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In the very track of the eygre's swoop,
With Dan in the saddle and Death on the croup,
The foam of his nostrils flew back on the wind,
And mixed with the foam of the billow behind.
A terrible vision the morrow saw
In the desolate valley of Conemaugh!
The river had shrunk to its narrow bed,
But its way was choked with the heaped-up dead.
'Gainst the granite bridge with its arches four
Lay the wreck of a city that delves no more;
And under it all, so the searchers say,
Stood the sprawling limbs of the gallant bay,
Stiff-cased in the drift of the Conemaugh.
A goodlier statue man never saw, -
Dan's foot on the stirrup, his hand on the rein!
So shall they live in white marble again;
And ages shall tell, as they gaze on the group,
Of the race that he ran while Death sat on the croup.

The Independent

THE MIRACLE OF CANA.*-FRED EMERSON BROOKS.

The water-pots were filled at God's behest,-
Yet in the marriage wine no grape was pressed;
No tired feet the weary wine-press trod
To make this sacred vintage of our God;
As nature doth proclaim a power divine,
Each drop of moisture turned itself to wine.
In spite of arguments, in Jesus met,
The world is full of doubting skeptics yet;
Believing naught but they themselves have seen,
They doubt the miracle of Palestine;
They find the Holy Bible filled with flaws,
And pin their doubting faith to Nature's laws.
Ye scoffers of our sacred Lord, pray tell
Who tinted first the water in the well ?
Who painted atmospheric moisture blue;
Or gave the ocean waves their constant hue,
Whose moisture raised in clouds all colors lack,

The fleecy ones so white, the storm-king's black, *Froin "Voice Culture and Elocution,” by kind permission of Prof. William T. Ross, San Francisco, Cal.

Save where the evening sun's bright rays incline
To turn this fleecy moisture into wine,
And lay a benediction on them all
Like purple grapes hung on a golden wall ?
'Twas thus our Lord a sacred radiance shed,
Slow turning Cana's water vintage red.
If lilies at his bidding from the soil
Spring up, that neither know to spin nor toil,
In beauty yet more gorgeously arrayed
Than he of old who that great temple made,
Then why may not the gentle evening dew
At God's command take on a ruddy hue?
This whirling, surging world was made by one
Who could have made the wine as rivers run;
Yet put a sweeter nectar in the rills
Fresh rippling from the vintage of the hills.
Watch Nature's miracle when day is dead, -
And blushing Helios, his good-night said,
Slow dipping his hot face in cooling brine,
Turns all the ocean billows into wine.

The sun and rain stretch o'er the earth a bow
With tints more beautiful than wine can show;
A frescoed arch in gorgeous colors seven,-
A bridge, where weak belief may walk to heaven.
Who hath not seen, at sunset on the plain,
A passing storm-cloud dropping blood-red rain;
A great libation poured at Nature's shrine
To fill Sol's golden cup with evening wine?
Since Nature doth such miracles perform,
Why may not He, who makes and rules the storm,
Of all his miracles the first and least,
Tint a few drops for Cana's wedding feast?
The greatest marriage at the end shall be,
When time is wedded to eternity;
All bidden are, the greatest and the least,
To taste the wine at heaven's great wedding feast,
Where all the ransomed universe shall sing:
Hosanna! to the everlasting King!

THE CABMAN'S STORY.-RE. HENRY.

his arm.

I was standing in a file of cabs, one afternoon, at Wa. terloo Station. An express train had just come in from somewhere down south, and I was looking about for a fare, when a gentleman came up to me with a lady on

I say gentleman for want of some better word, for though he was well dressed he didn't strike me as being the right sort. We get to be quick at reading faces, and I disliked him from the moment I set eyes on him. As to her, she looked like what I afterwards found she was, a little girl from the country, fresh, and sweet, and trustful.

“Engaged ?" says he.
“No, sir," I answered, holding the door open.

Jump in, Jennie,” he says, and handed her a small bag he was carrying.

He had besides in his hand a large bag or portmanteau. “Shall I take that, sir?” I says. But he didn't answer, He put his head into the cab and said something to the lady, then he turned away, and as he passed me he whispered, quite low and hurried-like, without even looking at me, "Don't wait, drive where the lady tells you," and was gone, like a harlequin through a shop front.

I shut the door, and asked:
“ Where to, ma'am ?”
She looked a little bewildered, and she answered:

Oh, you're not to go yet, the gentleman is coming with

me; he had to go away a minute to send a telegram, I think he said.”

Queer, I thought. I could have sworn he said, “don't wait.” However, she seemed so positive, that I was all taken aback. But I drove a little to one side and waited.

Presently she began to get anxious.
“ Where can he be? Which way did he go

?I couldn't say, for it had all been so quick I hadn't

But I told her then what he'd said to me as he passed.

seen.

She turned as white as death, and looked as if she would drop off her seat.

“He couldu't have meant it," she said. “Why, I'm all alone, I've never been in London before, and I don't know a person here but him.”

Then for the first time some suspicion of the truth dawned upon me. The villain had deserted her. Whether he had darted out of the station and into a hansom cab, or whether he had got into another train that was just starting, he had gone and left no more trace than if the earth had opened and swallowed him.

"It's no use waiting here any longer, miss," I said, “it's certain the gentleman's not coming back; besides, he's took his portmanteau with him; he'd have left it here if he'd meant to return."

Well, I won't go through all we said during that tedious time of waiting. It's enough to say that the scoundrel had played as rascally a trick as was ever devised, upon a poor innocent girl. When she began to believe that he really didn't mean to return, she grew half frantic. By degrees I learnt the whole story. She came from a little village down in Dorsetshire. She'd been engaged to this man without the consent of her friends. He seemed out and out fond of her, and used to

say if only she'd go away with him he'd marry her at once. Well, she believed him, poor silly little thing, and when he told her he was coming to London, she made up her mind to come with him. He knew nothing of it till she met him at the station just as the train was starting, when it was too late to send her back, and I suppose he didn't know whatever to do with her, so the diabolical plan came into his head, which he'd just carried out, to leave the poor, innocent creature to perish body and soul, alone in London.

Well, I tried to persuade the poor thing to go back, but she said she daren't, they'd have found out by now what she'd done, and her father would never forgive her, and the whole village would jeer at her.

I was losing my time but I didn't mind that. I couldn't leave her all alone, and night coming on, so I asked her what she'd do. But, poor thing, she wasn't fit to think now. She could only cry and tremble, and sob out so piteously :

"Oh, how could he be so cruel, how could he be so cruel!”

Then all of a sudden she grew quiet, and she says to me in a cunning way:

“ Isn't there a bridge near here? Drive me there, please, and I know my way then to somewhere I want to

go.”

I guessed what was in her mind, and I thought, “No, my dear, the water's not flowing that shall close over your pretty head to-night.” But I didn't say so, I mounted my box and drove away.

I knew a nice respectable woman who let lodgings, and I took her there and told her all the story, and asked her not to let the poor girl out of her sight. She didn't have much trouble about that, for hardly had we got in than Miss Jennie fainted right away, and had to be put to bed, which was the safest place for her, and there she remained for some days. I used to go and inquire after her when I could spare the time, and one day Mrs. Preston, that was the landlady, told me she'd found out the girl's name, and where she lived, by looking over some papers that were in her pocket. Well, together we wrote a letter to her father, asking him to come as possible to the above address. Jennie was better now, and able to sit by the fire, but she seemed too languid and depressed to care what became of her.

One evening, while I was talking to Mrs. Preston, a knock came to the door, and when she opened it we saw a tall, upright old man with iron grey hair. I knew directly it was Jennie's father.

" Which of you two wrote to me,” he asked, “and what do you want with me?"

For answer we took him into the parlor where Jennie

soon as

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