Head," trimming her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some
misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this
she receives no manner of remuneration--it is pure, unmingled
philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not rest even there; for
she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to
share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and
glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward.
She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to
the under-writers. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed
her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the
remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to
save." This circumstance seems to have prompted her present devoted
and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

* * * * *

Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a
class-mate and friend; but it sounds "as good as new." If he should
happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two
lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and
Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.


THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend,
That knockest at my pane,
Whence is thy being? Where dost end,
Thou little drop of rain?