A PAINFUL HISTORY.

Three youths in the heyday of life's hopeful spring, On a bright April morn gaily hied, With three little skiffs, each one made by himself, To skim o'er the silvery tide.

In the joy that awaits on all well-performed work, Engaged in by youth, child, or man, Whilst employing the powers which to him God has given, And labouring as well as he can,

They pushed from the shore, their young spirits elate. In a trance of enjoyment and pride; For were they not reaping the cherished reward Which to labour is never denied?

Far happier than kings, as light-hearted as birds Who warbled spring carols on high, Each guided his skiff o'er the freshening wave, 'Neath a cloudless, sun-glorified sky.

They had chatted together while making their boats, Half in serious mood, half in fun, Of parting their hair in the middle to aid Fair balance in the risk they might run.

And thus, in increasing and joyful delight, They paddled a full hour and more, And were gaily returning triumphantly, when, Within about ten yards from shore,

Young Ithill, the eldest, a youth of sixteen, His seat unaccountably lost, And out of the frail skiff, the promising boy, In a twinkling was ruthlessly tost.

His nearest companion, young Whittaker, sprang, His canoe prompt assistance to lend, But the noble young Ithill refused to lay hold, For fear of endangering his friend.

Young Girling was some distance off, but at once To the rescue most gallantly sprang, As meantime the cry of "a boy drowning," loud Through the air supplicatingly rang.

And the mother of Girling, who heard that wild cry, Flew like lightning across to the strand, Plunged fearlessly into the tide, where her son Was struggling with stout heart and hand

To reach his poor friend, and the brave mother sought To encourage his efforts to save, While she, who, like him, could not swim, struggled hard, Kept afloat by her clothes on the wave.

But vain were their efforts, the telegraph boy Had sunk 'neath the pitiless wave, And his poor lifeless body, so late full of life, Now lies in its calm ocean grave.

In response to shrill cries for assistance, some men Put off in a boat, all too late! Instead of at once plunging in to the boy, Thus heartlessly left to his fate,

'Tis said one of three or four beings called men, Calmly standing close by on the land, Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk, In reply to the woman's demand.

I've been told, but 'tis almost too hard to believe, That one of these beings could swim, But was too great a coward and poltroon to risk The endangering of life or of limb.

But enough of such sickening allusions as these; Those who might have saved life, lost what none Who never ennoble their lives by good deeds, Could imagine of happiness won

By hearts braced with courage, regardless of self, Such as John Girling's mother displayed, Who, like a true hero, sublimely risked life In those efforts, alas! vainly made.

Is there not on this isle some society formed To reward such brave deeds as this one? For surely humanity could not withhold Recompense for such gratitude won!

Let us hope that this sad, painful history may lead Every one to determine to try, The fine art of swimming to master forthwith, Ere the now opening season pass by.

For doubtless the poor boy might yet have been spared, Had he known how to swim or to float, As very few strokes might have brought him to shore, When he slipped from his slight fragile boat.

'Tis sweet to record the good conduct and life Of this well-beloved, motherless boy, In the hope that it may to his absent sire's heart Convey some consolation and joy.