WRECK OF THE HURON-NOVEMBER 24, 1877.

Extract from a lecture by the Rev. T. DE WITT TALMAGE, at the Brooklyn Tabernacle.

A few days ago there went out from our Brooklyn Navy Yard a man-of-war, the Huron. She steamed down to Hampton Roads, dropped anchor for further orders, and then went on southward-one hundred and thirty-six souls on boardand the life of the humblest boy in sailor's jacket as precious as the life of the commander.

There were storms in the air, the jib-stay had been carried away, but what cares such a monarch of the deep for a hurricane! All's well at twelve o'clock at night! Strike eight bells! All's well at one o'clock in the morning! bells! How the water tosses from the iron Huron as she seems moving irresistibly on! If a fishing smack came in her way she would ride it down and not know she touched it.

Strike two prow of the

But, alas! through the darkness she is aiming for Nag's Head! What is the matter with the compasses? At one o'clock and forty minutes there is a harsh grating on the bottom of the ship, and the cry goes across the ship, "What's the matter?" Then the sea lifts up the ship to let her fall on the breakers-shock! shock! shock! The dreadful command of the captain rings across the deck and is repeated among the hammocks, “All hands save the ship!" Then comes the thud of the axe in answer to the order to cut away the mast. Overboard go the guns. They are of no use in this battle with the wind and wave.

Heavier and heavier the vessel falls till the timbers begin to crack. The work of death goes on, every surge of the sea carrying more men from the forecastle, and reaching up its briny fingers to those hanging in the rigging. Numb and frozen, they hold on and lash themselves fast, while some, daring each other to the undertaking, plunge into the beating surf and struggle for the land. Oh, cruel sea! Pity them, as bruised, and mangled, and with broken bones, they make desperate effort for dear life. For thirty miles along the beach the dead of the Huron are strewn, and throughout the land there is weeping and lamentation and great woe.

A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that the conduct of the men was admirable. It is a magnificent thing to see a man dying at his post, doing his whole duty. It seems that every shipwreck must give to the world an illustration of the doctrine of vicarious sacrifice-men daring all things to save their fellows. Who can see such things without thinking of the greatest deed of these nineteen centuries, the pushing out of the Chieftain of the universe to take the human race off the wreck of the world?

DOT BABY OFF MINE.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

A BROTHER of "Leedle YAWCOP STRAUSS."
"1-*
Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here und see
A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe.

Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got,
Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot;
Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine,
Id vas all on aggount off dot baby off mine.
Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer;
Not mooch pigger roundt as a goot glass off beer,
Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schneck,
A mout dot goes most to der pack off his neck,
Und his leedle pink toes mit der rest all combine
To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys,
Und beats leedle Yawcop for making a noise;
He shust has pecun to shbeak goot English, too,

Says "mama," und "bapa," und somedimes "ah-goo!"
You don'd find a baby den dimes out off nine

Dot vos qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor ofer, und drows dings aboudt,
Und poots efryding he can find in his mout;

He dumbles der shitairs down, und falls vrom his chair,
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible sckare;

Mine hair shtands like shquills on a mat borcubine
Ven I dinks off dose pranks off dot baby off mine.

Dere vas someding, you pet, I don'd likes pooty vell;
To hear in der nighdt-dimes dot young Deutscher yell,

Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es

Vhile der chills down der shpine off mine pack quickly goes; Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine,

Dot I cu's oop at righdt mit dot baby off mine.

*See No. 13, page 54.

Vell, dese leedle schafers vas goin' to pe men,
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den;
Dey vill vare a vhite shirt vront inshted off a bib,
Und vouldn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib-
Vell! vell! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline,
May mine oldt age pe cheered py dot baby off mine.

PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP.-ROBERT BUCHANAN.
A TALE OF THE GOLD-SEEKERS.

"There's some think Injins pison . . ." [It was Parson Pete that spoke,

As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like shadows among the smoke.

'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our faces shone bright red,

And the wind all round made a screeching sound, and the pines roared overhead.

Ay, Parson Pete was talking: we called him Parson Pete, For you must learn he'd a talking turn, and handled things

so neat:

He'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and, when all talk was spent,

Six-shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to point his argument.

Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we had a guess, you bet,

They might be creeping, while we were sleeping, to catch us in the net;

And the half-asleep were snoring deep, while the others vigil kept,

But never a one let go his gun, whether he woke or slept.]

"There's some think Injins pison, and others fancy 'em scum, And most would slay them out of the way, clean into King

dom Come;

But don't you go and make mistakes, like many dern'd fools I've known,

For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an Injin's flesh and bone!"

We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and we'd had a

blaze of luck,

More rich and rare the stuff ran there at every foot we struck; Like men gone wild we toiled and toiled, and never seemed

to tire,

The hot sun glared, and our faces flared, with the greed o' gain, like fire.

I was Captain then of the mining men, and I had a precious life,

For a wilder set I never met at derringer and at knife; Nigh every day there was some new fray, and a shot in some one's brain,

And the blackest sheep in all the heap was an Imp of Sin, from Maine,

Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with a squint to make you skear'd,

His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd, with carroty hair and beard,

Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a grizzly's squeal, Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nicked him in the heel.

He was the primest workman there!-'twas a sight to see him toil!

To the waist all bare, all devil and dare, the sweat on his cheeks like oil;

With pickaxe and spade in sun and shade he labored like the nation,

But when his spell was over,-Well, he liked recreation.

And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport he had When work was over seemed to us a bit too rough and bad; For to put some lead in a fellow's head was the greatest fun in life,

And the only joke he liked to poke was the point of his precious knife.

But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and he always fought most fair,

With as good a will to be killed as kill, true grit as any there: Of honor too, like me or you, he'd a scent, though not so keen,

Would rather be riddled through and through, than do what he thought mean.

But his eddication to his ruination had not been over nice, And his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar prejudice; For a white man he was an ekal, free to be fought in open

fray,

But an Injin a snake (make no mistake!) to scotch in any

way.

"A sarpent's hide has pison inside, and an Injin heart's as bad,

He'll seem your friend for to gain his end, but they hate the white like mad;

Worse than the least of bird or beast, never at peace till dead, A spotted snake, and no mistake!" that's what he always

Well, we'd just struck our bit of luck, and were wild as raving men,

When who should stray to camp one day, but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;

Dressed like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one joins our band, And though the rest looked black as sin, he shakes me by the hand.

Now, the poor old cuss had been known to us, and I knew that he was true,

I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon as I'd trust

you;

For though his wit was gone a bit, and he drank like any fish, His heart was kind, he was well-inclined, as even a white could wish.

Food had got low, for we didn't know the run of the hunting-ground,

And our hunters were sick, when just in the nick, the friend in need was found;

For he knew the place like his mother's face (or better, a heap, you'd say,

Since she was a squaw of the roaming race, and himself a cast-away).

Well, I took the Panther into camp, and the critter was well

content,

And off with him, on the hunting tramp, next day our party

went,

And I reckon that day and the next we didn't hunger for

food,

And only one in the camp looked vexed--that Imp of Sin, Phil Blood.

Nothing would please his contrairy idees! an Injin made him boil!

But he said nought, and he scowling wrought from morn till night at his toil,

And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I kept the Panther apart,

For the Injin he was too weak to see the depths of a white man's heart.

One noon-day, when myself and the men were resting by the creek,

The red sun blazed, and we lay half-dazed, too tired to stir or speak;

'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and we couldn't see the sky.

For the lien-flowers in bright blue showers hung through the branches high.