still beholding the beloved object at the window, and occasionally placing his hand upon his heart in such a way as to show a large and gorgeous seal-ring containing the hair of a fellow-fireman who had caught such a cold at a great fire that he died some years after.

"How calm she is! and she's as pretty as Ninety's new hose carriage. It seems to me," says the young chap to himself, stooping down to roll up the other leg of his trousers-" it seems to me that I never see anything so calm. She observes my daily a-going, and yet she don't so much as send somebody down to see if there's any overcoats in the front entry."

One day a venerable Irish gentleman, keeping a boardinghouse and ice-cream saloon in the basement of the establishment, happened to slip on the stairs with a lighted camphene lamp in his hand, and pretty soon the bells were ringing for a conflagration in that district. Immediately our gallant firemen were on their way to the spot, and, having first gone through forty-two streets on the other side of the city, to wake the people up there and apprise them of their great danger, reached the dreadful scene, and instantly began to extinguish the flames by bringing all the furniture out of a house not more than three blocks below.

In the midst of these self-sacrificing efforts, a form was seen to dart into the burning building like a spectre. It was the enamored young chap who carried a trumpet in the department. He had seen the beloved object sitting at the window as usual, and was bent upon saving her, even though he missed the exciting fight around the corner. Reaching the millinery-room door, he could see the object standing there in the midst of a sea of fire.

"How calm she is," says he. "Miss Milliner," says he, "don't you see you're all in a blaze?"

But still she stood at the window in all her calmness. The devoted young chap turned to a fellow-fireman, who was just then selecting two spring bonnets and some ribbon for his wife in order to save them from the flames, and says he, "Jakey, what shall I do?" But Jakey was at that time picking out some artificial flowers for his youngest daughter, and made no answer.

Unable to reach the devoted maid, and rendered desperate by the thought that she must be asleep in the midst of her danger, the frantic young chap madly hurled his trumpet at her. It struck her and actually knocked her head off.

Horrified at what he had done, the excited chap called himself a miserable wretch, and was led out by the collar. It was Jakey who did this deed of kindness, and says he, "What's the matter with you, old fellow?" The poor young chap wrung his hands, and says he: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've killed her; and she's so calm!"

Jakey took some tobacco, and then says he, “Why, that was only a pasteboard figger-ha, ha, ha."

And so it was, my boy, so it was; but the affair had such an effect upon the young chap that he at once took to drinking, and his last words were: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've killed her; and she was so calm!"

W

THE ARMORER'S ERRAND.

JULIA C. R. DORR.

[A Ballad of 1775.]

WHERE the far skies soared clear and bright

From mountain height to mountain height,

In the neart of a forest old and gray,

Castleton slept one Sabbath day—

Slept and dreamed of the seventh of May
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.

But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;
Hark to the shouts, "They come! they come!"
Hark to the sound of the fife and drum!
Far up from the south two hundred men,
Two hundred and fifty-from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of "Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!"

Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!

Next day the village was all astir

With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of tramping feet
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,
First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
"I'll borrow your tools, my friend," he said,
"And temper these blades if I lose my head!"

So he wrought away till the sun went down
And silence fell on the turbulent town;

And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.

Then over the threshold a shadow fell,

And he heard a voice that he knew right well.

It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: "I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for some one is;

And sharpening blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day-

Or this night, rather." A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.

66

'Say on. I never have shirked," said he;
"What may this wonderful task-work be?"

"To go by the light of the evening star On an urgent errand, swift and far,

From town to town and from farm to farm,
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!

Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobe, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through,
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten upon your way!"

He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
"Ere the clock strikes nine," said Gershom Beach,
"Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;

And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day
Guns and men shall be under way.

But where shall I send these minute-men ?"

66

Do you know Hand's Cove?" said Allen then,

"On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!"

"Good-by, I'm off!" Then down the road,
As if on seven-league boots, he strode,
While Allen watched from the forger's door
Till the stalwart form he could see no more.
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;
By nine of the clock he was out of reach.
But still, as his will his steps outran,

He said to himself, with a laugh: "Old man,
Never a minute have you to lose,
Never a minute to pick or choose;
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours
Is surely enough to try your powers.
So square your shoulders and speed away,
With never a halt by night or day."

With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide
He launched it, and flew to the other side.
Then giving his message, on he sped
By the light of the pale stars overhead;
Past the log church below Pine Hill,
And the graveyard opposite. All was still,
And the one lone sleeper lying there
Stirred not either for cry or prayer.
Only pausing to give the alarm
At rude log cabin and lonely farm,
From hamlet to hamlet he hurried along,
Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.
He startled the deer in the forest glade,
Stealing along like a silent shade;
He wakened the loon that cries and moans
With a living grief in its human tones.
At Pittsford the light begins to grow
In the wakening east; and drifting slow,
From valley and river and wildwood rise,
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,
Clouds of translucent, silver mist,
Flushing to rose and amethyst;

While thrush and robin and bluebird sing
Till the woods with jubilant music ring!
It was day at last! He looked around,
With a firmer tread on the springing ground.
"Now, the men will be all a-field," said he,
"And that will save many a step for me.
Each man will be ready to go; but still,
I must confess, if I'd had my will,
I'd have waited till after planting-time;
For now the season is in its prime.

The young green leaves on the oak-tree here
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear,
And I've known no rule, since I was born,
Safer than that for planting corn!"