the purpose, and I didn't see nothing of him till nightfall. I was walkin' along the shore lookin' at the ships out at sea, and the stars shinin' up aloft, and thinking about Mary, and how I should do 'case of her and Bill agreeing to sail in company, when Bill come up very quiet and says in a choky sort of voice:

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Shipmate, she don't love me; and God bless you and her!"