“You’d better keep less away,” said the English captain. “Fill on your course again. We shall beat up on your late track, lest the Yankee may have lain to, as the safest way to get off in this fog. If we throw up three rockets successively, we shall want you to come up towards us. If we fire two guns, the rascal will be to windward; if one, to leeward.” “Ay, ay, sir!—fill away again!” and, with a courteous wave of the hand, the two captains parted company. During the whole of this colloquy, we had lain to at but a short distance from the quarter of the foe, and, at any moment, if our disguise had been penetrated, we could have been sunk by a single broadside. Accustomed though we were to peril, our hearts beat at this dangerous proximity, and when at length we filled away on our course, and gradually lost sight of the frigate, the relief we experienced was indescribable. We kept away, cracking on every thing we could, and for nearly an hour our cheat remained undiscovered. At the end of that time, to judge by the rockets on the windward horizon, the three frigates learned that they had been outwitted. They doubtless gave us chase, but we were now clear of the fleet, and, moreover, had some leagues start of them. Before daylight we had made the French coast, and we were safely moored, before forty-eight hours, in the harbor of Brest. * * * * * OH! A MERRY LIFE DOES A HUNTER LEAD. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. Oh! a merry life does a hunter lead! He wakes with the dawn of day! He whistles his dog and mounts his steed, And scuds to the woods away! The lightsome tramp of the deer he’ll mark, As they troop in herds along; And his rifle startles the tuneful lark As he warbles his morning song! Oh! a hunter’s life is the life for me! That is the life for a man! Let others sing of the swelling sea; But match the woods if you can! Then give me my gun—I’ve an eye to mark The deer as they bound along! My steed and my dog, and the cheerful lark To warble my morning song. * * * * * THE WIDOW’S WEALTH. BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. Addressed to my little boy, who, on seeing me weep at pecuniary misfortunes, brought a silver piece which had been presented to him, and with tears in his eyes, said—“_Mother, will this do you any good?_” Nay, keep thy gift my precious boy! It but a drop would be From the wide ocean of the wants That are oppressing me. But blessings on the tender heart From whence the offering rose— Which fain would give its ‘little all,’ To soothe a mother’s woes! Ah! when I gaze on _thee_ my child, I feel that wealth is mine; For gems of the “first water,” are Those guileless tears of thine.