take his place there as if he had struck the ball. But the man should strike at a ball properly hove. If for three times he doesn't do so, each time counts as a strike, and he must sail for the first buoy just the same as if he had landed the ball fifty fathoms to the wind'ard."

"Tell us about the man who stands aft the catcher and everybody treats like a Jimmy Ducks on an English whaler," asked Cap'n Jethro Starbuck.

"He's the umpire," said Cap'n Peleg. "There's a good deal of metaphysics in the game that I don't understand myself. I mean nice p'ints that come up. The umpire is supposed to know the chart and to be able to pilot the game over the shoals and through the slews in the rips into deep water. But sometimes, when he gives an order there's mutiny in either the port or the starboard watch, and sometimes both watches join in abusin' him and the folks that are lookin' on bear a hand. If he decides one way the other watch tells him that he isn't fit to hold the steerin' oar and that he had better ship on the next cruise as a lubber. I wouldn't steer a game for a quarter of a new ship fitted for a voyage round the Horn. I'd rather tackle a hundred-and-fifty barrel bull whale on a landsman's lay than to umpire ball games for a week. I wouldn't ship unless I could pipe enough hands that would help me to get the mutineers in irons and put them in the brig."

All present agreed with Cap'n Peleg that there ought to be some way to enforce discipline. His explanation of the game was the first they had heard from a man who could talk Nantucket and it was a revelation.

SWIPES'S DINNER.

My name, sir, is Bill, but they call me Swipes,
The boys do down our alley;

'Ow many in family? Why, we're nine,
An' one mor'd make ten, an' tally.
No, I hain't the helderest, sir; she is,
She mindin' the twins; that's Sally.

Would I like some dinner? Wouldn't I. Yes!
Ah, wouldn't I rather, jest!

I know a cove what had one wonst,
Through a lord wot lives down west.
'Ad? Why he 'ad 'ot meat, an' sich ;
But the pudden, he says, were best.
What's my dinner? Why, as to that,
We never sets down to none;
But mother gives us a lump o' bread,
An' a whack, an' says, "Orf yer run!"
An' we're 'ungrier than we was afore,
Soon after the toke is done.

We gets some treacle sometimes, yer know,
When mother 'as lots o' chairin';
On Sundays mebbe a bit o' fish,

But it's 'elped oncommon sparin'. 'Ungered? I'd rather think I wos, As some days it feels past bearin'.

I orfen searches 'eaps o' dust,

An' grubs all amongst the cinders;
I know I shall prig some day, I shall,
As I looks in them cook-shop winders;
That smokin' plum-duff is too much for me,
An' it's only the glass wot 'inders.

An' 'tain't to say that mother drinks,
For she's never at the pub;

But it's horful, sir, that's what it is,
To be allurs wantin' grub;
An' to sniff the airies, day by day-
Well, it 'most a-makes me blub.

An' then, them shops where they shows the j'ints,

An' pile the poultry hup,

Is dreffle 'ard on a kid like me,

As ain't 'ad no bit nor sup,

But a crust o' bread an' a swig or two

At a drinkin' founting cup.

Yes, Jack, the cove as 'ad the feed,

Orfen tells us what he 'ad;

We set on a step, an' he jawrs on so,

Till we all on us feels 'arf mad

Why, lanky Joe thrashed 'im well one day
For makin' 'im feel so bad.

Wot! I am to have a dinner, sir!
Wot! a reg'lar blow-out like Jack!
Wot! beef, an' dumplins, an' collyflour,
An' pudden, and such like tack?
I say, it isn't no larks now, eh?

An' yer won't get drorin' back?

A tickut! Oh, sir, God bless you now!
But d'ye think you'd mind, I say,
If, arfter all, I gived it to Sal, sir?
I should like to, if I may.

She's workin' all day, our Sally is,
An' never gets no play.

Can I give it up? Well, it's ter❜ble 'ard,
But Sal 'll enj'y it, she will;
An' likes as not, if I wos to go,
I should make myself quite ill;
An' 'twill be sich a treat for 'er
To 'ave for wonst 'er fill.

What would I say for two o' them cards?
Why, I don't know, sir, that's flat.
But I'd turn a dozen coach-weels, tho',
If there's any use in that!

Say? Why, I wants to yell. I do,
An' to run an' toss up my 'at!

Oh, sir, I must tell Sally, please,
For 'twill cheer 'er up a bit,
As she's werry mellenkerly like,
Tho' she's only sich a chit;
But the twins, they takes it out of 'er,

Which ther' ain't no doubt of it.

She will be glad, I know she will;
An' she ain't so rough as I,

Wot can't thank the lords an' gen’lemen,
'Owever I might try;

But she's a reg'lar scholard, sir,

Though she be oncommon shy.

But it seems like a dream, ay, that it do,
That I'm to 'ave real roast-beef,
An' pudden, yer says, and mints pies, too--
Why, it's almost past belief;

God 'elp me to be a better kid,

An' never to be a thief!

An' oh, sir, please, there's lots o' coves
As is 'ungry, jest like we;
There's fifty up our alley, alone,
As plays along with me;
Give 'em a dinner too, if yer can,

An' it's blest by heav'n yer'll be!

LITTLE SAINT CECILIA.*-MARGARet Holmes.

"Lamb of God, who takest away

The sins of the world—” I paused to hear In a city street on a busy day,

A voice that rang so strong and clear.

It soared above the ceaseless din

Of toil and trade. I sighed, “Ah me,
That voice so sweet should chant of sin!
Where can the church and altar be?"
"Have mercy upon us" floated down
Over the hurrying throng of men;
A leering miser, lean and brown,
Bared his gray head and gasped, "Amen."

A lady drew, with dainty care,

From a beggar's touch her rich array;
Then stared, amazed to hear the prayer,
"Lamb of God, who takest away

The sins of the world-" for sake of Him
She bended low to understand;
"Have mercy upon us-" her eyes grew dim,
And she dropped a coin in the beggar's hand.

No church was near, no holy fane;

But a tenement-house across the way,
With many a shattered window-pane,
Against the sky rose grim and gray ;

And close below the ragged roof,

Her bare arms on the window-sill,
The little singer stood, as proof
Against the wintry morning's chill.
"Who is she?" ran from lip to lip,

As slowly moved the crowd away;
A cartman lowered his heavy whip:
""Tis little Saint Cæcilia."

From "The Catholic World," by permission.

Then, answering to those who smiled:
"If God himself has worn our clay,
And lived with us, a little child,

Why should not Saint Cæcilia?

"I hear her sing at busy noon,

And in the morning dark and still;
On stormy nights, the self-same tune:
And, leaning on the window-sill,
"Yon little child, with eyes like stars,
Pours forth her prayer for sinful men,
Like angel held in prison bars.
"Tis Saint Cæcilia come again."
I walked adown the noisy street,
Intent on cares that racked the day;
And, following like an echo sweet,
"Lamb of God, who takest away-"
The rest was lost; but that small face,
With dark bright eyes and gypsy hair,
The wondrous voice, the childish grace,
Seemed to my heart a living prayer

That walked with me through all the day,
And kept my soul from sin and stain:
"Lamb of God, who takest away

The sins of the world," by shame and pain,

"Have mercy upon us," each and all,
Though far and oft our footsteps stray,
And let thy blessing daily fall

On little Saint Cæcilia.

CROSSING THE BAR.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!