But to come toward him would be to spring upon him. Then he would be lost. All stared in terrified silence.

"Come on!" said the man. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it leaped toward him. The man dodged. Then the struggle began, a contest unheard of; the human warrior attacking the brazen beast; blind force on one side, soul on the other. It was as if a gigantic insect of iron was endowed with the will of a demon. Now and then this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun-deck, then, falling back on its four wheels, like a tiger on all fours, would rush upon the man. He-supple, agile, adroit-writhed like a serpent before these lightning movements.

A piece of broken chain remained attached to the carronade; one end was fastened to the gun carriage; the other end thrashed wildly about, aggravating the danger with every bound of the cannon. The screw held it as in a clenched hand, and this chain, multiplying the strokes of the battering ram by those of the thong, made a terrible whirlwind around the gun,-a lash of iron in a fist of brass. The chain complicated the combat.

Despite all this, the man fought. Suddenly the cannon seemed to say to itself, Now, then, there must be an end to this. And it stopped. A crisis was felt to be at hand. All at once it hurled itself upon the gunner, who sprang aside with a laugh as the cannon passed him.

The

gunner had taken refuge at the foot of the stairs,

a few steps from the old man, who was watching. The gunner held his handspike in rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn itself, backed upon him with the quickness of an axstroke.

The gunner, if driven back against the side, was lost. The crew uttered a cry.

But the old passenger, until now motionless, made a spring more rapid than all those wild whirls. He seized a bale of the false assignats, and, at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in flinging it between the wheels of the cannon.

The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a log, a tree-branch turn an avalanche.

The cannon stumbled. The gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels.

The cannon was stopped. It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, rocked it to and fro. The heavy mass turned over with a clang like a falling bell, and the gunner, dripping with sweat, rushed forward headlong and passed the slipping-noose about the bronze neck of the overthrown monster.

It was ended. The man had conquered. The pygmy had taken the thunder-bolt prisoner. The whole crew hurried down with cables and chains, and in an instant the cannon was securely lashed.

Abridged.

GREAT MEN

BY THOMAS CARLYLE

Universal history, the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the great men who have worked here. They are the leaders of men, these great ones: the modelers, patterns, and in a wide sense creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to attain. All things that we see standing accomplished in the world are properly the outer material result of thoughts that dwelt in the great men sent into the world; the soul of the whole world's history it may justly be considered, were the history of these. We can not look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by him. He is the living light-fountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. The light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as I say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness-in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them. On any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to wander in such neighborhood for a while. Could we see them well, we should get some glimpses into the very marrow of the world's history.

From "Heroes and Hero Worship."

THE NAME OF OLD GLORY

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Old Glory! say, who,

By the ships and the crew,

I

And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue,-
Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear
With such pride everywhere

As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air

And leap out full-length, as we're wanting you to?—
Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same,
And the honor and fame so becoming to you?—
Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red,
With your stars at their glittering best overhead-
By day or by night

Their delightfulest light

Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue!—
Who gave you the name of Old Glory?-say, who-
Who gave you the name of Old Glory?

The old banner lifted, and faltering then
In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.

II

Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear
Is what the plain facts of your christening were,—