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Poor Tom and the Doctor.

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For years Tom had lived a deplorable life;
His business he ruined, he killed his poor wife,
And now he was living with one only daughter,
On two hundred a year, which he drew every quarter,
Left by a kind brother, whose prudent investing
Came in handy for Tom, who was given to wasting.

Now the doctor and Tom had been old friends for years ; Were playmates when boys, and at college were peers; No wonder that, living so near to each other, The doctor behaved like a kind-hearted brother. When Tom was on spree it was little use calling ; His conduct uproarious, such shouting and bawling Repelled sober people ; but when Tom got better The doctor would quietly write him a letter, Or pay him a visit, when Tom, fond of chaffing, Would crack some new jokes and then burst out laughing. But the gout in Tom's toe was so terrible after, It soon put an end to his jokes and his laughter. The doctor saw plainly Tom's ruin would come, And told him the truth when he found him at home. But habits were formed like a terrible cable : Tom took to hard drinking and grew quite unstable.

One night, as the doctor lay sleeping in bed, He was roused by loud knocking and voices, which said “ Tell the doctor Tom's dying! he will soon be no more, And wants to say something before it's all o'er." The doctor dressed quickly, with heart filled with gloom, And reached just in time for a last talk with Tom. When Tom saw the doctor, he burst into tears; He thought of old times and the friendship of years ; He started in bed, then he waited for breath : The doctor drew near, for he saw it was death. He stooped down to wipe his old friend's clammy face, And bade Tom good-bye, with a last fond embrace. " I'm dying !” cried Tom, "you warned me all through ; I was mad with the drink and would never heed you. Tell all my companions my terrible fate-Pray! pray for me! doctor-too late! 'tis too late !" His spirit departed. The doctor went home, But in dreams he was pleading and praying for Tom. They bore him away to a quiet green spot, But the doctor Tom's last parting words ne'er forgot. 'Twas a sorrowful wail from a dying man's breath; O God! save us all from the drunkard's sad death.

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“ DID I NOT LEAD THEM STRAIGHT ?"

T. J. GALLEY.

At the struggle at Tel-el-Kebir there was a midnight assault. The British had no sufficient plans of the ground, and yet the Highland Brigade had to be led by the light of the stars round a dangerous circle, in order to be at their post. Lord Wolseley selected a young naval officer. He knew he was somewhat of an astronomer, that he had studied the stars, and that he had taken the bearings of the enemy, and he said to young Rawson, “I leave you to guide the Highland Brigade by the light of the stars, to the very post where they will be wanted at such an hour."

The brave young fellow put himself at the front of these hardy men, and there in silence led them round the enemy till he got them to the position where Lord Wolseley wanted them to be ; and then the enemy's fire opened, and men fell all around, and Commodore Rawson was the first to fall. When the cry of victory went up, Lord Wolseley in the midst of all the responsibility and excitement of his position, was told that Rawson lay dying. He left his men, left his honours, left the place, and galloped across the field to the spot where the dying man was laid, that he might have one word with him before he passed away. Entering into the little tent that they had drawn over him, the dying man knew him, and a smile came over his pals face as he held up his trembling hand to the general, and looking him in the face said, “ General, didn't I lead them straight ? "

HE day was o'er, and in the silent night,

, ;

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The order given, all were prepared to fight,

Their flag to place on Tel-el-Kebir's fort. A small brigade of bold Highlanders then

In breathless silence left the British host;
A naval youth was leading these brave men

Around a dangerous circle to their post.
Rawson,” the general said—“I trust you'll guide

These soldiers to their post, 'tis in your power.”
The young man heard, and answered back with pride,

“ I'll lead them straight, and certain to the hour! Fearless he led them by the feeble light

The stars shed round upon their dangerous way; Safely they reached the place where they must fight

The treacherous foe, and waited for the fray. A moment's calm,- and then the din of war

Re-echoed round, and shook the earth beneath ; The cannons roared, the sabres flashed afar,

Spreading on every side despair and death.
Then with a cheer, the Highlanders bravely bore

Upon the foe, obedient to the call ;
But as they charged, some fell to rise no more, -

And gallant Rawson was the first to fall.

A Hideous Fiend.

165

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When victory's cry arose upon the air,

'Twas told the General that brave Rawson lay With mortal wound, and Wolseley hastened there

To speak a word before he passed away. In haste the General entered the small tent,

Poor Rawson knew him, with a smile they meet; Clasping his hand, Sir Garnet o'er him bent, — General,” the dying said, “did I not lead them

straight ?
He thought of duty in his latest hour, -

And from the dying soldier we may turn
To those brave words so full of truth and power,

And from them we may all a lesson learn.
For there are some beneath our special care,

Who look to our example for a guide; Oh! are we striving now these to prepare

The treacherous foes to fight on every side ? Oh! are we guiding in the way of truth

The children to us by the Master given ? And leading straight in days of early youth, Through Hope's bright paths, to righteousness and

heaven? Soon, soon will end the bitter fray of life,

And we at last before the Judge must meet: Can we say then, that in the world's keen strife

We did our best to lead the children straight?

A HIDEOUS FIEND.

DAVID LAWTON.
HIDEOUS fiend with baneful

A Stalks through ouirlanan and Scatters death,

Disease and misery, want and woe,
As wide-spread e'en as winter's snow;
And as the snow makes all things white
The earth he darkens into night.
New forms of sin he doth create,
Thus rendering worse our fallen state,
And adding to man's awful guilt,
Which needed not to be upbuilt.
Alas! so dreadful are his deeds,
His curses grow like summer weeds;

When will you come home again?

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Yet see those lines with pencil widely ruled,
Where largely sprawl big letters helplessly ;
What do they say, those baby characters,
So feebly huge :
“Loved Papa,

When will you come home again ?

My own dear Papa !”
As he reads this the tent to him grows darker,
His strong hand trembles, and the hot tears burn
In his blue eyes, and blur the straggling words.
What need to see? The words are stamped upon
His heart, and his whole soul doth feel them there.
The wind on gusty wings speeds by, and lo!
With its wild voice, his child's sweet treble mingles
In accents faintly clear :
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again ?

My own dear Papa !
And now his head is bowed into his hands,
His brave heart for a moment seems to climb
Into his throat and choke him. Hark! what sound
Thus sharply leaps among, and slays the sad
Wind-voices of the autumn night, with shrill
And sudden blast? The bugle-call “ To arms !”
And startled sleepers, at its fierce appeal,
Half-dreaming, clutch their swords, and gasping wake;-
How many soon to sleep again-in death!
And on that father's heart the pealing cry
Strikes cold as ice, though soldier there's none braver,
For still above the bugle's thrilling breath
That pleading child-voice sweetly calls :
“Loved Papa, when will you come home again ?

My own dear Papa !” Across a rough hillside the light of dawn Doth coldly creep, with ruthless touch revealing All that by darkness had been hid, and there, Among the stalwart forms that stiffening lie Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they lie thickest, There is one found, with flaxen hair and beard Dark dyed with gore, a bullet in his heart ! A crumpled paper in his hand was clutched, 'Gainst the cold lips, the rigid hand did press Some childish writing by his life-blood stained. What are the words ? One scarce can read them now: “Loved Papa, when will you come home again ?

My own dear Papa!"

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