Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view, When shouting through her hollowed hands: "Courage! we'll get you through!" Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Cold, cold it was-oh! it was cold! And it was twelve and one and two, Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear: She waved her hands, made signals clear, 66 "My men," the captain cried, "I'll try : The woman's judgment may be right; Far out he marked the gathering surge; Let go, and on its topmost verge It struck the breaker's foamy track,— There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, Ah, well for him that on the strand For what to do but plunge and swim? She climbed the reef, she brought him up, Oh! life is dear! The mate leaped in. 66 'I know," the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell. I'll start and meet him in the wave." "Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you? And I shall have you both to save,— Must work to pull you through!" But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lashed the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam. The frozen foam went scudding by,- The waves came towering high and white, O Mother Becker! seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! She sought them near, she sought them far, Three fathoms down she gripped them tight; With both together up the bar She staggered into sight. Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paused the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!" Sure, life is dear, and men are brave: They came, they dropped from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave, And dive beyond the bar? And still the gale went shrieking on, As Christ were walking on the waves, Down came the night, but far and bright, Oh! safety after wreck is sweet! And sweet is rest in hut or hall: One story Life and Death repeat,— God's mercy over all. Next day men heard, put out from shore, Crossed channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind; Shook hands, wept, laughed, were crazy-glad; Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she. 66 Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wrecked from Death may snatch But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!" Dear Mother Becker dropped her head, She blushed as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said. "More than I ought to do." AMANDA T. JONES. WEL THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY. WELL, no! my wife aint dead, sir, but I've lost her She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. on me. She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill; And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him still; But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me. The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their snow. I think she loved me some-I'm bound to think that of her, sir; And as for me—I can't begin to tell how I loved her! |