Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;

And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal,
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the
necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,

And splashed and overset them;
And they called in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.

And the Turkish women for❜ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;

And shrieking and bewildering,

The mothers clutched their children;
"Allah! Illah!

The men sung
Mashallah Bismillah!"

As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them:
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins

Would never pay for cabins);

And each man moaned and jabbered in His filthy Jewish gaberdine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches

Their dirty brats and wenches;

And they crawl from bales and benches,

In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the White Squall famous,

Which latterly o'ercame us,

And which all will well remember

On the 28th September;

When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,

By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,

Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorned the tempest's tussle ;
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter ;
For well he knew his vessel

With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gallantly he fought her,

And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "George, some brandy and water!"

And when, its force expended,

The harmless storm was ended-
And, as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea-
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.

W. M. THACKERAY.

BRIER-ROSE.

From St. Nicholas.

I.

(AID Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Rose:

SAID

“What will become of you, my child, the Lord Almighty knows.

You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom;

You never sit a minute still at spinning wheel or loom."

Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at

eve,

The good wife, as she bustled with pot and tray and

sieve;

But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty

66

head:

Why, I shall marry, Mother dear," full merrily she said.

"You marry, saucy Brier-Rose! The man, he is not found

Το

marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around."

But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she trilled a merry

lay:

"Perhaps he'll come, my Mother dear, from eighty leagues away."

The good wife, with a "humph" and a sigh, forsook the

battle,

And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle:

"O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days and

wild,

That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child.

Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could

hear,

And laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's

ear.

And she, as e'er, relenting, sighed: "Oh, Heaven only

knows

Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose !"

The sun was high, and summer sounds were teeming in the air;

The clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling wood-notes rare,

From field and copse and meadow; and through the open door

Sweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore.

Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful

mien,

Whose little life has problems among the branches

green.

She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong,

She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song.

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky;

Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why,

And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, Heaven only knows

Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied,

She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide;