LITMIR.BIZ

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out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:

      That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

      The fate of a nation was riding that night;

      And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

      Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

      It was twelve by the village-clock,

      When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

      He heard the crowing of the cock,

      And the barking of the farmer's dog,

      And felt the damp of the river-fog,

      That rises when the sun goes down.

      It was one by the village-clock,

      When he rode into Lexington.

      He saw the gilded weathercock

      Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

      And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

      Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

      As if they already stood aghast

      At the bloody work they would look upon.

      It was two by the village-clock,

      When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

      He heard the bleating of the flock,

      And the twitter of birds among the trees,

      And felt the breath of the morning-breeze

      Blowing over the meadows brown.

      And one was safe and asleep in his bed

      Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

      Who that day would be lying dead,

      Pierced by a British musket-ball.

      You know the rest. In the books you have read

      How the British regulars fired and fled,—

      How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

      From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,

      Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

      Then crossing the fields to emerge again

      Under the trees at the turn of the road,

      And only pausing to fire and load.

      So through the night rode Paul Revere;

      And so through the night went his cry of alarm

      To every Middlesex village and farm,—

      A cry of defiance, and not of fear,—

      A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

      And a word that shall echo forevermore!

      For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

      Through all our history, to the last,

      In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

      The people will waken and listen to hear

      The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,

      And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

      A NIGHT UNDER GROUND

      My dear Laura Matilda, have you ever worked your way under ground, like the ghost Hamlet, Senior? On the contrary, you confess, but a dim idea of that peculiar mode of progression abides in the well-ordered mansion of your mind?

      Well, I do not wonder at it; you are civilized beyond the common herd; your mamma, careful of her own comfort and the beauty of her child, guards both. Your sunny summer-times go by in the shade of sylvan groves, or amid the whirl of Saratoga or Newport ball-rooms. I accept your ignorance; it is a pretty blossom in your maiden chaplet. For myself, I blush for my own familiarity with rough scenes chanced upon in wayward wanderings.

      Let me tell you of a path among the "untrodden ways." Transport yourself with me.

      Fancy a low, level, drowsy point of land, stretching out into the unbroken emerald green of Lake Superior, at the point where a narrow, yellowish river offers its tribute. The King of Lakes is exclusive; he disdains to blend his brilliant waters with those of the muddy river; a wavy line, distinctly and clearly defined, but seeming as if drawn by a trembling hand, undulates at their junction,—no democratic, union-seeking boundary, but the arbitrary line of division that separates the Sultan from the slave, the peer from the peasant.

      Along this shore are scattered various buildings that seem to nod in the indolent sunshine of the bright, clear, quiet air of midsummer. One of these, differing from the rest in its more modern construction, is a spacious hotel that holds itself proudly erect, and from its summit the gay flag of my country floats flauntingly.

      We must pass this by, and go down a plank-covered walk to reach the sandy-golden beach where the green waves dash with silent dignity, in these long calms of July. Before the hotel the river flows also sleepily; but both shores are vocal with ladies' laughter and the singing of young girls, the lively chatter of a party of pleasure-tourists.

      The fine steamer that brought us to this point has gone,

      "Sailing out into the west,

      Out into the west, as the sun went down";

      but no "weeping and wringing of hands" was there; we knew it must "come back to the town,"—that we are merely transient waifs cast upon this quiet beach, flitting birds of passage who have alighted in the porticos of the "Bigelow House," Ontonagon, Michigan.

      A long, low flat-boat, without visible sails, steam-pipes, or oars,—a narrow river-craft, with a box-like cabin at one end, the whole rude in its ensemble, and uncivilized in its details,—is the object that meets the gaze of those who would curiously inspect the means by which the adventurous novelty-seeking portion of our party are to be conveyed up this Ontonagon river to the great copper-mines that form the inestimable wealth of that region. For the metallic attraction has proved magnetic to the fancies of a few. A mine is a mystery; and mysteries, to the female mind, are delights.

      What is the boat to us but a means? If it seem prosaic, what care we? Have we escaped the French fashions of à-la-mode watering-places, to be fastidious amid wigwams and unpeopled shores?

      We all know what it is to embark for a day's travel, but we do not all understand the charm of being stowed away like freight in a boat such as the one here faintly sketched; how seats are improvised; how umbrellas are converted into stationary screens, and awnings grow out of inspiration; how baskets are hidden carefully among carpet-bags, and camp-stools, and water-jugs, and stowed-in-shavings ice; how the long-suffering, patient ladies shelter themselves in the tiny, stifling cabin, while those of the merry, complexion-careless sort lounge in the daylight's glare, and one couple, fond of seclusion and sentiment, discover a good place for both, at the rudder-end.

      There is an oar or two on board, it appears, as we push off in the early dawn; and these are employed for a mile or so at the mouth of the river; then the current begins to quicken in a narrower bed, and a group of sinewy men betake themselves to their poles, lazily at first, until–

      But you do not know exactly what these implements are?

      They are heavy, wooden, sharp-pointed poles, ten or twelve feet long. On either side of the boat runs a "walk," arranged as if a ladder were laid horizontally; but in reality the bars or rungs are firmly fastened to the walk, to be used as rests for the feet. Here the men, five on a side, march like a chain-gang, backward and forward; placing one end of the pole in the bed of the stream, resting the other in the hollow of the shoulder near the arm-pit, and bracing themselves by their feet against these bars, they pry the boat along.

      Progression by such means is unavoidably slow; but no steamboat-race on our Western rivers, blind and reckless, boiler-defying and life-despising, ever produced more excitement than this same poling.

      Wait till the current runs rapidly, fretting and seething in its angry haste, when for a moment's delay the boat

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