THE FALLS OF LODORE.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

How does the water come down at Lodore?
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along, conflicting and strong;
Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking;
Turning and twisting;
Around and around,

Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound.
Smiting and fighting,
In turmoil delighting,
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and spitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,

And tossing and crossing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And hopping and dropping,
And working and jerking,
And gurgling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering,

And falling and brawling, and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and crinkling and twinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling;
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

Grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, Clattering and battering and shattering, And gleaming and streaming and skimming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slap

ping and whirling and purling and twirl

ing;

Retreating and meeting and beating and sheeting, Delaying and straying and spraying and playing, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling; And thumping and bumping and flumping and jumping,

And thrashing and clashing and flashing and splashing;

And so never ending,
But always descending,

Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,

All at once and all o'er,

With a mighty uproar;

And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

-)o(−

WONDERS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

BY THOMAS BLAINE.

The construction of the English language must appear most formidable to foreigners. One of them, looking at a picture of a number of vessels, said, "See what a flock of ships?" He was told that a flock of ships was called a fleet, and that a fleet of sheep was called a flock. And it was added for his guidance in mastering the intricacies of our language, that "a flock of girls is called a bevy, that a bevy of wolves is called a pack, that a pack of thieves is called a gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, and a host of porpoises is called a shoal, and a shoal of buffaloes is called a herd, and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is called a covey, and a covey of beauties is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of oxen is called a drove, and a drove of blackguards is called a mob,

and a mob of whales is called a school, and a school of worshipers is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, and a band of locusts is called a swarm, and a swarm of people is called a crowd."

-)0(

GIVE ME THE HAND.

BY GOODMAN BARNABY.

Give me the hand that is kind, warm, and ready Give me the clasp that is calm, true, and steady; Give me the hand that will never deceive me; Give me its grasp that I aye may believe thee. Soft is the palm of the delicate woman;

Hard is the hand of the rough, sturdy yeoman;
Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not-never!
Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.

Give me the hand that is true as a brother;
Give me the hand that has harmed not another;
Give me the hand that has never forsworn it;
Give me the grasp that I aye may adore it!
Lovely the palm of the fair blue-veined maiden;
Horny the hand of the workman o'erladen;
Lovely or ugly, it matters not-never!
Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.

Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty,
Free as the breeze and unshackled by party:
Let friendship give me the grasp that becomes her,
Close as the twine of the vines of the summer,
Give me the hand that is true as a brother;
Give me the hand that has wronged not another;
Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not-never!
Give me the grasp that is friendly forever.

OVERBOARD.

BY EDITH ELMER.

It was a wild and wintry Sunday morning in mid-ocean, a gale blowing and a high sea running. "From lightning and tempest, from pestilence and famine; from battle and murder and from sudden death-" read the chaplain.

But the response never came; for at that moment the engines, which had throbbed ceaselessly since leaving port, stopped short. A moment of bewilderment. Had the machinery broken? Were we sinking? Every one rushed for the deck. As we reached it we heard the cry, "Man overboard!"

We stood awestruck and useless, huddled together by the companion-way. The black sky hung so low that it almost touched us. There was a tempestuous wash of great green waves around us. Our eyes smarted with the blinding salt spray; our feet slipped on the ice-coated deck. No one spoke; eyes were strained and hearts had almost stopped beating. A wall of green water was approaching, looming high above us, awful in size and force. Then we were lifted in mid-air. For an instant we were poised on the crest of the water-mountain, and below us, deep down, yawned an abyss, and at the bottom of the