observe that since you have taken off
your bonnet, the wind has somewhat disarranged your hair.

DISCIPULA. Wouldn't you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam
over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and
lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the
eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to
unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!

PISCATOR. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are
taking us?

DISCIPULA. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us,
with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.

PISCATOR. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a
few rods back from the shore.

DISCIPULA. Oh, it's a cloud--a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers
through it.

PISCATOR. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of
some dwelling.

DISCIPULA. I tell you it's a star--a star! The cloud has settled down into
the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel,
through which the ray of that star comes--a long, straight cavern, arched
overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I'll
put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my
brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like the horse into the smoke of
battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!

PISCATOR. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you
are running on the beach!

DISCIPULA. Why don't you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the
tunnel? We shall soon be into it.

PISCATOR. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded
and staved!

DISCIPULA. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools!

PISCATOR. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces!

DISCIPULA. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done?

PISCATOR. It _was_ well done, you little water-witch!

LINES

ON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY'S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS.

BY R. S. CHILTON.

Ay! fill it up, my sister dear;
His brothers all like him are gaunt,
And sister's too; then do not fear
To choke the gaping mouth of want.
Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,
The tears stand in his sickly eye;
Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,
He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!

The basket's heavy; what of that?
His heart is light, he heeds it not;
His f