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THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS. I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through
their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal
tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work
was o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard
of more. For some had gone with daring foot, the craggy peaks to
gain, Until they seemed like hazy specks, to gazers on the plain; But in a fathomless abyss an icy grave they found, Or were crushed beneath the avalanche that starts at hu
man sound :
And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,-
hear; The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous; But wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:
" It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells, But patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. “One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising
high, When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. “I hurried out to learn the cause; but overwhelmed with
fright, The children never ceased to shriek; and from my frenzied
sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ;But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing
through the air.
"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,
* My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free: At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and
screamed! Until upon the azure sky a lessening spot they seemed. "The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he
flew; A mote upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view, But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight 'Twas only a delusive thought, för all had vanished quite.
"All search was vain, and years had passed ; that child was
ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence upon a rugged crag the chamois never
reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!
“I clambered up that rugged cliff-I could not stay away,I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head."
That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers, passing by, Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go without a sigh; And as I journeyed, the next morn, along the sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
THE TWO ANCHORS.-R. H. STODDARD,
It was a gallant sailor man,
Had just come from sea,
He sang “ Ahoy!” to me.
Had known him from a boy;
“Avast!” to his “ Ahoy!"
His ship was then in sight,-
The great one on the right.“
I gave his hand a hearty grip.
"So you are back again? They say you have been pirating
Upon the Spanish Main ; Or was it some rich Indiaman
You robbed of all her pearls ? Of course you have been breaking hearts
Of poor Kanaka girls !" “Wherever I have been," he said,
“I kept my ship in sight,*The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.'” " I heard last night that you were in:
I walked the wharves to-day, But saw no ship that looked like yours.
Where does the good ship lay? . I want to go on board of her."
“And so you shall," said he; “But there are many things to do
When one comes home from sea. You know the song you made for me?
I sing it morn and night,*The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right."" “ But how's your wife and little one ?"
“Come home with me,” he said. “Go on, go on: I follow you."
I followed where he led.
The door was open wide,
A dearer one inside.
His spirits were so light,-“The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right."
The sailor's wife and child,
And looked at me, and smiled.
Upon the stormy foam,
Am anchored here at home."
“I see, in dreams at night, This little anchor on my left,
This great one on my right.”
THE RUM FIEND'S PORTRAIT.-T. DE WITT TALMAGE
This foul thing gives one swing to its scythe, and our best merchants fall; their stores are sold, and they sink into dishonored graves.
Again it swings its scythe, and ministers of the gospel fali from the heights of Zion, with long-resounding crash of ruin and shame.
Some of your own households have already been shaken. Perhaps you can hardly admit it; but where was your son last night? Where was he Friday night? Where was he Thursday night; Wednesday night; Tuesday night; Monday night?
Nay, have not some of you in your own bodies felt the power of this babit? You think that you could stop? Are you sure you could? Go on a little further, and I am sure you cannot. I think, if some of you should try to break away, you would find a chain on the right wrist, and one on the left; one on the right foot, and another on the left. This serpent does not begin to hurt until it has wound round and round. Then it begins to tighten, and strangle, and crush, until the bones crack, and the blood trickles, and the eyes start from their sockets, and the mangled wretch cries: “Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! help! help!" But it is too late and not even the fires of woe can melt the chain when once it is fully fastened.
I have shown you the evil beast. The question is, who will hunt him down, and how shall we shoot him? I answer, first, by getting our children right on this subject. Let them grow up with an utter aversion to strong drink. Take care how you administer it even as medicine. If you find that they have a natural love for it, as some have, put in a glass of it some horrid stuff, and make it utterly nauseous. Teach them, as faithfully as you do the catechism, that rum is a fiend. Take them to the almshouse, and show them the wreck and ruin it works. Walk with them into the homes that have been scourged by it. If a drunkard hath fallen into a ditch, take them right up where they can see his face, bruised, savage, and swollen, and say: “Look, my son! Rum did that!” Looking out of your window at some one who, intoxicated to madness, goes through the street, brandishing his fist, blaspheming God, a howling, defying, shouting, reel. ing, raving and foaming maniac, say to your son: “Look; that man was once a child like you!" As you go by the grogshop, let them know that that is the place where men are slain, and their wives made paupers, and their children slaves. Hold out to your children all warnings, all rewards, all counsels, lest in after-days they break your heart and curse your gray hairs.
A COOK OF THE PERIOD.
The wages ye offer ’ill do;
Without a condition or two.'
Commodgeous, with plenty of light,
Sech fri'nds as I'm like to invite ?
Becase, 'taint convainyent, ye see,
It's no raore than yous ought to be.
The rayson I lift my last place,
I sint a dish-cloth at her face.
To min droppin'in whin they choose ?
That frayquintly brings me the news.
I give yer fair warnin', ma'am, now,
You'll find me commincin' a row.
I'd try yer a wake, so I wud.
A thin thing without any blud!)
I comes for that time, and no liss ;
Jusht give me yer name and addriss.