tiah. "I left her with a baby in her arms. If
you are David Matson, your right to her is outlawed; at any rate she is
mine, and I am not the man to give her up."

"God is great!" said poor David Matson, unconsciously repeating the
familiar words of Moslem submission. "His will be done. I loved her, but
I shall never see her again. Give these, with my blessing, to the good
woman and the boys," and he handed over, with a sigh, the little bundle
containing the gifts for his wife and children.

He shook hands with his rival. "Pelatiah," he said, looking back as he
left the ship, "be kind to Anna and my boys."

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the sailor in a careless tone. He watched the
poor man passing slowly up the narrow street until out of sight. "It's a
hard case for old David," he said, helping himself to a fresh cud of
tobacco, "but I'm glad I've seen the last of him."

When Pelatiah Curtis reached home he told Anna the story of her husband
and laid his gifts in her lap. She did not shriek nor faint, for she was
a healthy woman with strong nerves; but she stole away by herself and
wept bitterly. She lived many years after, but could never be persuaded
to wear the pretty shawl which the husband of her youth had sent as his
farewell gift. There is, however, a tradition that, in accordance with
her dying wish, it was wrapped about her poor old shoulders in the
coffin, and buried with her.

The little old bull's-eye watch, which is still in the possession of one
of her grandchildren, is now all that remains to tell of David
Matson,--the lost man.

_John G. Whittier._

[Illustration]

THE SANDPIPER.

Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud, black and swift, across the sky:
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,
One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Nor flash