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"Back, back, all hands! Get what you can-

Or pick, or oar, or stave."

This way and that they breathless ran,
And came and fell to, every man,

To dig him out of his grave!

"Too slow! too slow! the weight will kill!
Up, make your hawsers fast!"
Then every man took hold with a will-
A long pull and a strong pull-still
With never a stir o' the mast!

"Out with the cargo!" Then they go
At it with might and main.

"Back to the sands! too slow, too slow! He's dying, dying! yet, heave ho!

Heave ho! there, once again!'

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And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood
A woman whose pale brow wore

Its love like a queenly crown; and the blood
Ran curdled and cold as she watched the flood
That was racing in to the shore.

On, on it trampled, stride by stride.
It was death to stand and wait;
And all that were free threw picks aside,
And came up dripping out o' th' tide,
And left the doomed to his fate.

But lo! the great sea trembling stands;
Then, crawling under the ship,

As if for the sake of the two white hands
Reaching over the wild, wet sands,
Slackened that terrible grip.

"Come to me, Jamie! God grants the way,"
She cries, "for lovers to meet."

And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say,
And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray,
Laid him dead at her feet.

THE STATUE IN CLAY.

"Make me a statue," said the King,
"Of marble white as snow;
It must be pure enough to stand
Before my throne at my right hand,
The niche is waiting go!

The sculptor heard the King's command,
And went upon his way:

He had no marble, but he went,
With willing hands, and high intent,
To mould his thoughts in clay.

Day after day he wrought the clay,
But knew not what he wrought;
He sought the help of heart and brain,
But could not make the riddle plain,
It lay beyond his thought.

To-day the statue seemed to grow,
To-morrow it stood still;

The third day all was well again;
Thus, year by year, in joy and pain,
He wrought his Master's will.

At last his life-long work was done-
It was a happy day;

He took his statue to the King,
But trembled like a guilty thing,
Because it was but clay.

"Where is my statue?" asked the King.

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Here, Lord," the sculptor said.

"But I commanded marble." "True,
But lacking that, what could I do
But mould in clay instead?"
"Thou shalt not unrewarded go,
Since thou hast done thy best;
Thy statue shall acceptance win,
It shall be as it should have been,
For I will do the rest."

He touched the statue, and it changed;
The clay falls off, and lo!

A marble shape before him stands,
The perfect work of heavenly hands,
An angel pure as snow!

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, “ peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."

"Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes yes. Um! Yes-yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and, when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,

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"Oh, my goodness! What do you want to spell it for?" "I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means." "Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you-if you "

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'Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

'I n, in, t e r, ter, inter "-

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why, certainly!"

"Oh, that is what took me so long!"

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Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?" Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition.” "Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as-as-intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,-I mean no harm at all."

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'Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes yes: they always speak of it with rapture."

"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"

"Ah, well-well-well-this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me

ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure,-with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me.”

"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can." "I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

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Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

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Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years

A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and

Q. But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?

A. I didn't say he was dead.
Q. But wasn't he dead?

A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.
Q. What do you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.

Q. Did you

However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday, Oct. 31, 1693.

Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?

A. Eh! I-I-I think so,-yes-but I don't remember. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever

Q.

heard.

A.

Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That's William, Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!

Q. Why, is he dead, then?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then? A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. Q. Buried him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?

A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.

Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was del

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