"God save us!" cried the settler's wife,
“The prairie's a-fire, we must run for life !”

She caught the baby up, "Come,

Are ye mad? to your heels, my man;"
He followed, terror-stricken, dumb,

And so they ran and ran.

Close upon them was the snort and swing
Of buffaloes madly galloping.

The wild wind, like a sower, sows
The ground with sparkles red;

And the flapping wings of the bats and crows,
And the ashes overhead,

And the bellowing deer, and the hissing snake,
What a swirl of terrible sounds they make.

No gleam of the river water yet,
And the flames leap on and on,
A crash and a fiercer whirl and jet,
And the settler's house is gone.

The air grows hot; "this fluttering curl
Would burn like flax," said the little girl.

And as the smoke against her drifts,
And the lizard slips close by her,
She tells how the little cow uplifts
Her speckled face from the fire;

For she cannot be hindered from looking back
At the fiery dragon on their track.

They hear the crackling grass and sedge,
The flames as they whir and rave,

On, on! they are close to the water's edge,—
They are breast-deep in the wave;

And lifting their little one high o'er the tide,

"We are saved, thank God, we are saved!" they cried. Alice Carey.

JOAN OF ARC.

What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd-girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd-boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly out of the quict, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies,

and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender: but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of good-will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose,—to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs, which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent. No! for her feet were dust.

Pure, innocent, noble hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and selfsacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, that never once-no, not for a moment of weakness didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honor from man. Coronets for thee? Oh, no! Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude. of thy king shall awaken thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee! Cite her by thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be found en contumace. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd-girl, will have been deaf for five cen turies.

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; to do, never for thyself. always for others; to suffer,-

never in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own; that was thy destiny, and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. "Life," thou saidst, “is short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those hea venly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long."

Pure from every suspicion of even a visionary selfinterest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious, never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was travelling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end, on every road, pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints; these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future, but the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joan knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them: not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joan knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. Thomas De Quincy.

PRAYING FOR RAIN.

How difficult, alas! to please mankind!
One or the other every moment mutters;
This wants an eastern, that a western wind;
A third, petition for a southern utters.

Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow;
How can Heaven suit all palates ?--I don't know
Good Lamb, the curate, much approved,
Indeed, by all his flock beloved,

Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain;
The parson most devoutly prayed ;-

The powers of prayer were soon displayed;
Immediately a torrent drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay,
Had of his meadow not yet saved the hay:
Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring.
It happened too that Robin was from home;
But when he heard the story, in a foam

He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing?

A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing!
What! pray for rain before I saved my hay!
Oh! you're a cruel and ungrateful man!

I, that forever help you all I can,

Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay
Whenever we have something on the spit,
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken,
Whose bones you are so fond of picking;
And often too, a keg of brandy;
You, that were welcome to a treat,
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat;
Making my house so very handy!

"You, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick!
Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick.
What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With my fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware,-
Hang me! but I had stopped your pretty prayer!”
"Dear Mister Jay," quoth Lamb, "alas! alas!
I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Oh! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose,-
Was not the field just underneath your nose?
This is a very pretty losing job!"

"Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb,
Your brother warden joined to have the prayer.
"Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only sport;
What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt ?"

Roared furious Jay, as broad as he could stare

"The fellow owns, as far as I can larn,
A few old houses only, and a barn;

As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to him?
Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim.
Besides, why could you not for drizzle pray?
Why force it down in buckets on the hay?
Would I have played with your hay such a freak?
No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."
"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest

I acted solely for the best;

I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. Your anger for this once restrain,

I'll never bring a drop again

Till you and all the parish are agreed."

Peter Pindar.

RING THE BELL SOFTLY.

Some one has gone from this strange world of ours,
No more to gather its thorns with its flowers;
No more to linger where sunbeams must fade,
Where on all beauty death's fingers are laid;
Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet,
Weary with parting and never to meet,

Some one has gone to the bright golden shore
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!

Some one is resting from sorrow and sin,
Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in,
Joyous as birds when the morning is bright,

When the sweet sunbeams have brought us their light.
Weary with sowing and never to reap,

Weary with labor, and welcoming sleep,

Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore;

Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!

Angels were anxiously longing to meet

One who walks with them in heaven's bright street;
Loved ones have whispered that some one is blest,-
Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest.
Yes! there is one more in angelic bliss,-
One less to cherish and one less to kiss;
One more departed to heaven's bright shore;
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door!

Dexter Smith.