brave young heart, she fled on.
She neither stumbled nor fell. The shot threw the dirt in her face, and
showered the twigs down upon her head. But she was not struck. In
safety she reached the hut, and fell exhausted across the threshold.

And the little boy thus saved by a girl's brave devotion, afterward
became General Fenwick, famous in the war of 1812.

FORTY--LESS ONE.

BY JAMES RICHARDSON.

Over by the tangled thicket,
Where the level meets the hill,
Where the mealy alder-bushes
Crowd around the ruined mill,
Where the thrushes whistle early,
Where the midges love to play,
Where the nettles, tall and stinging,
Guard the vine-obstructed way,
Where the tired brooklet lingers;
In a quiet little pool,
Mistress Salmo Fontinalis[A]
Keeps a very private school.

Forty little speckled beauties
Come to learn of her, each day,
How to climb the foaming rapids,
Where the flashing sunbeams play,--
How to navigate the eddies,
How to sink and how to rise,
How to watch for passing perils,
How to leap for passing flies,--
When to play upon the surface,
When beneath the stones to hide,--
All the secrets of the water,
All brook learning, true and tried;--

"That's a good-for-nothing skipper;"
"That's a harmless yellow-bird;"
"That's the flicker of the sunshine,
When the alder-leaves are stirred;"
"That's the shadow of a cloudlet;"
"That's a squirrel come to drink;"
"That--look out for him, my darlings!--
He's a fierce and hungry mink;"
"That's the ripple on the water,
When the winds the wavelets stir;"
"That--snap quick, my little hearties!--
That's a luscious grasshopper."

[Illustration]

So the clever Mistress Salmo
Gives her counsel, day by day,--
Teaching all the troutly virtues,
All life's lessons, grave and gay.
Well she knows the flashing terror
Of King Fisher's sudden fall!
Well she knows the lurking danger
Of the barb'd hook, keen and small!
Well she tries to warn her pupils
Of all evils, low and high!
But, alas! the vain young triflers
Sometimes disobey--and die!

What was that which passed so quickly,
With a slender shade behind?
What is that which stirs the alders
When no ripple tells of wind?
What sends Mistress Salmo darting
Underneath the stones in fear?--
Crying, "Hide yourselves, my darlings!
Our worst enemy