Little Meg and I.

OU asked me, mates, to spin a yarn, before we go below;
Well, as the night is calm and fair, and no chance for a

blow,

I'll give you one,-a story true as ever yet was told-
For, mates, I wouldn't lie about the dead; no, not for gold.
The story's of a maid and lad, who loved in days gone by:
The maiden was Meg Anderson, the lad, messmates, was I.

A neater, trimmer craft than Meg was very hard to find;
Why, she could climb a hill and make five knots agin the

wind;

And as for larnin,' hulks and spars! I've often heard it said That she could give the scholars points and then come out

ahead.

The old schoolmaster used to say, and mates, it made me cry, That the smartest there was little Meg; the greatest dunce was I.

But what cared I for larnin' then, while she was by my side; For, though a lad, I loved her, mates, and for her would have died;

And she loved me, the little lass, and often have I smiled
When she said, "I'll be your little wife," 'twas the prattle of a

child.

For there lay a gulf between us, mates, with the waters running high;

On one side stood Meg Anderson, on the other side stood I.

Meg's fortune was twelve ships at sea and houses on the land; While mine-why, mates, you might have held my fortune in your hand.

Her father owned a vast domain for miles along the shore; My father owned a fishing-smack, a hut, and nothing more; I knew that Meg I ne'er could win, no matter how I'd try, For on a couch of down lay she, on a bed of straw lay I.

I never thought of leaving Meg, or Meg of leaving me,
For we were young and never dreamed that I should go to seil.
Till one bright morning father said: "There's a whale-ship in

the bay:

I want you Bill, to make a cruise-you go aboard to-day."
Well, mates, in two weeks from that time I bade them all good-

bye.

While on the dock stood little Meg, and on the deck stood I.

I saw her oft before we sailed, whene'er I came on shore.
And she would say: "Bill, when you're gone, I'll love you more

and more;

And I promise to be true to you through all the coming years." But while she spoke her bright blue eyes were filled with pearly

tears.

Then, as I whispered words of hope and kissed her eyelids dry, Her last words were: "God speed you, Bill!" so parted Meg

and I.

Well, mates, we cruised for four long years, till at last one summer's day

Our good ship, the Minerva, cast anchor in the bay,

Oh, how my heart beat high with hope, as I saw her home once

more,

And on the pier stood hundreds, to welcome us ashore;

But my heart sank down within me as I gazed with anxious

eye

No little Meg stood on the dock, as on the deck stood I.

Why, mates, it nearly broke my heart when I went ashore that day,

For they told me little Meg had wed, while I was far away. They told me, too, they forced her to't-and wrecked her fair

young life

Just think, messmates, a child in years, to be an old man's

wife.

But her father said it must be so, and what could she reply? For she was only just sixteen-just twenty-one was I.

Well, mates, a few short years from then-perhaps it might be

four

One blustering night Jack Glinn and I were rowing to the

shore,

When right ahead we saw a sight that made us hold our

breath

There floating in the pale moonlight was a woman cold in death. I raised her up: oh, God, messmates, that I had passed her by! For in the bay lay little Meg and over her stood I.

The Vine.

PART I.

VINE went wandering o'er the ground,

Half-choked with weeds, oft smeared with dust;

Chance dews it turned to mould and rust, And nought but leaves was on it found

Till in its path an Oak-tree stood,

And round his trunk it skyward twined, To learn that oaks were strong and kind, And feel that higher air was good.

Yet all its bliss it could not know,

Till helped by timely suns and showers-Its fair new life burst forth in flowers, And tiny fruit began to show.

The spheres expanded hour by hour,

The green through pink to purple grew, And, borne on every breeze that blew, The fragrance sweetened wold and bower.

Yet never boasted once the vine,

"This is my doing; come and see!" But to the Oak clung gratefully,

And whispered,-"Be the glory thine!

"For had'st thou left me to my will;
My devious path, my careless ways,
My scanty share of dews and rays,
I should be wandering worthless still."

PART II.

Sun after sun brings vintage-time.

The Vine is left all brown and bare,

Naked-to meet a chillier air,

Empty-to dream of vanished prime.

"Bereaved! bereaved!" she moans dismayed,-

"My very life-blood slow withdrawn!

And every day a later dawn,

And every night a longer shade!

"What boots it from that hapless past

To climb to higher air and worth, And gracious bloom and fruit bring forth, Since to this blank all comes at last?

"If bliss be open door to pain,

If most they lose who most possess,

No more I ask for happiness,Give back my ignorance again!"

"Nay," said the Oak, "not for thine own, But others' weal, thou bearest fruit; Thy gain is in thy deeper root,

In twining branches stronger grown;