THE PILOT.-JOHN B. GOUGH.

John Maynard was well-known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest, and intelligent man. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon-at that time those steamers seldom carried boats-smoke was seen ascending from below; and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there."

Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire!"

buckets of water were

There were large quanand it was found useless

Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard. All hands were called up; dashed on the fire, but in vain. tities of rosin and tar on board, to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?"

"Seven miles."

"How long before we can reach there?"

"Three quarters of an hour, at our present rate of steam."

"Is there any danger?"

"Danger! Here, see the smoke bursting out!-go forward, if you would save your lives!"

Passengers and crew-men, women, and children— crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose.

The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"Are you at the helm?"

“Ay, ay, sir!"

"How does she head?"

"South-east by east, sir."

"Head her south-east, and run her on shore," said the

captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out, "John Maynard!” The response came feebly this time, "Ay, ay, sir!" "Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?” he said. "By God's help, I will!"

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp; one hand was disabled;-his knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God.

A WELSH CLASSIC.-H. H. BALLARD,

An unlettered clergyman wanting a place
(His manners were genial and pleasant his face)
Received a kind letter inviting him down
To preach to a church in a large country town.

The town was uncultured, old-fashioned and plain;
The principal business was harvesting grain,
And none of the church-members ventured to speak
A word of the Hebrew, or Latin, or Greek.

For this very reason they wished all the more,
A scholar well grounded in classical lore;
While a candidate might just as well stay away
If he didn't quote Hebrew at least once a day.

The divine about whom this odd story was told,
By the "Times" of Manhattan, was cunning and bold;
And knowing they wished for a classical man,
Though he didn't know Latin, he hit on a plan.

For he thought, "We shall see how much shrewdness avails,
Though I cannot read Greek, I'm a native of Wales:

If a few Welsh expressions I cautiously use,

It may rival the Hebrew in pleasing the pews."

On the critical day, with exceptional grace,

With well-attuned voice, and well-controlled face,

He read from the Bible a passage or two,

And remarked, "My dear friends, this translation won't do.

"To be sure 'tis correct, but if beauty you seek,
Hear the rhythmical sound of original Greek!”
Then boldly a medley of Welsh he recited,
And marked the effect on his hearers benighted.
The children gazed up with a wondering stare,
Their mothers assumed an intelligent air,
While the deacons all nodded as much as to say
That Greek was by far the more excellent way.
A still bolder venture he hazarded next,
By a curious way of announcing the text:

"These words, as my hearers have noticed, of course, Have lost nearly all their original force;

"In the Hebrew how clearly the thought flashes out,"
And more of his Welsh he proceeded to spout;
When what was his horror to spy near the door
A jolly old Welshman, just ready to roar!

Overcome with remorse and foreseeing the shame
Exposure would bring to his reverend name,
The preacher's mad impulse at first was to run,
But the Welshman's round face so brimming with fun
Suggested a possible plan of escape,

Which none but a terrified parson could shape.

He bravely confronted that dangerous smile,
And coolly continued his sermon awhile,

Till at length without showing the least agitation,
He rallied himself for a final quotation:
"The rendering here is decidedly wrong,
Quite different thoughts to the Chaldee belong."
Then Welshman in pulpit to Welshman in pew,
In the barbarous dialect they alone knew,
Cried, “Friend! By the land of our fathers, I pray,
As you hope for salvation, don't give me away!"
The joke was so rich the old Welshman kept still;
And the classical parson is preaching there still.

Part Twenty-fourth.

Each of the Four Numbers of

"100 Choice Selections" contained in this volume is paged separately, and the Index is made to correspond therewith. See EXPLANATION on first page of Contents.

The entire book contains nearly

1000 pages.