A Nautical Extravagance BY WALLACE IRWIN. I stood one day by the breezy bay When a tired tar said, with a shake of his head: "I wisht I could tell a lie! "I've seen some sights as would jigger yer lights, "We were out in the gig, the Rigagajig, When Capting Snook, with a troubled look, 66 6 "O Bos'n Smith, make haste forthwith. And hemstitch the fo'ard sail; Accordeon pleat the dory sheet, For there's going to be a gale.' "I straightway did as the capting bidNo sooner the job was through When the north wind, whoof bounced over the roof, "She blew the tars right off the spars, "The galley shook as she blew our cook "She blew the fire from our gallant stove 66 6 "O wizzel me dead!' the capting said (And the words blew out of his mouth); 'We're lost, I fear, if the wind don't veer And blow a while from the south.' "And wizzel me dead, no sooner he'd said "We opened our eyes with a wild surprise, In changin' her tack the wind blew back "She blew the tars back onto the spars, Back flew the pails, the sails and the nails, "And 'fore we could look she blew back the cook Straight into the galley coop, Back dropped the pans, kettles and cans, Without even spillin' the soup. "She blew the fire back into the stove And all of us cheered as she blew the beard "There's more o' me tale," said the sailor hale, Youth and Love BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Once only by the garden gate I must fulfil an empty fate And travel the uncharted. Hail and farewell! I must arise, The untented Kosmos my abode, Come ill or well, the cross, the crown, I fling my soul and body down A Lament BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight; Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more Oh, never more! Fourteen to One* BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. (Arranged by May Ethel Neal.) ATE one evening the Reverend Mr. Matthews was hitching up his horse to go to the post-office. The horse was old; the man was old. The wagon was well worn of its paint and the wheels JEL sprawled at the axles like a decrepit old person going bow-legged from age. Mrs. Matthews came out of the house when he had harnessed. "Are you going to the post-office?" "Yes, Deborah. Want to go?" "Well," said Mrs. Matthews, doubtfully, "I don't know's I'll go." Her speech was the speech of New Hampshire. They had been Northerners thirty years ago. Weak lungs brought him and a parish kept him. The parishioners expressed themselves variously upon the parson's loyalty to the national cause. The Confederacy had never lacked friends in that township. Of late the murmur had become a mutter. The parson had given offense by preaching a sermon treating of certain disorders which had become historic, and for which the village and valley were acquiring unenviable notoriety. 66 Are you going to hold the meetin'-after all?" Certainly," replied the minister, lifting his head. "I shall dispense the Word as usual." "Well," said his wife, sadly-" well, I s'pose you will. I might have known. But I hoped you'd put it off. I was afraid to ask you. I can't help worryin'." Nothing further was said about the prayer-meeting. Neither alluded to danger. When the parson was ready to start, he kissed his wife, and said: "Good-by, Deborah." And she said, "Good-by, Levi. Let me tuck you up a little. The buffalo ain't in." * Reprinted by special permission of the author and of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. "Thank you, Deborah. Keep the doors locked, won't you? And I wouldn't run out much till I get back." "No; I don't know's I will. Have you got your lantern?" "Yes." "And your pistol? "" "No." "Ain't you going to take it?"" "No, Deborah; I've decided not to. old affair. It wouldn't do much." Besides, it's a rusty "You'll get home by nine, won't you?" The lines of anxiety seemed to grow corrosive, as if they would eat her face out. "Or quarter-past," said the parson, cheerfully. "But don't worry if I'm not here till half-past." Hezekiah took occasion to start at this point; he knew when a conversation had lasted long enough at the parting of husband and wife, in 1870, and in Kennessee. “What time shall I begin to worry, Levi?" she called after him. "My dear, perhaps by ten-or half-past. Or suppose we say eleven." She ran out into the corn to see him. It seemed to her, suddenly, as if she should strangle to death if she did not see him once more. The parson was singing. His voice came back on the wind: "How firm a founda-tion, ye sa-aints of the Lo-ord!" She wiped the tears from her eyes and came back through the corn, slowly; all her withered figure drooped. She was used, like other women in that desolate country, to being left much alone. Those terrible four years from '61 to '65 had taught her, she used to think, all the lessons that danger and solitude can teach; but she was learning new now. Peace had brought anything, everything, but security. "If this goes on long enough, I shall die of it," she said. "He will come home some day, and I shall be dead of listenin', and shiverin', and prayin' to mercy for him. Prayer is Scripture, I suppose, and I haven't anythin' against it; but folks can die of too much prayin', as well as a gallopin' consumption or the shakes." Silence and solitude responded to her. No intrusion or intruder gave sign. The mountain seemed to overlook the house pompously, as a thing too small to protect. The valley had a stealthy look, as if it were creeping up to her. The |