He was early home, and the dead Dukite
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
At sunrise next morning he started away

To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride
Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride
And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse.
And entered-to look on his young wife's corse,
And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes
As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose

From her breast, where 't was resting, the gleaming head
Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said,

"I've had vengeance, my fee: you took all I had."

And so had the snake-David Sloane was mad!
I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door
With an awful feeling of coming woe:

The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor,
The man held the hand of his wife, his pride,
His poor life's treasure, and crouched by her side.
O God! I sank with the weight of the blow.
I touched and called him he heeded me not,
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,

And lifted them both,-her boy on her breast,—
And laid them down in the shade to rest.
Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
But he cried so wofully, "Let me stay
Till she comes again!" that I had no heart
To try to persuade him then to part
From all that was left to him here,—her grave;
So I stayed by his side that night, and, save
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,-
O God! that wail-like the wail of a hound!

'Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
But 't will ring in my ears till the day I die.
Since that fearful night no one has heard
Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
You have seen to-day how he always goes:
He's been given that suit of convict's clothes
By some prison officer. On his back

You noticed a load like a peddler's pack?
Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went,
Still memory lived, for his days are spent
In searching for Dukites; and year by year
That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
For he's clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes.
J. BOYLE O'REILLY.

ZEK

ZEKLE.

'EKLE crep' up, quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,

An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in,
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot, an' knowed it, tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-

All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the seekle;
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yet she gin her cheer a jerk,
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work
Ez ef a wager spurred her.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal, no; I come designin'-" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrow's i'nin'."

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He could n't ha' told ye, nuther.

Sez he, "I'd better call agin;"
Sez she, "Think likely, Mister;"
The last word pricked him like a pin,
An'-wal, he up and kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,

All kind o'smily round the lips
An' teary round the lashes.

Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is, they wuz cried

In meetin', come nex' Sunday.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

то

THE FRUITS OF LABOR.

the youthful aspirant of to-day, who is willing to

take so humble a sentiment as Labor for his watchword, there are noble examples among the great names of the past to cheer him on his way. Some of the brightest lights that have adorned the generations in which they lived, and have led the way wherever they have appeared, are those that have been obliged to trust to their own hands for maintenance and aid. With strong wills and trusting hearts, their lives have exhibited that majesty which action, steady, noble, successful, alone can give.

James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine, was in early life a toiling mechanic in indigent circumstances. He was employed by the university to repair and keep in order the apparatus used in illustrating the principles of natural philosophy and chemistry. Had he been like many mechanics, he would have been content with doing the work assigned, receiving his pay, and then smoking and drinking a portion of it, with such companions as he

could induce to join him in the nearest saloon. But his mind, lit up with thought, was busy in inquiring into those laws which the apparatus he was employed to repair was designed to illustrate; and the thinking of that one man has performed more actual labor than all the slaves that have toiled and sweat since creation. The thinking of that man has revolutionized modern society, and unborn generations will rise up to bless his name.

Nathaniel Bowditch was a Boston sailor boy, and spent the greater portion of his years as a practical navigator. He had no instructor, and no opportunities for study, except such as the deck or the cabin of his vessel could afford. On one occasion his vessel was windbound for a week in Boston harbor. On commencement day at the university, he walked over to Cambridge to hear the performance. At the close the president conferred some honorary titles, and among them he thought he heard the degree of A. M. conferred on Nathaniel Bowditch. He was not mistaken. They indeed gave their degrees to the sailor, and well they might, for he was writing books which scarcely one of the faculty of the university could understand. The "Practical Navigator," which was the result of his studies, has carried many a sailor through the storms and darkness of a tempestuous ocean, and has guided him safely over unknown seas. He died lamented as the man, the Christian, and the first mathematical scholar of his age.

Elihu Burritt, the linguist, antiquary, and philanthropist, was left fatherless when a youth, in company with a numerous family of children, dependent upon their own exertions for support. He apprenticed himself to a blacksmith. But his mind was not satisfied with blowing bellows, turning his iron, and pounding it into shapes desired. He had, previous to this, acquired considerable