Thrice went t' boat thruf wind and wave,
And thrice she wonned her home,

Till

every saul in two brave barks

Were snatched from t' kingdom come.

Folk thronged aroond to treat t' lads
As wor spent wi' toil and drooth,
When thruft' scud and mist they seed a ship,
Drive right past t' harbor's mooth.

Ther wer plenty there, sea-faring men,
An naither weak nor nesh,
An keen to tak a part at last,
An man t' boat afresh.

But t' crew wer wilful an ower wrowt,
They leapt frev t' edge o' t' pier,

An pushed her off mid t' breakers there.
With naither wit nor fear.

Up yonder i' t' hoos iv Hagalythe,
I'd wakkened a cheery low :
I knowed ma boys ud need a drop,
For t' wind wer thick wi' snow.

An time had quietened half ma fear,
I reckoned as t' warst wer done,
When I heerd a sudden fearful skrike,
An t' grate crowd heaved an run.

I seed t' men dash amang t' surf,
An t' women faant and flee;
I seed 'em rive t' capstan planks
An fling 'em out iv t' sea.

She'd caught i' t' back sweep, close t'u t' bar,
I'll hardlings tell the' more;

There wer twelve brave lads as started her;
They drew but yan t'u t' shore.

Whisht, bairn, there's trouble ower deep for words;
Lang sin I cried my fill;

I went next day, when t' wind were lound,
Where t' waves had wrowt their will.

I fund 'em lying side by side;
I seed 'em at ma feet;

Their eyes wer aupen, and fixed abuv,
Their smile wer grave an sweet.

I seed 'em, oor two bonny lads,
I'd nursed 'em at my breast;
Ill framed these withered hands o' mine
To streak 'em for their rest.

They said oor cry went thruf t' land,
To t' Queen upon her throan;
Brass cam eneaf to dry sum tears,
Ere t' graves were owergrown.

It didna mickle gude to me,

I knaw'd ma sorrow mesel; I'se none sa fond o' seeking folk Of ma loansome hearth to tell.

Oor John will mebby cloase ma eyes—
A reet good son is he;

But, bairn, if t' sea be "beautiful,"

Doan't threep on it to me.

L

AN AMERICAN SPECIMEN.

EAVING the Expedition outside to rest, I quartered myself in the chalet, with Harris, purposing to correct my journals and scientific observations before continuing the ascent of the Riffelberg. I had hardly begun my work when a tall, slender, vigorous American youth of about twenty-three, who was on his way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with the breezy self-complacency which is the adolescent's idea of the well bred ease of the man of the world. His hair was short and parted accurately in the middle, and he had all the look of an American person who would be likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middle name out. He introduced himself, smiling a smirky smile borrowed from the courtiers of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon, and whilst he gripped my hand in it he bent his body forward three times at the hips, as the stage courtier does, and said in the airiest and most condescending and patronizing way,-I quote his exact language,

"Very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed, assure you. I've read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, and when I heard you were here, I—”

I indicated a chair, and he sat down. This grandee was the grandson of an American of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgotten yet,-a man who came so near being a great man that he was quite generally accounted one while he lived.

I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific pro blems, and heard this conversation:

Grandson. First visit to Europe?
Harris. Mine? Yes.

G. S. (With a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of by-gone joys that may be tasted in their freshness but once.) Ah, I know what it is to you. A first visit!ah, the romance of it! I wish I could feel it again.

H. Yes, I find it exceeds all my dreams. It is enchantment. I go

G. (With a dainty gesture of the hand signifying, "Spare me your callow enthusiasms, good friend.") Yes, I know, I know; you go to cathedrals, and exclaim; and you drag through league-long picture galleries and exclaim; and you stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historic ground, and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated with your first crude conceptions of Art and are proud and happy. Ah, yes, proud and happythat expresses it. Yes-yes, enjoy it-it is right-it is an innocent revel.

H. And you?

Don't you do these things now? G.S. I! O, that is very good! My dear sir, when you are as old a traveler as I am, you will not ask such a question as that. I visit the regulation gallery, moon around the regulation cathedral, do the worn round of the regulation sights yet?-Excuse me!

H. Well what do you do, then?

G. S. Do? I flit, and flit,-for I am ever on the wing, but I avoid the herd. To-day I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin, anon in Rome; but you would look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the common resorts of the gazers in those other capitals. If you would find me, you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never think of going. One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscure peasant's cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castle worshiping some little gem of art which the careless eye has overlooked and which

the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me a guest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.

H. You are a guest in such places?

G. S. And a welcome one.

H. It is surprising. How does it come?

G. S. My grandfather's name is a passport to all the courts in Europe. I have only to utter that name and every door is open to me. I fit from court to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome. I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are among your relatives. I know every titled person in Europe, I think. I have my pockets full of invitations all the time. I am under promise now, to go to Italy, where I am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land. In Berlin my life is a continued round of gayety in the Imperial palace. It is the same wherever I go.

H. It must be very pleasant. But it must make Boston seem a little slow when you are at home.

G. S. Yes, of course it does. But I don't go home much. There's no life there-little to feed a man's higher nature. Boston's very narrow, you know. She doesn't know it, and you couldn't convince her of itso I say nothing when I'm there: where's the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, but she has such a good opinion of herself that she can't see it. A man who has traveled as much as I have, and seen as much of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can't cure it, you know, sc the best way is to leave it and seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture. I run across there, once a year, perhaps, when I have nothing important on hand, but I'm very soon back again. I spend my time in Europe.