DISCIPULA. I tell you it's a star--a star! The cloud has settled down into the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel, through which the ray of that star comes--a long, straight cavern, arched overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I'll put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like the horse into the smoke of battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes! PISCATOR. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you are running on the beach! DISCIPULA. Why don't you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the tunnel? We shall soon be into it. PISCATOR. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded and staved! DISCIPULA. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools! PISCATOR. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces! DISCIPULA. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done? PISCATOR. It _was_ well done, you little water-witch! LINES ON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY'S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS. BY R. S. CHILTON. Ay! fill it up, my sister dear; His brothers all like him are gaunt, And sister's too; then do not fear To choke the gaping mouth of want. Fill up! his heart beats quick and high, The tears stand in his sickly eye; Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy, He scarce can thank thee now, for joy! The basket's heavy; what of that? His heart is light, he heeds it not; His feet are cold and bare, poor brat! But this has always been his lot. He trudges on, or stops to steal Quick glances at the dainty meal; And then his purple lips do bless The heart that pitied his distress. At home, how will the meagre ones Clutch at those broken bits of bread! How will they banquet on those bones, Like ravens feasting on the dead! A dainty stomach would refuse Such food; but 'beggars cannot choose:' _They_ relish what the rich condemn, But hunger makes the sauce for them. Ah, sister! when the beggar-boy Returns, think still on hunger's pain; Lighten his little heart with joy, And fill his basket up again. Who _pities_ wretchedness does well, But who _relieves_ it, doth excel. Then ever, till the common end, Let Misery find in thee, a friend. THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER XXVI.