on earth's a-comin' now?'-But aboard ship, o' course, when you're told to do a thing, you've got to do it; so the rope was rove in a jiffy. "Now, my lad,' says the mate in a hard, square kind o' voice, that made every word seem like fittin' a stone into a wall, 'you see that 'ere rope? Well, I'll give you ten minutes to confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, I'll hang you like a dog!' "The crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe their ears, (I didn't believe mine, I can tell ye,) and then a low growl went among 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap. • 666 Silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar cf a nor'easter. 'Stand by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to put it round the boy's neck. The little feller never flinched a bit; but there was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felled an ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. As for me, I bethought myself o' my little curlyhaired lad at home, and how it 'ud be if any one was to go for to hang him; and at the very thought on't I tingled all over, and my fingers clinched theirselves as if they was a-grippin' somebody's throat. I clutched hold o' a handspike, and held it behind my back all ready. 666 "Tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really means to do it?' "I don't know,' says I, through my teeth; but if he does, he shall go first, if I swings for it!' "I've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but I never felt 'arf as bad as I did then. Every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the tick o' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin. The men were very quiet, but there was a precious ugly look on some o' their faces; and I noticed that three or four on 'em kep' edgin' for'ard to where the mate was in a way that meant mischief. As for me, I'd made up my mind that if he did go for to hang the poor little chap, I'd kill him on the spot, and take my chance. "Eight minutes,' says the mate, his great deep voice breakin' in upon the silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. If you've got anything to confess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.' "I've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm as ever. 'May I say my prayers, please?' "The mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees and puts up his poor little hands to pray. I couldn't make out what he said (fact, my head was in sich a whirl that I'd hardly ha' knowed my own name,) but I'll be bound God heard it, every word. Then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly, 'I'm ready!' "And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms, and kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one. "God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. You're a true Englishman, every inch of you: you wouldn't tell a lie to save your life! Well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever forget you, then may God forget me!' "And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge-it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I seed. And now, sir, axin' yer parding, it's time for me to be goin below; so I'll just wish yer good night.” 15. THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. GEORGE ARNOLD. 'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, The living should live, though the dead be dead," He taught his scholars the rule of three, And the wants of the littlest child he knew: "There is much to enjoy, down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead!" With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, The rod was scarcely known in his school, And too hard work for his poor old bones; We should make life pleasant, down here below He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue long ago. But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Over a pipe and a friendly glass: Of the many he tasted, here below; "Who has no cronies, had better be dead!" Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown: And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below; "Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door, one midsummer night, There were angels waiting for him, I know; 152.-BETH GELERT. W. R. SPENCER. The spearman heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last "Oh! where does faithful Gelert roam? So true, so brave,-a lamb at home, 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gelert could be found, And now, as over rocks and dells That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare; Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, But when he gained his castle door, The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, His favorite checked his joyful guise, And still where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view! He called his child-no voice replied; 'Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured!" The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword His suppliant, as to earth he fell, But still his Gelert's dying yell Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread- Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead- Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain! His gallant hound the wolf had slain, |