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“A PSALM OF LIFEP
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
“Life is but an empty dream!”
.For the soul is dead that glum berg,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
“Dust thou art. to dust retumest,”
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way.
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us further than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting.
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like rr.uffkd drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife.
Trust no fortune, howe’er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead;
Act—act in the living present—
Heart within and God o’erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And. departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the'sands of time—
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life's solemn main,
A forelorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let ns, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Henry W. Longfellow.
P’oox* Jack.
“Life is worth nothing to me if I can¬
not dress well!”
She said it, and she meant it, from
her heart. And she looked down scorn¬
fully and angrily upon her coarse dress
and common shoes. Many and many a
time the thought had been in her mind;
and now it formed itself in words which
she uttered aloud; and, as they fell
upon the evening air, a hand came down
upon her shoulder, and, turning, she saw
her husband.
“Is it really so, Bell?” he asked, and
drew her to him.
A baby thing, though she had a
woman s years and stature—a beautiful
creature, with a creamy s kin and eyes
blue as sapphires are. Not a common
woman ; one in whose veins blue blood
ran. You could see that at a glance,
though the man whose wife she was was
a common sailor.
They told a romantic story about her
in that sea-side palacq. How, on a
▼oyage across the ocean with her father,
the sailor had won her heart How there
were, afterward, secret meetings and
troth-plightings; and how, in the end,
the discovery of the love affair and her
parent’s anger had only driven Bell
Raymond to elope with her sailor lover,
and marry him despite all opposition.
She had been disowned and disin¬
herited ; and now, were they to meet in
the street her own father would have
passed her as he would a stranger; for,
to his mind, she had disgraced herself
and her family irretrievably.
That Jack Marble was good and hand¬
some, and love-worthy, was no excuse
for his daughter in Mr. Raymond’s eyes.
He was a common sailor, that blotted
out all merit at once and forever.
Other people marvelled at Bell Ray
mond’s choice, and blamed her too. But
she was very happy. Her young hus
band idolizedlier, and at the first money
was plenty. Certain sums, which Jack’s
hard-workingfather had scraped together
for a rainy day, and so bequeathed to
his son, were withdrawn from the bank
in which they had been deposited; and
Bell had a tasteful wardrobe, for this her
father had sent her, with a cold message
to the effect that her own personal prop
erty was all she need ever expect at
his hands.
Then soon Jack hoped to be a mate;
after that, a captain; some day, captain
and owner—the grand climax of a sea
faring man’s ambition. And to Bell, the
fact that her husband was a sailor, threw
a romance about him which a landsman
could not have had. Their life passed
on in a pleasant sort of waltz music, and
neither dreamt of any change.
Yet change came. Jack left his young
wife for a voyage, understanding, as she
could not, how the little hoard had
me ted away, and would continue to
melt like snow under a sunbeam, and the
voyage was a disastrous one, ending in
shipwreck. Many were lost, and Jack
was only rescued at death’s door with a
broken limb, and a miserable experience
of starvation and consequent cannibal¬
ism. Indeed, Jack himself came near
making a meal for two maddened mess¬
mates, who afterward wept like babies
at the remembrance of their horrible
thought*.
Jack had a good constitution, and re¬
covered. His roses came back, aud his
hair, long ami lank, when they took him
from the floating raft, curled close to his
handsome head again. But he came
back to Bell with a wooden leg and a
knowledge that his sailor life was over,
and that he should never now aspire to
the title of mate, amd master, and
owner.
Bell loved him all the more, and
pitied him, and cherished him; and, had
they been rich, their life might have
glided on to the old waltz music—a lit¬
tle sadder, but no less sweet. But,
alas! they were not rich, but growing
very poor.
So, as the money grew less, the com¬
forts grew less. They left the pretty
rooms to which he had taken her for a
very humble place; and poor Jack, salt
to the very soul and unfit for any lands¬
man’s work as a fish for a parlor-cage,
humbled himself and said nothing of
that aching place where his dreams of
sea and of advancement lay covered up,
and sunk into the vacant place left by an
old boatman who had plied his trade at
the wharf and along the shore of the
town where Jack had been born and had
lived all his life.
He had strong arms yet, and was a
wonderful oarsman, and they did not
starve. But their life was the pinching
life of the poor, and it came soon to the
coarsest fare and the coarsest dress; and
Bell, who had been used to dainty food
and elegant attire, suffered more than
the sailor who knew what hard-tack was
and was used to roughing it
He never knew how bitteriy she re¬
pined until coming upon her in a day¬
dream he heard those words :
“Life is worth nothing tome if I must
go shabby.”
She wept on his shoulder, as he held
her to him and sobbed out at heart.
“It was more than she could bear. It
was terrible. Their housemaid at home
had better clothes. It was horrible to
look out of the window and hear the
sailors’ wives quarreling with their hus¬
bands, or scolding their children, or
beating down the fish-mongers, the blast
from whose tin horns filled the street
from dawn until sunset. Was such a
life worth anything ? and she could not
rid herself of it for an hour, for her
clothes were not fit to wear where people
were well dressed; and she would not be
seen by her old friends now.”
So she sobbed. And Jack’s hand
smoothed her fair hair, and his lips
touched her cheek, and by-and-bye he
whispered:
•*I wish I had never met you, lass; or
I wish I’d drifted by without a signal;
for, d’ye see this is all my fault; and
you’d be safe in harbor now if you hadn't
sailed out of it with me. Only I couldn’t
foresee the future, lass; and I thought
to make you a captain’s wife; by-and-bye
an owner’s lady. It would have been
better for you if Jem and Bill had made
a meal of me, I’ve come to think, Rid
of me, your father would take you home;
well—it may happen yet.”
And then Bell put her arms about his
neck and whispered that she did not re¬
gret her love for him.
But struggle as she might with it, the
words that had been said of her folly
would recur to her mind, and she knew
that she did regret something. It was
hard to help it.
Jack knew it also. He ate his humble
supper sadly, and went out again. His
day’s work was over, but he wanted to
be alone.
He limped down to the shore where it
was lonely, and washed the highest by
the sobbing waves, and stood looking
out.
“I meant , to , make , her , captains . . ,
a
be muttered.
“ X meant to show the old hunks
ashore that sbe shou,d have
he ,^ ld have given her.
Tber ® 8 a h ° us f wlth a f e ™ w ’ and
a , lookout top, that I T meant to buy; and
f ° r ” ggu ^ " hy no lfldy m J he land
<*ould have been sprucer No wonde
sbe f > «**“* *»' whlte “ " lth
J?* What t nght T°*' had and 1 totura g ° mg pirate shabby i and ' tow °°'
’
ber awa y from her moorings, and then
make shipwreck of her ? Yes, it would
be better to be down below, among the
wrecks—a great deal better. She must
think me an enemy; I’ve only done her
harm; I who love her better than my
life.”
Then he looked seaward again moodily,
A terrible storm was coming; his sailor
eye saw that without a doubt. He felt
it in the air; heard it in all sounds; and
the leaden foaming of the distant waves,
j tbe black mee ting of the sea and sky,
ma de it manifest to anvone.
‘
; A ship bad been wr ecked tlie day
or6) aud ber wreck was lying beyond
he harbor bar. Jack fell to thinking of
ber
“She’ll go to pieces to-night,” he
said. “The storm will make an end of
her,” and he thought of the ship as of
a sensate human being whose troubles
were nearly ended, with a kind of envy,
too. If he should live until Bell hated
him how could he bear it ? His earthly
hopes had gone. The ideal ship to be
named the Bell Marble would never be
his, and he must limp painfully through
the world to his life’s end now. But he
could bear that if he could only keep
Bell’s heart. Could he without money ?
He put his curly head down on his
bronzed hands, and prayed a strange,
innocent, simple prayer:
“Please to give me money enough to
keep my wife’s love, and forgive me if
I am wrong, for I’m only a poor sailor
adrift without a compass, and not a
haplain, and don’t know. ”
Perhaps his theology was at fault;
but he had heard that he must pray for
what he needed, and he tried the advice
practically. and looking
After that he stood up,
along the beach saw further on an ex¬
cited group, and went to join them.
Sailors, boatmen, a spruce captain in
his ashore clothes, an idle woman or
two, some children, and a gentleman
who had nothing seafaring in his appear¬
ance, and wore his arm in a sling. This
gentleman was talking.
“A thousand dollars for the man who
brings them. Is no man anxious to
make money so easily ? Two hours’
work. I’d do it myself if I had not
sprained my arm. I saw the wreck
from the light-house. There will be no
difficulty, and she will go to pieces be¬
fore morning. A thousand dollars!
There’s an offer for these men, Captain
Taylor.”
“Only men are fond of their lives,”
said the captain. “Look at the sea and
the sky. I should like to help you to
your casket, but I can’t advise these men
to go. It would be murder. ”
“Pshaw ! The fellows at our college
would have done it for fun.”
“A sailor would not,” said the captain.
“If the ship lives through the night,
there’s a chance.”
“But can she?” asked the stranger.
“I think not,” said the captain.
“Good heavens! think of it!” cried
the man. “The fruits of five years’
labor in Europe are in that casket. I’ve
toiled with brain and body. I’m ruined
if it is lost. There are men who would
do it for a trifle. You hear my offer, all
of you. Bring that casket before sun¬
set, and I’ll give you more.”
Then a brown hand touched his arm,
and a voice husky with emotion said:
“I’m your man, on one condition.”
The gentleman turned.
“One who is not a coward,” he said.
“There ain’t a coward here,” said
Jack. “I know the danger as well as
they, but promise me one, thing.
Promise me before these people, so that
you must hold to it. The money you
will give me if I get ashore again?”
“The money I have promised will be
paid at once,” said the gentleman.
“Hear me out, please,” said Jack.
“That money, if I die out there, you’ll
pay to my wife. Swear that, and I’m
ready.”
“Jack,” cried the captain, “it is sheer
madness. ”
Jack smiled; a strange, heart-broken
smile enough.
“I’ll try it,” he said, “on that condi¬
tion. ”
The gentleman had torn a leaf from
his pocket-book, and wrote upon it
hastily.
“This secures a thousand dollars to
your wife,” he said. “Your name ?”
“Jack Marble,” said the sailor.
“To Jack Marble’s wife,’’said the man.
“No danger, though ; as I said before,
our college boys would have made sport
of it. Hurry, my man ; hurry.”
Jack glanced over the papers.
“Keep it for me, Captain Taylor,” he
said. “I’m readv now. sir.”
Then he went to unmoor his boat and
make her ready.
Afterward, as he dropped the oars in
the water, and pulled from shore, he
looked back and said in a whisper, blown
from his lips as it passed them by the
furious gale:
“Good-by, Bell. Good-by, darling.
Good-by.”
They watched him out of sight. The
little bark was a mere eggshell for the
storm .to play with one such a night.
“He’ll never come back no more,
master,” said a woman who stood near
the gentleman, and the faces of all about
them said the same.
An hour thence the tempest had burst
over them, such as only one old woman
in all that sea-side place could remem¬
ber having known before. And then (it
was fifty years or more since the day)
twenty dead bodies had been cast upon
the beach in the morning; bodies of
fishermen caught outside the harbor bar
by the storm.
There were sad hearts in the town—a
town filled with sea-going folk, nearly
every household of which had some dear
one afloat on the ocean. But every
woman there had a thought to spare
from her own sorrows for poor Jack
Marble and the young wife who wept for
him.
She had been proud and held herself
above them; but they forgot that when
they saw her cast down upon the sand in
the gray dawn, all her golden hair about
her face. She had heard the story of
her husband’s compact with the stran¬
ger, and knew why he had been so ready
to barter his life for gold.
Knew as none there knew that he had
no hope of ever coming back.
Touch that money—not she—never,
though she starved. Nor would she go
back to her luxurious home, where,
doubtless, now she would be welcomed.
There she would die, and they should
bury her in the sea, to float away and
find Jack. All the world was nothing
without him; nothing, she knew that.
Life was worthless without Jack. And
no one gave her any hope. No one
dared.
The wreck had vanished. Bits of her
came in with the tide. Soon it might
bring that which had been Jack to her
feet. All day she watched for it with
maddening eyes, with a horrible soul
rending hope and fear mingling in her
soul. But the sea brought only in the
dusk a little boat. One old man in red
flannel, with a tarpaulin upon his head,
at the oars. A stranger who came up to
the men on the beach, and said some¬
thing to them—something that set them
all a shouting, screaming, cheering, ut¬
tering Jack Marble’s name with odd
gasps and sobs; and before they told her
Bell knew that her husband had been
saved.
He lay in the fisherman’s hut, buffeted
by wave and wind to an infant’s weak¬
ness, and she bent over him, her lips to
his, and words were spoken then that
bound their hearts more firmly than they
ever had been bound before.
Jack had not brought the casket, and
would receive nothing from the' man
who had sent him forth. Bell urged
him with tears in her eyes to this.
“I would not have it, Jack,” she said.
“It is as though I could have taken
money for your life. ”
So with Jack’s health the two re¬
turned to their old humble life. They
were .never happier, Jack often said,
than in these days, though afterward
wealth came to them; for Bell's father re¬
lented at death, and made her his heiress.
And Jack’s great hope of being owner of
a splendid steamer came to pass, al¬
though he made but one or two voyages
in her, after all, and those with Bell.
And people who knew how rich they
were wondered sometimes that Captain
Marble’s wife would not be finer. Al¬
ways neat, she never decked herself as
many women did. She knew why, and
so did Jack, who tried to move her
often, but no one else, unless my reader
guesses how those words which she had
spoken had haunted her on the night
through which she wept for Jack as one
dead.
A Butter Idyl.
“Talk about creamery butter,” said
the grocer, “give me the old-fashioned
sweet-cream-home-made-churned butter
of the country, like this,” and he laid
a roll on the counter and proceeded to
butter some crackers.
“Eh? what’s that?” inquired a cus¬
tomer. “Country butter? Let me
taste it.”
So more crackers were buttered,
which he ate greedily.
“How much of that butter have you
got?” he asked, wiping his chops with a
smack of satisfaction.
“Took the most of it home to my own
family, Colonel M--bought some and
will be in after the rest. You see, it
isn’t easy to get June, clover-fed, cream
butter at this time of year. You could
not find a pound in any other store in
town,” said the grocer, proudly.
“Send me up the lot,” said the cus¬
tomer; “I don’t want any creamery
butterine after eating that. You can’t
fool me on genuine butter. I was
brought up on a farm, I was, and know
good butter when I see it. ”
And he paid for his goods and went
out.
“Where did you strike that butter?’
asked a man who was eating prunes and
pickles near the stove.
“Down at the factory where they
make it,” replied the grocer, calmly.
And the beating of their own hearts was
all the sound they heard.
Chopping Wood.—You must know
something of your business, even if it is
wood chopping. An old Ean Claire
logger says that if you are cutting small
lumber, which may be severed at from
one to a half doxen blows, an ax with a
long, thin blade, and as little bevel as is
compatible with strength, js chosen,
and at every stroke the blade is buried
to the helve. If the purpose is to fell
large trees or cut heavy timber, and this
same ax is used, it bites deep in its
strokes, but the chip remains in the
limber after the incisions, and many
more blows are required to dislodge it
than were necessary to its formation;
therefore, for this purpose, an ax having
a thick, heavy bevel, and cutting not so
deep, is selected. The bevel, now act¬
ing as a wedge, forces out the chip
at the same stroke by which the in¬
cision is made.
Slavery. —Chinese slavery in Ameri¬
can cities is not, the San Francisco
Chronicle says, a new discovery made
by the lady who recently addressed the
Eastern press. It exists in that city in
an exaggerated form, and even the
courts are powerless in their efforts to
draw out the truth. The slaves dare
not tell it.
MARRYING FOR
THB E IIad IF e Sggju,
wife 8 1 n
A Sad Incident of
her European tue*"
Some years ago a young
.
knew very well as the reigning p ° tt
one ried of a our Hungarian smaller American^ '
officer in the gentleman who
an Austrian service "
respectable rank. He a ®
able, was kind
and there was no question Ju
social much standing, and as the girl J* *
very in love with him k e
reluctantly r P
gave their consent j
went with her husband to his f
home. She knew G a
110 eri nan fa
spoke , English very well), and to
knowledge of the world. Thin!
her life must have been. *
speak to nobody She
for a while untiu
mastered enough of the
amusements he country to permitted get along. were!! Thlk
her
those she had been used to, and tip
solute without social suspicion, freedom that to come and* ]
is one‘of
charms of American womanlife L
gone. Two years ago I was hi J lot
rison town of Austria, on the
Danube, and there I met what had
the sweetly pretty girl of ten years
I such change, a? 5
never saw a
the only American I have met that
ever knew before in ten ye®, 11 4
said. “I am not unhappy, but I fa)
if our girls at home could only knowos
undesstand how different everytlm
here is from what they have been
to, they would never dream ol mama
a man who was not an American, It?
have to change everything when fa
come abroad to live. I have S 1 M
years and never heard my m 0 fa
tongue. Leopold, ” her husband, "is j
command here. But there are no
for me to associate with. In the Al¬
tman service no man is permitted id J
marry until he has a certain
come. The young officers, the*!,
cannot marry, for they are geml/l chel
poor. Those who are rich gohto
Guards regiments, which are atlml
or other large cities. So we g/al
worst and poorest educated in tkfe]
I have not spoken to a lady it a
months. You cannot imagine mz
utterable loneliness.” As I badeiii
good-bye she broke into a torrent 1
tears and said : “lamso lonely. Ial
so lonely. Oh, that I could go homil
Upom my return to America I saw kl
mother, and told her that her daughtl
was dying of homesickness, and that!
she ever wished to see her alive fal
must bring her home for a visit, Ttol
did so, but the bad living and miasm
had done its work only too well, aiidsM
died within three weeks after she ago
came under her father’s roof. If oil!
girls could only know, or if they m
only think, how much unhappiness tiaj
would save themselves I The first thi|
the foreigner thinks of in marrying if
money, and not an American girl in on
hundred is married for any other canuj
than that she has or will have mm I
The rule is absolute. For the sale
her dollars the noble German, or
not, bestows upon her his rafijBl
he would never do if she werertroM
Small wonder is it, then, thatomH
taking Consul makes up such a state j
ment as that quoted from, and tbit .
result is invariably what he says it *
shame and misery until death, t
be that the lesson will be heeded, an
it is, then Mr. Potter has done a«
that entitles him to the thanks of eve
American man or woman. Washing
Herald.
“The Air Pudding”
He was mate of a vessel j
by a Nantucket* skipper, had retummgj* got »
a long cruise. They
the “south shoal,” when the
aft and reported that the P 1 ®
t n
entirely out. “It can >*!
were “How can •**
swered the skipper, fact.” “f
be?” “I do’no, but it’s a casks?” 4
’’
you examined all the 0>
sir.” “Can’t the cook scrapes®
out of the bread barge?” ( a m
sailors’ hard bread is kept ^
scraped it all out long ^ j r
grew clamorous, and the
called them aft to take P° ^
him on the quarter d ek. "J
they went .to see what w
“Now, boys,” said the shipP
to where Nantucket fresh breeze lay, h]o<->\
quarter a will treat y ^
“now, lads, I 1
delicious ! Open yom m0 ^ y
r
They did so. “Now,
mouths and stomachs wj. & 0 iji*
air pudding !” Toe scene ^
crous obtained that it kept succor their and spirit^ » ^
they port.
carried them into
A magazine writer asks,
Indians ? Tb>® “ *
we utilize the rW*1
cult question would to answer, be to F' ' *” a 11 J Vi
best plan 1 -
sell them for of cigar-store considers ^ “ -
idea is worthy
