way, in the little church at Stratford-on-Avon. Then
I saw the tombs of David Garrick, the great actor and delineator of
Shakspeare's characters; George Frederick Handel, the eminent composer,
the author of that beautiful anthem, "I know that my Redeemer liveth;"
the great Milton; rare old Ben Jonson; Edmund Spenser, author of the
"Faery Queene;" and those of Southey, Dryden, Addison, Gray, Campbell,
and other well-known English poets.

Then, among the names of the dead of our own day, I saw those of
Dickens, Bulwer, Macaulay, and Dr. Livingstone.

Kings, queens, statesmen, soldiers, clergymen, authors and poets here
have equal station. Some may lie under richer tombs than others, but
all rest beneath the vaulted roof of Westminster Abbey, the place of
highest honor that England can offer her departed sons.

CRIP'S GARRET-DAY

BY SARAH J. PRICHARD.

Crip was having a dismal--a very dismal time of it. Crip was eleven, it
was his birthday, and Crip was in disgrace--in a garret.

Wasn't it dreadful?

It happened thus: Crip's father was a shoemaker. The bench where he
worked and the little bit of a shop, about eight feet every way, in
which he worked, stood on a street leading down to the town dock, and
the name of the town we will say was Barkhampstead, on Cape Cod Bay.

Now and then--that is, once or twice in the year--a whaling vessel set
sail from the dock, and sometimes, not always, the same vessels
returned to the dock.

The going and the coming of a "whaler" made Crip's father, Mr. John
Allen, glad. It was his busy season, for when the seamen went, they
always wanted stout new boots and shoes, and, when they came, they
always needed new coverings on their feet to go home in.

Two years before this dismal time that Crip was having, the ship "Sweet
Home" went away, and it had not been spoken or signaled or heard from
in any way, since four months from the time it left the dock at
Barkhampstead.

The fathers and mothers and wives and little children of the men who
went in the "Sweet Home" kept on hoping, and fearing, and feeling
terribly bad about everybody on board whom they loved, when, without
any warning whatever, right in the midst of a raging snow storm, the
"Sweet Home," all covered in ice from mast-head to prow, sailed, stiff
and cold, into Barkhampstead harbor.

Oh! wasn't there a great gladness over all the old town then! They rang
the meeting-house bell. It was a hoarse, creaking old be