Still the north-wind, by God's grace!

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound.

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock,

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,

Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last,

And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"-sure as fate,

Up the English come-too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm:

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard.

Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,

You must name your own reward.

'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

A

Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a

run?

Since 'tis ask and have, I may

Since the others go ashore

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle
Aurore!"

That he asked and that he got,-nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost:

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack,

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris: rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank!

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé

Riel.

So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle

Aurore!

MR. PICKWICK DRIVES

BY CHARLES DICKENS

Picture to yourself a small, delicate boy, whose white face seems the whiter for his dark hair, who sits wretchedly all day long on a stool in the basement of a tumble-down

London warehouse, pasting labels on blacking-bottles. Rats squeak at him. from the corners, his shoulders ache with his constant work. At noon he munches a penny loaf, varied now and then with a fourpenny plate of beef from a near-by cook's shop. At night he lies down alone in an attic. His father is in prison for debt, and so even on Sundays the boy has no happier place to go than behind prison gates. Sometimes he walks out past Gadshill, a beautiful suburban house, and gazing

up at it says that he means to own it some day. Poor little Charles Dickens! But a brilliant life is ahead, and after all, the dark days in the warehouse basement make wonderful pages for David Copperfield. What with a little schooling and some reporting and at last writing of stories, the old days were for ever banished. When Dickens at twenty-four introduced inimitable Mr. Pickwick to the world, he became instantly famous. Other stories, crowded with all human emotions, followed steadily. Now he could and did buy Gadshill. Dickens was a delightful host, especially to children, for whom, remembering his own early misery, he loved to give gay parties, with little plays in which he himself took part. His characters were living persons to the public, and when Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop died, people felt that a dear and lovely friend had been taken

from them. The body of Dickens was buried in Westminster Abbey. "His friends were all the men, women and children who read English books." [Born in 1812-died in 1870]

66

Now, about Manor Farm," said Mr. Pickwick. "How shall we go?"

"We had better consult the waiter, perhaps," said Mr. Tupman, and the waiter was summoned accordingly.

66

Dingley Dell, gentlemen-fifteen miles, gentlemen— cross-road-post-chaise, sir?"

"Post-chaise won't hold more than two," said Mr. Pickwick.

"True, sir--beg your pardon, sir. Very nice fourwheeled chaise, sir-seat for two behind-one in front for the gentleman that drives-oh! beg your pardon, sir,that'll only hold three."

"What's to be done?" said Mr. Snodgrass.

"Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?" suggested the waiter, looking toward Mr. Winkle. "Very good saddle-horses, sir,—any of Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester can bring them back, sir."

"The very thing," said Mr. Pickwick. "Winkle, will you go on horseback?"

Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses of his own heart relative to his equestrian skill, but as he would not have them even suspected on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood, "Certainly, I should enjoy it of all things."