on all fours in the snow. Most observers in
fields and forests have wondered what comes of
all the dead animals who die every winter. And
the explanation is, that there exist groups of
animals with constitutions to resist very intense
cold, who instinctively prefer animal remains.
The hard frost spreads their banquet; and in
return they diminish the noxious gases which
spread pestilence; whilst even in the instinct
which prompts them to shorten the pain of
dying birds and mammals there is beneficence.

MAKING FREE WITH A CHIEF.

IT was almost all over with the Chariot of
Fame, A 1 at Lloyd's for thirteen years, and
two thousand tons burthen. Captain Barclay
said so. Sam Johnson, the first mate, said so.
All the crew agreed with Captain Barclay and
Sam Johnson.

Only Heaven knew where we were; save that
we knew too well that we were off a nasty coast
on a dirty night.

A brazen sunset had brought on a three days'
hurricane, and there we were, the pumps clogged,
the crew worn out with working at the pumps,
the hold full of water, the bulwarks washed
away, labouring in the trough of a yeasty sea,
and every plank creaking and groaning as if its
heart were breaking. It was a pitch-dark
September night, and we could not see even the
bare poles against the sky; and even with the
night-glass we could make out no coast, though
we all of us pretty well knew that we should be
on a lee shore in a few hours, if the wind did
not go down, and the vessel answer her helm a
little better.

It was about three bells, as near as may be,
when Captain Barclay, a respectable God-fearing
man as ever came out between the dock gates,
called me down into his cabin.

"Martingale," says he, "you being super-
cargo, are not called upon to work at the pumps,
no more than you are called upon to dip your
hands in the tar bucket; but you have done it,"
says he, "and you're a brave honest fellow"
(those were his very words), " and I thank you
for it in the name of our employers; your life's
a valuable one to the ship, and I insist on your
turning into my berth— the sea breaks into yours—
and sleeping till I call you when the dog watch
comes on. No words, Martingale; turn in, and
I'll tell the steward to bring you a stiff nor'wester."

I could not very well refuse, for I was wet
through and worn out, so I thanked him, and
turned in.

He gave one look at a portrait of his wife that
hung over the sofa in his cabin, took down his
speaking-trumpet from the brackets over his
desk, wished me good night, and went on deck
again.

Three minutes afterwards, the steward's boy
came in with the cold grog; the constant seas
that the vessel shipped having put out the galley
fire.

"Where is Mr. Johnson, William?" I said to
the boy.

"He is at the pumps, sir, and he says he
won't leave them till daybreak."

I drank the grog and lay down. The wind was
so tremendous that it drowned all other noises;
but in a moment I was dreaming of the old
orchard at home in Lanark, and fancying
myself listening to the burr of the old thrashing
machine. The sea might roll mountains, the
wind might threaten us with death, the Chariot
of Fame might plunge and struggle; but I was
asleep and at rest.

I suppose I must have slept six hours, for
when I awoke the wind had gone down, and
there was a dead calm and a silence so intense
that I think it must have been that which awoke
me. It was just daybreak, and the pale
sunlight fell softly and cheerfully on the cabin wall,
lighting up the picture of the captain's wife.
Vexed at having slept so long, I leaped up,
dressed as I was, and listened.

Not a sound, no noise of deck-cleaning, no
patter of bare feet, no hearty cries, no pacing,
no words of command, no running up and
down the cabin stairs, no clattering of plates in
the cabin.

I washed my face and was out of my berth in
a moment. The fore-cabin was an inch deep in
water, and the stairs were strewn with tangled
ropes. I was up in three strides.

Gracious Heaven! till the last day I have to
live, I shall never forget how my heart beat at
the moment that I set foot on deck and saw that
I was there, alone.

Yes, alone. There was not a soul left on
board. A straw hat and a telescope lay by the
wheel, but the wheel itself was broken and useless.
By the galley door hung a tarpaulin coat
and an axe, beside a shattered spar, a cask, and
a pile of torn canvas.

As I fell on my knees in the utter despair of
that moment, I heard a stout hearty voice cry
from high above:

"Harry Martingale, belay there! I'm up
aloft, overhauling the top hamper."

I looked, and to my intense delight saw the
well-known face of Sam Johnson beaming down
on me from the cross-trees. In a moment he
was on deck at my side.

"This is a bad business," I said; "but they
are not all gone, Sam?"

"Every man Jack, Harry," said he. " We
were all at work cutting away spars an hour ago,
when there came a great washing sea and broke
over us; it licked 'em all up, and carried over
every soul on 'em, Harry— captain, doctor, down
even to the very steward's boy. Gone before you
could say Jack Robinson; but there! It is no
use crying for spilt milk. He was a good
captain, and they were good messmates; but they're
gone, and I thank God for sparing us. Where
were you at that time? I thought you'd gone
with the rest. Well, I am glad to see you, old
boy; but come, we must bear a hand, for I tell
you the old craft is going down by the head as
fast as she can settle."