An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at
Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and
visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very
unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time
unless it blew more of a breeze."




THE HOME-BEACON.


By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood
Impels the foamy mill,
Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom,
A mansion crowns the hill.

A pharos true, light ever new
Streams through its friendly pane,
To guide and greet benighted feet
Which thread the winding lane.

Lofty and lone, that light has shone,
Alike o'er green or snow,
Since first a pair their nest built there,
Two hundred years ago.

Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk
To cheer the dismal way,
That light shall tell of marriage-bell,