9. Then, with thankful hearts, we turned our faces again to the west. But soon the wind arose, and for thirty-six hours we were exposed to all the dangers of a storm on the Atlantic. Yet, in the very height and fury of the gale, as I sat in the electrician's room, a flash of light came up from the deep, which, having crossed to Ireland, came back to me in mid-ocean, telling that those so dear to me, whom I had left on the banks of the Hudson, were well, and following us with their wishes and their prayers. This was like a whisper of God from the sea, bidding me keep heart and hope.

10. Such, in brief, is the story of the Telegraph. It has been long, hard struggle-nearly thirteen years of anxious watching and ceaseless toil. Often my heart has been ready to sink. Many times, when wandering in the forests of Newfoundland in the pelting rain, or on the deck of ships on dark stormy nights alone, and far from home-I have almost accused myself of madness and folly to sacrifice the peace of my family and all the hopes of life for what might prove, after all, but a dream. I have seen my companions one and another falling by my side, and feared that I, too, might not live to see the end. And yet one hope has led me on, and I have prayed that I might not taste of death till this work was accomplished. That prayer is answered; and now, beyond all acknowledgments to men, is the feeling of gratitude to Almighty God.

CYRUS W. FIELD.

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE.

1. BOLD Cyrus Field, he said, says he,
"I have a pretty notion

That I can run a telegraph

Across the Atlantic Ocean."

2. Then all the people laughed, and said
They'd like to see him do it;
He might get half-seas over, but
He never could go through it.

3. To carry out his foolish plan
He never would be able;

He might as well go hang himself
With his Atlantic Cable.

4. But Cyrus was a valiant man,
A fellow of decision,

And heeded not their mocking words,
Their laughter and derision.

5. Twice did his bravest efforts fail,
And yet his mind was stable;

He wa'n't the man to break his heart
Because he broke his cable.

6. "Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;
"Three times!" you know the fable-
(“I'll make it thirty," muttered he,
"But I will lay this cable!")

7. Once more they tried-hurrah! HURRAH!
What means this great commotion?
The Lord be praised! the cable's laid
Across the Atlantic Ocean!

8. Loud ring the bells! — for, flashing through Six hundred leagues of water,

Old Mother England's benison
Salutes her eldest daughter!

9. And may we honor evermore

The manly, bold, and stable;
And tell our sons, to make them brave,
How Cyrus laid the cable!

J. G. SAXE.

XLVIII. NOT ONE CHILD TO SPARE.

1. "WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be?
I looked at John-John looked at me,
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet,
As well as though my locks were jet.)
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak;
"Tell me again what Robert said!"
And then I, listening, bent my head.
"This is his letter: I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye be given."

2. I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne,
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,

And then of this: "Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep." So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lillian, the baby, slept,
Her auburn curls like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white;
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her, not her."

3. We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,'
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

4. Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless; idle one

Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave
Bade us befriend him to his grave;

Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

5. Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 't would better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in willful way,

And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee."
The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and faithful, good and glad
So like his father. "No, John, no-
I cannot, will not, let him go."

And so we wrote, in a courteous way,
We could not drive one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed.
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,

Trusting the rest to One in Heaven.

MRS. E. L. BEERS.

Love is omnipresent in nature as motive and reward. Love is our highest word, and the synonym of God. Every promise of the soul has innumerable fulfillments; each of its joys ripens into a new want. Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking in the first sentiment of kindness, anticipates already a benevolence which shall lose all particular regards in its general light. The introduction of this felicity is in a private and tender relation of one to one, which is the enchantment of human life; which, like a certain divine rage and enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind and body; unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civil relations, carries him with new sympathy into nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society.-Emerson.