Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,
And, breaking from the Russian's hold
He stands, a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks;
With a full voice of proud command
He turned upon the wondering band:
"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can ;

This hour has made the boy a man.
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
I wept upon his marble brow,
Yes, wept! I was a child; but now
My noble mother, on her knee,

Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest,

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jewelled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive

Would drink the life blood of a slave?

The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.

No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,'
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment, and the funeral light
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright:
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang:
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery.
Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
His freedom is forever won;
And now he waits one holy kiss
To bear his father home in bliss,
One last embrace, one blessing,―one!
To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son,
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
What! silent still? Then art thou dead!

-Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee,-and thus-to die."
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom,-dead.

ANN S. STEPHENS.

JOHNNY'S OPINION OF GRANDMOTHERS

RANDMOTHERS are very nice folks;

They beat all the aunts in creation;

They let a chap do as he likes,

And don't worry about education.

I'm sure I can't see it at all,
What a poor fellow ever could do
For apples, and pennies and cakes,
Without a grandmother or two.

Grandmothers speak softly to "ma's,"
To let a boy have a good time;
Sometimes they will whisper, 't is true,
T'other way, when a boy wants to climb.

Grandmothers have muffins for tea,

And pies, a whole row in the cellar, And they 're apt (if they know it in time) To make chicken pies for a "feller!"

And if he is bad now and then,

And makes a great racketing noise, They only look over their specs

And say, "Ah, these boys will be boys.

"Life is only so short at the best;

Let the children be happy to-day." Then they look for a while at the sky, And the hills that are far, far away.

Quite often, as twilight comes on,
Grandmothers sing hymns, very low,
To themselves as they rock by the fire,
About Heaven, and when they shall go.

And then a boy, stopping to think,
Will find a hot tear in his eye,
To know what will come at the last;
For grandmother all have to die.

I wish they could stay here and pray,
For a boy needs their prayers every night;
Some boys more than others, I s'pose,
Such as I, need a wonderful sight.

ONLY A BOY.

LY a boy, with his noise and fun,

ONLY

The veriest mystery under the sun;

As brimful of mischief, and wit and glee,
As ever a human frame can be,

And as hard to manage as-what? ah, me! 'Tis hard to tell,

Yet we loved him well.

Only a boy with his fearful tread,
Who can not be driven, must be led.
Who troubles the neighbor's dogs and cats,
And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats
Loses more kites, and tops and bats,

Than would stock a store

For a year or more.

Only a boy, with his wild strange ways,
With his idle hours, or his busy days,
With his queer remarks and his odd replies,
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise.
Often brilliant for one of his size,
As a meteor hurled

From the planet world.

Only a boy, who will be a man,

If nature goes on with her first great plan

If intemperance, or some fatal snare,
Conspire not to rob us of this our heir,
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care,
Our torment, our joy!

"Only a boy."

ANDREW JACKSON.

E WAS A MAN! Well I remember the day I waited upon him. He sat there in his arm chair-I can see that old warrior face, with its snow white hair, even now. We told him of the public distress-the manufacturers ruined, the eagles shrouded in crape, which were borne at the head of twenty thousand men into Independence Square. He heard us all. We begged him to leave the deposits where they were; to uphold the Great Bank in Philadelphia. Still he did not say a word. At last one of our members, more fiery than the rest, intimated that if the bank were crushed, a rebellion might follow. Then the old man rose- -I can see him yet. "Come!" he shouted in a voice of thunder, as his clutched right hand was raised above his white hairs— "Come with bayonets in your hands instead of petitions -surround the White House with your legions-I am ready for you all! With the people at my back whom your gold can neither buy nor awe, I will swing you up around the Capital, each rebel of you-on a gibbet-high as Haman's."

When I think of that one man standing there at Washington, battling with all the powers of Bank and Panic combined, betrayed by those in whom he trusted, assailed by all that the snake of malice could hiss or the fend of falsehood howl-when I think of that one man