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ing a whale to harpoon him (for, as you must know, he sometimes knocks the boat to pieces with his monstrous tail, and spills all the crew out in the water), he may, while swimming away with the harpoon in him, and the boat fast to it dragging after, — he may, I say, take it into his head to rush beneath the ice, and thus destroy the boat and endanger the lives of the people in it.

“But this is too long a falling to ‘leeward' of our story, as the sailors would call it ; so we will come right back into the wind again.

“When the weather cleared off after the storm, we went to work again as before. But everything about looked gloomy enough. The cliffs were besprinkled with snow, and about the rocks the snow had drifted, and it lay in streaks where it had been carried by the wind. The sea was still very rough, and, as there were many pieces of ice upon the water, when the waves rose and fell, the pounding of the ice against the rocks and the breaking of the surf made a most fearful sound.

“ The sun coming out warm soon, however, melted the snow, and, getting heated up with work, we got on bravely. Indeed, we soon became not less surprised at the rapid progress we were making than at the facility with which we accommodated ourselves to our strange condition of life, and even grew cheerful under what would seem a state of the greatest possible distress. Thus you observe how perfectly we may reconcile ourselves to any fate, if one has but a resolute will, and the fear of God before his mind. I do not mean to boast about the Dean and myself; but I think it must be owned that we kept up our courage pretty well, all things considered, don't t you

think “ To be sure we do,” replied William. “ And if anybody dares to doubt it, I will go, like Count Robert, to the cross-road, and give battle for a week to all comers, just as he did.”

“ Poking fun at the Ancient Mariner again, are you ? " said the Captain, trying hard to look serious. “And so I 'll punish you, my boy, by knocking off just where we are, and saying not another word this blessed day.”

Isaac I. Hayes.


so, my dears ?"


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And what can a poor Dolly do ? I can't even hear myself calling ;

And nobody's near me but you. You sang me a lullaby sweetly ;

But dolls' eyes wide open will keep ;
And so you were tired out completely,

And sang yourself soundly to sleep.
I love you ; I wish you would fold me

Close up to your cheek rosy-red.
'T is a dangerous way that you hold me ;

The sawdust will rush to my head.
I 'm sliding, I 'm tumbling, I 'm bumping;

I'm sure I shall fracture my skull;
Against your hard boot it is thumping, –

O save me ! do give me one pull !
If you down a steep chasm were slipping,

On terrible rocks almost dashed,
To your aid there 'd be somebody tripping :

Wake up, or you 'll find Dolly smashed !

Good morning, Dolly, my dear.

And how did you sleep last night? Not soundly, I very much fear ;

But have you forgiven me quite ? The sun is out warm to-day;

Can you trust my motherly care ? In-doors it is hard to stay,

And you certainly need the air.
We will make the Doctor a call ;

And if he and I can agree
That you are not hurt by. your fall,

What a glad mamma I shall be !
I shall watch you tenderly hence.

were over-bright; And if you are bumped into sense, You will be, dear, my heart's delight.

Lucy Larcom.

But you


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fellow's poem,


OST of the readers of the “ Young Folks,” are doubtless familiar with

the name of the Grand St. Bernard, – that celebrated pass among the Alps, where the good monks live all the year and provide food and shelter for the poor travellers. Every school-boy can repeat the words of Long

“ Excelsior,” and it is the spot where this scene is laid of which we purpose giving a short account. In the warm and bright days of early October, a year or two ago, a party of Americans started from the little Swiss village of Martigny, in the valley of the Rhone, to cross the pass of the St. Bernard. Two large carriages, drawn by mules, rattled along through the valley. Behind us was the “blue Rhone, in deepest flow,” rushing on towards the beautiful Lake of Geneva, winding around the foot of lofty mountains, now falling in beautiful cascades, and then again rushing onward, swollen by mountain torrents. The lofty peaks of the snow-covered Dent du Midi rise up in the distance on the right; and on the left is the little village of Sion, with its two curious old towers standing like sentinels to guard the entrance. The beautiful snow-peak of the Jungfrau is plainly visible, and beyond that the high mountains of the Simplon pass sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. As we drive on through the valley, we see on all sides of us the peasants busy in the vineyards gathering in the harvest. Old and young are at work, for the labor must be performed within a given time, and to many a poor family this is the only source of income. It is a picturesque sight to see the women and girls, in their cantonal costume, – the tall straw hat, or the silk turban-like covering for the head, the short skirt of colored woollen fabric, and the heavy wooden shoes, – at work among the green vines, and the men with large wooden panniers on their backs, filled with the purple and white fruit, as they carry it away to be pressed. Beside us, but down deep in the valley, is a foaming mountain-torrent, dashing over rocks, and the débris of the mountain-slides. High above us are the cattle, feeding upon the remnants of green pastures, – the sheep, smooth and white after the shearing, and the black and white cows each with a bell around her neck; for here there are very few red cows, such as we see in our pastures in America. The children here are never idle. As soon as a child can take care of herself she must help take care of the household. The boys are generally seen in the fields, watching the cattle, and the little girls must learn to mind the baby. I have seen plenty of girls not ten years old lugging about babies in their arms, or carrying great heavy loads on their backs. For this reason we see very few bright, healthy-looking children. They live in miserable little homes, dark and dreary, with scarcely any sunlight; they sleep in poorly ventilated rooms, and all day long carry heavy burdens, or do hard work in the fields. No wonder, then, they become old-looking and wrinkled before they are at the age when our girls become the brightest. As we rode along, we drove through little villages, with streets so narrow that the passersby had to scamper along ahead of us, or make wall-flowers of themselves to let us pass. On both sides of us were low Swiss cottages, which look far better in the white wooden models, and in the pictures, than they are in reality. They are never painted, and the dirt that accumulates on the outside is only in keeping with the smoky and filthy appearance within. But if we find the houses and inhabitants so very uninviting in appearance, we have, on all sides of us, the beautiful mountains, the deep gorges, the green valleys, and the little mountain-torrents, to admire. Nature's handiwork is always lovely, and, as we looked at these things, we wondered if the people living among such beautiful objects ever gave them one thought. After resting for two hours for dinner we resumed our ride. And now the road became more difficult, winding around the mountains, and going close to the edge of precipices. Far on ahead of us we could see the tall peak of Mount Velan, rising, like an obelisk of frosted silver, against the clear blue sky. Two hours brought us to the last of the Swiss towns, and here we left our carriages, and, putting saddles on the mules, mounted them for the last ascent. The road here is very narrow and stony, as the mountains rise on either side more precipitously. Here is the great danger of this pass, in stormy weather; and there is no month that snow-storms do not come to this place. We are here eight thousand feet above the lake ; and at such a height it is too cold for rain. The cold here is intense all the year. Even when we have the hottest summer weather in the valley, it is very cold at the summit of the pass. As we reached the top, the sun was just setting, and then occurred one of those phenomena which are so common among the Alps. The rays of the sun were not seen, but the sky assumed a deep orange color, and the tops of the mountains covered with snow wore a beautiful rose-colored tint, which lasted for several minutes. This is the Alpengild. Slowly the twilight faded, and then it became cold and dark. But before this our little party were at the Hospice, and had been cordially welcomed by one of the brethren who met us at the door. The Hospice is a large stone building, four stories high, and capable of accommodating a great number of people. It was founded, nine hundred years ago, by a good monk called Bernard de Menthon. Then it was a little building erected for the purpose of sheltering poor travellers who crossed from Italy into Switzerland. When Napoleon Bonaparte made his celebrated passage of the Alps, in May, 1800, he rested and refreshed himself at this little house of the good monk St. Bernard. The room in which he rested is still preserved, and is over the front door. Additions have been made to both ends of the house, but the original foundation and rooms are preserved. Bonaparte's army of thirty thousand men carried over all their artillery, by placing it on trees, which they cut down in the valley near St. Pierre. Three weeks after accomplishing this wonderful feat, the same soldiers were engaged in the battle of Marengo. ' During the war of 1798 – 1801 both the French and Austrian soldiers used this passage continually. The Hospice was captured by the Austrians in 1799, and afterwards retaken by the French, who placed a garrison in it. This same pass has been used for ages, even longer than since the Christian era.

The town of Augusta, which was founded twenty-six years B. C., is at the foot of the pass on the Italian side; and the Romans doubtless used this route in passing to and from Cisalpine Gaul. At this Hospice we were each provided with comfortable rooms for the night. Everything about it was very clean, and every possible provision is made for the comfort of travellers. A plain, well-cooked supper was given us, at half past six, at which one of the brethren presided. The reception-room, which is also the dining-room, is well furnished, the walls being hung with engravings and pictures presented by travellers in return for the hospitality extended to them. A very fine piano, the gift of the Prince of Wales, stands in one corner, and by it a harmonium, the gift of a friend of the Hospice. A wood fire was burning on the hearth, gathered around which we spent the evening. Some of our party played upon the piano, and sang, after which, two of the brethren sang a few songs for us. Thus the evening passed away, the monks entertaining us with their conversation, and asking questions about our country and its institutions. Hundreds of Americans during the past summer have been the guests of these good brethren, and all leave some testimonial of their goodwill by placing a donation of money in the box appropriated to the expenses of the Hospice. There is no charge for the hospitality; all are guests and are treated alike; but we hope none are so thoughtless as to go away without depositing something in the box. Let us consider a little the use to which this money is put. In the first place the expense of living at the Hospice. There is not a tree nor a shrub within five miles on either side. All the wood, as well as provisions of every kind, must be brought up the mountain

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