take his place there as if he had struck the ball. But the man should strike at a ball properly hove. If for three times he doesn't do so, each time counts as a strike, and he must sail for the first buoy just the same as if he had landed the ball fifty fathoms to the wind'ard." "Tell us about the man who stands aft the catcher and everybody treats like a Jimmy Ducks on an English whaler," asked Cap'n Jethro Starbuck. "He's the umpire," said Cap'n Peleg. "There's a good deal of metaphysics in the game that I don't understand myself. I mean nice p'ints that come up. The umpire is supposed to know the chart and to be able to pilot the game over the shoals and through the slews in the rips into deep water. But sometimes, when he gives an order there's mutiny in either the port or the starboard watch, and sometimes both watches join in abusin' him and the folks that are lookin' on bear a hand. If he decides one way the other watch tells him that he isn't fit to hold the steerin' oar and that he had better ship on the next cruise as a lubber. I wouldn't steer a game for a quarter of a new ship fitted for a voyage round the Horn. I'd rather tackle a hundred-and-fifty barrel bull whale on a landsman's lay than to umpire ball games for a week. I wouldn't ship unless I could pipe enough hands that would help me to get the mutineers in irons and put them in the brig." All present agreed with Cap'n Peleg that there ought to be some way to enforce discipline. His explanation of the game was the first they had heard from a man who could talk Nantucket and it was a revelation. SWIPES'S DINNER. My name, sir, is Bill, but they call me Swipes, 'Ow many in family? Why, we're nine, Would I like some dinner? Wouldn't I. Yes! I know a cove what had one wonst, We gets some treacle sometimes, yer know, But it's 'elped oncommon sparin'. 'Ungered? I'd rather think I wos, As some days it feels past bearin'. I orfen searches 'eaps o' dust, An' grubs all amongst the cinders; An' 'tain't to say that mother drinks, But it's horful, sir, that's what it is, An' then, them shops where they shows the j'ints, An' pile the poultry hup, Is dreffle 'ard on a kid like me, As ain't 'ad no bit nor sup, But a crust o' bread an' a swig or two At a drinkin' founting cup. Yes, Jack, the cove as 'ad the feed, Orfen tells us what he 'ad; We set on a step, an' he jawrs on so, Till we all on us feels 'arf mad Why, lanky Joe thrashed 'im well one day Wot! I am to have a dinner, sir! An' yer won't get drorin' back? A tickut! Oh, sir, God bless you now! She's workin' all day, our Sally is, Can I give it up? Well, it's ter❜ble 'ard, What would I say for two o' them cards? Say? Why, I wants to yell. I do, Oh, sir, I must tell Sally, please, Which ther' ain't no doubt of it. She will be glad, I know she will; Wot can't thank the lords an' gen’lemen, But she's a reg'lar scholard, sir, Though she be oncommon shy. But it seems like a dream, ay, that it do, God 'elp me to be a better kid, An' never to be a thief! An' oh, sir, please, there's lots o' coves An' it's blest by heav'n yer'll be! LITTLE SAINT CECILIA.*-MARGARet Holmes. "Lamb of God, who takest away The sins of the world—” I paused to hear In a city street on a busy day, A voice that rang so strong and clear. It soared above the ceaseless din Of toil and trade. I sighed, “Ah me, A lady drew, with dainty care, From a beggar's touch her rich array; The sins of the world-" for sake of Him No church was near, no holy fane; But a tenement-house across the way, And close below the ragged roof, Her bare arms on the window-sill, As slowly moved the crowd away; From "The Catholic World," by permission. Then, answering to those who smiled: Why should not Saint Cæcilia? "I hear her sing at busy noon, And in the morning dark and still; That walked with me through all the day, The sins of the world," by shame and pain, "Have mercy upon us," each and all, On little Saint Cæcilia. CROSSING THE BAR.-ALFRED TENNYSON. Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! |