in; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath; sobs frenziedly; the sand rises; the sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it --silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them--night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.”

HOW HE WHIPPED HIM.

A young John Phoenix tells how it was, as follows: "I'll tell you how it was. You see, Bill and me went down to the wharf to fish; and I felt in my pocket and found my knife and it was gone, and I said, Bill, you stole my knife; and he said I was another; and I said go there yourself; and he said it was no such thing; and I said he was a fraud, and I could whip him, if I was bigger'n him; and he said he'd rock me to sleep, mother; and I said he was a bigger one; and he said I never had the measles; and I said for him to fork over that knife or I'd fix him for a tombstone on Laurel Hill; and he said my grandmother was no gentleman; and I said he darsen't take it up; but he did, you bet; you never-well, you never did; then I got up again, and said he was too much afraid to do it again, and he tried to, but he didn't; and I grabbed him and threw him down on top of me like several bricks; and I tell you it beat all-and so did he; and my little dog got behind Bill and bit him ; anu Bill kicked at the dog, and the dog ran, and I ran after the dog to fetch him back, and I didn't catch him till I got clear home; and I'll whip him more yet. Is my eye black?"

THE AVALANCHE.

Peace through the mountain and the vale, the night,
With silent shadows o'er the hill-tops crept;
The first faint star of eve shed doubtful light;
It seemed all nature slept.

Hark! what is that which crashes through the trees?
The women shriek and strong men's faces blanch,
And in the cloister cowled monks seek their knees.
It is the avalanche!

So sudden, that a man may scarcely turn
Before the horror stares him in the face,
Like a friend's brow that, at a word, grows stern,
Changed in a moment's space.

The rolling billows of the snow sea glide,
Crushing the firs, and slaying man and beast;
Nor strength, nor prayer, may stem that sweeping tide,
Once from its boards released.

"Christ, save us! Mary, mother, hear our prayer!"
That long, shrill cry rings through the hills afar.
Then all is hushed; and through the trembling air
The silence smites the star.

Peace through the mountains and the vales; the night
In solemn sadness o'er the still land swept;
The large moon robbed the small stars of their light;
The restful valley slept.

A CATASTROPHE.-PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

No human being
Who saw that sight
But felt a shudder
Of pale affright.
He sat in a window
Three stories high,
A little baby

With no one nigh.
A stranger saw him,

And stopped to stare:
A crowd soon gathered
To watch him there.

A gleam-a flutter!
In airy flight,

Came past the window
A butterfly bright.
From fields of clover
And perfumed air,
Wayfaring insect,

What brought you there?
The baby saw it,
And eagerly

Reached out to catch it,

Crowing with glee.

With fat pink fingers,

Reached out--and fell!

The awful horror,
No tongue can tell.
Poor little baby,

So sweet and bright!
Pale faces quivered

And lips grew white;
Weak women fainted,
Strong men grew weak,
Up rose one woman's
Heart-piercing shriek.
Hurrah for the awning!
Upon the fly

It caught the youngster
And tossed him high.
The bounce prodigious
Made baby scowl;
He caught his breath, sir,
And set up a howl.
All blessed the awning

That had no flaw;-
But a madder baby

You never saw.

LESS THAN COST.-M. A. KIDDER.

We often see, as on we jog,

Through street or road, down court or lane, This trite announcement, "Less than cost," Upon some door or window-pan.

And then we muse on many things

That men have gained, and men have lost,

And wonder at the foolish souls

Who sell themselves for "less than cost."

The young man, stout of heart and limb,
His bright eye fixed upon the goal,

Starts out in quest of fortune's gifts,
Strong purpose in his honest soul.
Ah! brave is he, and grand, and high,
If, on life's ocean tempest-tossed,
He keeps the beacon-star in sight,
Nor sells himself for "less than cost."

And you, fair, youthful, budding lass,
Now scattering smiles on all around-
As violets shed their sweet perfume,
And rose-leaves drop upon the ground-
Be careful, darling; too much sun

Is sometimes worse than too much frost-
Better to stand back in the shade

Than sell your name for "less than cost."

"What may a human being cost?"

You ask us, may be, with a frown:
A mother's pains, a mother's tears,
Alone might weigh the balance down.
But much more precious far than these
The spark divine, God called a soul;
Then let us keep the jewel bright

As months and years shall onward roll.

AN INTERESTING TRAVELING COMPANION.

M. Quad, a literary gentleman connected with the Detroit Free Press, having taken charge of a lady on a railroad car, gives the following account of the pleasures of his journey.

Many men think a railroad journey is rendered really pleasant by the companionship of an unprotected female. She insisted on counting her bandbox and traveling bag as we got seated. She counted. There were just two. I counted and made no more nor less. Then she wanted her parasol put into the rack, her shawl folded up, and her bandbox counted again. I counted it. There was just exactly one bandbox of it. As we got started she wanted to know if I was sure that we were on the right road to Detroit. I was sure. Then she wanted her traveling bag counted. I counted it once more. By this time she wanted the window up, and asked me if it was not a very hot day. I said it was. Then she felt for her money and found it was safe, though she was Bure that she had lost it. While counting it she related how Mrs. Graff, in going East five years ago, lost her purse and

three dollars. She wound up the story by asking me if it wasn't a hot day. I said it was. Then she wanted that bandbox counted, and I counted him. He was still one bandbox. There was a pause of five minutes, and then she wanted a drink. I got it for her. Then she wanted to know if we were on the right road to Detroit. I assured her that I was positive of the fact. The brakeman here called out the name of a station in such an indistinct manner that the lady wanted me to go and see what the name really was. I went. It was Calumet. She wanted to know if I was sure that it was Calumet, and I put my hand on my sacred heart and assured her that I would perish sooner than deceive her. By this time she wanted the traveling bag counted, and I counted her. She figured up as before. I had just finished counting when she wanted to know if I didn't think it was a hot day. I told her I did. We got along very well for the next half hour, as I got her to narrating a story about how she got lost in the woods eighteen years before, but as soon as she finished it she wanted to know if I was sure that we were on the right road to Detroit. I told her that I hoped to perish with the liars if we were not, and she was satisfied. Then the parasol fell down; she wanted me to change a tencent-piece, and the window had to go down. When we got down to Marshall she wanted to know if the place wasn't named after court-martial, and whether it wasn't barely possible that the station was Niles, instead of Marshall. The bandbox was counted again, and he was just one. Then the window went up, and she asked me if, in my opinion, it wasn't a hot day. I replied that it was. Then she related a story about her uncle, another about a young lady who had been deaf several years. During that day I counted that bandbox three hundred times, raised the window thirty times, said it was a hot day until my tongue was blistered, arranged that parasol twenty-one times, got her sixteen drinks of water, and inquired the names of thirteen stations. She said it was so nice to have a man in whom a stranger could place confidence, and I dared not reply, for fear of bringing out another story. When we reached Detroit, I counted the things three times over, and helped her off the cars, got her a hack, directed her to a hotel, told her the