urged his way through the foaming current with a desperate strength.

13. Three times he was on the point of grasping the child, when the waters whirled the prize from him. The third effort was made just as they were entering within the influence of the current above the fall; and when it failed, the mother's heart sunk within her, and she groaned, fully expecting the youth to give up his task. But no'; he only pressed forward the more eagerly; and, as they breathlessly watched amid the boiling waters, they saw the form of the brave youth following close after that of the boy.

14. And now, like an arrow from the bow, pursuer and pursued shot to the brink of the precipice. An instant they hung there, distinctly visible amid the foaming waters. Every brain grew dizzy at the sight. But a shout of involuntary exultation burst from the spectators, when they saw the boy held aloft by the right arm of the youth, a shout that was suddenly checked with horror, when they both vanished into the abyss below!

15. A moment elapsed before a word was spoken, or a breath drawn. The mother ran forward, and then stood gazing with fixed eyes at the foot of the cataract, as if her all depended upon what the next moment should reveal. Suddenly she gave the glad cry, (f.) "There they are! See! they are safe!-Great God, I thank thee!" And, sure enough, there was the youth still unharmed, and still buffeting the waters. He had just emerged from the boiling vortex below the cataract. With one hand he held aloft the child, and with the other he was making for the shore.

16. They ran, they shouted, they scarcely knew what they did, until they reached his side, just as he was struggling to the bank. They drew him out almost exhausted. The boy was senseless; but his mother declared that he still

lived, as she pressed him frantically to her bosom. The youth could scarcely stand, so faint was he from his exertions.

17. Who can describe. the scene that followed,—the mother's calmness while she strove to resuscitate her boy, and her wild gratitude to his preserver, when the child was out of danger, and sweetly sleeping in her arms? Our pen shrinks at the task. But her words, pronounced then, were remembered afterwards by more than one who heard them.

18. "God will reward you," said she, "as I can not. He will do great things for you in return for this day's work, and the blessings of thousands besides mine will attend you." And so it was; for, to the hero of that hour, were subsequently confided the destinies of a mighty nation. But, throughout his long career, what tended to make him more honored and respected beyond all men, was the self-sacrificing spirit, which, in the rescue of that mother's child, as in the more august events of his life, characterized OUR BELOVED WASHINGTON.

QUESTIONS.-1. Describe the scene where this accident took place. 2. What did the woman say to the young man? 3. Why would not the men release the woman? 4. What did the young man do? 5. Did he finally succeed in saving the child? 6. What did the mother say to him? 7. Who did this youth prove to be?

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

WILLIAM C. Bryant.

1. LAY down the ax; fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plow;
The rifle and the bayonet blade

For arms like yours were fitter now:
And let the hands that ply the pen

Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field.

2. Our Country calls; (") away! away!
To where the blood-stream blots the green;
Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all its course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts-see,

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;

They rush to smite her down, and we
Must beat the banded traitors back.

3. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight,
Men of the glade and forest, leave

Your woodcraft for the field of fight!
The arms that wield the ax must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;

His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low.

4. And ye, who breast the mountain storm,
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form
A bulwark that no foe can break.

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defense;
The blast as soon shall move the rock

As rushing squadrons bear ye

thence.

5. And ye, whose homes are by her grand,
Swift rivers, rising far away,

Come from the depth of her green land,
As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourn,
With sudden floods to drown the plains,
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

6. And ye, who throng beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like the deep, when o'er his brim
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against his shore.

7. Few, few were they whose swords of old
Won the fair land in which we dwell;
But we are many, —we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.
(f) Strike, for that broad and goodly land,
Blow after blow, till men shall see

That Might and Right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be.

QUESTIONS.-I. What does the writer call on us to do? 2. To whom does he appeal? 3. Who are meant by few in the last verse? 4. For what are they to strike?

PRE TER NAT′ U RAL, (PRETER, beyond,) beyond what is natural; miraculous.

IN VOLV' ED, (IN, in; VOLVED, rolled;) rolled in; enveloped.

IN TER RUPT', (INTER, in, between; RUPT, to break ;) break in between; stop; hinder.

1 JOB, a patriarch, celebrated for his patience, constancy, and piety. For note on DAVID, see page 138.

NOTE. The dash at the end of a remark, denotes that the speaker is interrupted by the one with whom he is conversing.

MRS. CREDULOUS AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that knows every thing'?

Fortune-Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam; but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowledge.

Mrs. C. Ay', so you say; but every body else says you know every thing; and I have come all the way from Boston to consult you; for you must know I have met with a dreadful loss.

F. T. We are liable to losses in this world', madam'. Mrs. C. Yes'; and I have had my share of them, though I shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving.

F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes with fortitude, by this time.

Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear