neck upward, he again pursued an almost vertical line. But he had to carry thirty pounds of flesh and bones; while the larger of the eagles, with a still broader spread of wing, was a "light weight" of only seven. The result of this difference was soon apparent. Before the trumpeter had got two hundred yards higher, the female eagle was seen wheeling around him on the same level. The swan was now observed to double, fly downward, and then upward again, while his mournful note echoed back to the earth.

But his efforts were in vain. After a series of contortions and manoeuvres the eagle darted forward, with a quick toss threw herself back downward, and striking upward, planted her talons in the under part of her victim's wing. The lacerated shaft fell uselessly down; and the great white bird, no longer capable of flight, came whistling through the air.

But it was not allowed to drop directly to the earth; it would have fallen on the bosom of the broad river, and that the eagles did not wish, as it would have given them some trouble to get the heavy carcass ashore. As soon as the mate - who was lower in the air- saw that his partner had struck the bird, he discontinued his upward flight, and poising himself on his spread tail, waited its descent.

A single instant was sufficient. The white object passed him, still fluttering; but the moment it was below his level he shot after it like an arrow, and clutching it in his talons, with an outward stroke, sent it whizzing in a diagonal direction. The next moment a crashing was heard among the twigs: and a dull sound announced that the swan had fallen upon the earth.

The eagles were now seen sailing downward, and soon disappeared among the tops of the trees.

The canoe soon reached the bank; and Francis, accompanied by Basil and Marengo, leaped ashore, and went in search of the birds. They found the swan quite dead, and lying upon its back as the eagles had turned it. Its breast was torn open, and its crimson blood was spread in broad flakes

over its snowy plumage. The eagles themselves, scared by the dog, had taken flight before the youths could get within shot of them.

XXVII.-TUBAL CAIN.

MACKAY.

[Charles Mackay is a living English author, who has written well both in prose and verse.]

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when the earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers
As he fashioned the sword and spear.

And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well!

For he shall be king and lord."

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,

As the crown of his desire;

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud in glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,

And spoils of forest free.

And they sang," Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew!

Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!

And hurrah for the metal true! "

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their '-ind;

That the land was red wi.

In their lust for carnage band.

blood they shed,

And he said, "Alas, that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword, for men whose joy,
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face
And a bright, courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,

While the quick flames mounted high;

And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!"

And the red sparks lit the air

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"

And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And ploughed the willing lands;

And

sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain!

Our stanch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.

But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword."

XXVIII.-LITTLE EDWARD.

MRS. STOWE.

[Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, the world-renowned author of Uncle Tom's Cabin, is the daughter of the Rev. Lyman Beecher, D. D., and wife of Professor Calvin E. Stowe, of the Theological Seminary at Andover, Massachusetts.

The following extract is from the May-Flower, a collection of sketches and narratives, marked by the same combination of humor and pathos which is so conspicuous in her novel.]

WERE any of you born in New England, in the good old catechizing, church-going, school-going, orderly times? If so, you may have seen my uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright, downright good man that ever labored six days and rested on the seventh.

You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line seemed drawn with "a pen of iron and the point of a diamond ;” his considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not best to be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect opening and shutting of the mouth; his downsitting and uprising, all performed with deliberate forethought; in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation, which was, after a military fashion, "to the right about face-forward, march."

Now, if you supposed, from all this sternness of exterior, that this good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken. You often find the greenest grass under a snow drift; and though my uncle's mind was not exactly of the flower garden kind, still there was an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.

It is true he seldom laughed, and never made a joke; but no man had a more serious and weighty conviction of what a joke was in another; and when a witticism was uttered in his

presence, you might see his face relax into an expression of solemn satisfaction, and he would look at the author with a sort of quiet wonder, as if it were past his comprehension how such a thing could ever come into a man's head.

Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine arts; in proof of which, I might adduce the pleasure with which he gazed at the plates in his family Bible, the likeness whereof is neither in heaven, nor on earth, nor under the earth. And he was also so eminent a musician, that he could go through the singing book at one sitting without the least fatigue, beating time all the way like a wind mill.

He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liberality was all by the rule of three. He did by his neighbor exactly as he would be done by he loved some things in this world very sincerely; he loved his God much, but he honored and feared him more; he was exact with others, but he was more exact with himself, and he expected his God to be more exact still.

Every thing in uncle Abel's house was in the same time, place, manner, and form, from year's end to year's end. There was old Master Bose, a dog after my uncle's own heart, who always walked as if he were studying the multiplication table. There was the old clock, forever ticking in the chimney corner, with a picture of the sun upon its face, forever setting behind a perpendicular row of poplar trees. There was the neverfailing supply of red peppers and onions hanging over the chimney.

There, too, were the yearly hollyhocks and morning glories blooming about the windows. There was the "best room," with its sanded floor; the cupboard in one corner, with its glass doors; the evergreen asparagus bushes in the chimney; and there was the stand with the Bible and almanac on it in an

other corner. There, too, was aunt Betsey, who never looked any older, because she always looked as old as she could; who always dried her catnip and wormwood the last of September, and began to clean house the first of May. In short, this was the land of continuance. Old Time never took it into