it incessantly over the edge of the boat
where the line runs, or in two minutes the
friction would set fire to it.

You begin to think the whale is never
coming back; but the crew know better.
See too, the line is running out more slowly
every instant: it ceases altogether now, and
hangs slackly over the boat's side. He is
coming up exhausted to breathe again. There
are a few moments of suspense, during which
the harpooner is getting ready and poising
one of the javelins. It is longer, lighter, and
sharper than the harpoon, but it has no line
attached to it. The harpoon is to catch—the
javelin to kill. Slowly the whale rises again,
but he is not within aim. " Pull again boys"
—while the boy is hauling in the line as fast
as he can. We are near enough now. Again
a whiz—again another—and the harpooner
has sent two javelins deep into the creature's
body; while the blood flows fast. Suddenly,
the whale dashes forward. No need of
pulling at the oars now: we are giving him
fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking
us through the water at the rate of twenty
miles an hour at least. One would fancy
that the harpoons and the javelins have only
irritated him, and that the blood he has lost
has diminished nothing of his strength. Not
so, however; the pace slackens now: we are
scarcely moving through the water.

"Pull again, boys," and we approach;
while another deadly javelin pierces him.
This time he seems to seek revenge. He
dashes towards us—what can save us?

"Back water," cries the harpooner, while
the coxswain taking the hint at the same
moment, with a sweep of his oar the little
boat performs a kind of curvet backwards,
and the monster has shot past us unharming,
but not unharmed; the harpooner, cool as
ever, has hurled another javelin deep into
him, and smiles half pityingly at his impotent
rage, which, he knows full well, bodes a
termination of the contest. The red blood is
spouting forth from four wounds, "neither as
deep as a well, nor as wide as a church-door,"
but enough to kill—even a whale. He rolls
over heavily and slowly; a few convulsive
movements shake his mighty frame; then he
floats motionless on the water and the
whale is dead!

Ropes are now made fast round him, and
he is slowly towed away to shore, opposite
the whaling establishment. A crowd is
collected to see his huge body hauled up on the
beach, and to speculate on his size and value.
In two days all his blubber is cut away and
melting in the coppers. Vultures are feeding
on his flesh, and men are cleansing his bones.
In two months, barrels of his oil are waiting
for shipment to England. The fringe-work
which lined his mouth, and which we call
whalebone, is ready for the uses to which
ladies apply it. His teeth, which are beautiful
ivory, are being fashioned into ornaments by
the turner; and his immense ribs are serving
as landmarks on the different farms about the
country, for which purpose they are
admirably adapted. Meanwhile our friend the
harpooner and his crew are reposing on their
laurels, and looking out for fresh luck; while
the proprietor of the establishment is five
hundred pounds the richer from this "catching
a whale."

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

BEAUTIFUL fictions of our trusting youth,
     (Visions we sigh that we have only dreamed! )
"When Fancy mocked the searching gaze of Truth,
     And the whole earth with bright enchantments
          teemed:

How have we loved to forest glades to flee;
     By haunted streams (in thought) to take our
          stand;
To watch you circling round the greenwood tree,
     Or trace your gambols on the moonlit strand!

Or, when in gorgeous panoply arrayed,
     To grace some pageant of the Elfin Queen,
You pricked along, a gallant cavalcade,
     Painting the verdant turf a livelier green!

Nor less we loved you, when, with pitying air,
And hand beneficent, around you showered
Gifts, might the world's and nature's spite repair,
And leave the homeliest maiden doubly dowered.

But the bright realm of Fairyland is gone;
     Its iris-tinted train hath passed away;
And Ariel, Mab, Titania, Oberon,
     But grace the painter's scene, or poet's lay.

E'en Puck, dear imp of mischief and of mirth,
     " O'er hill and dale," at length hath ceased to
           range;
Though long-eared "Bottoms" cumber still the
          earth,
Whose " asses' nowls " he is not here to change!

The " Sword of Sharpness " is no longer keen;
    The " Seven League Boots " we distance now, at
          will;
Our sole surviving " Giant " is the Spleen,
     Which, we, like David, with a stone can kill! *

No more, no more, upon the velvet mead,
     On mushroom tables are your banquets spread;
No more with flying feet the dance you speed,
     Till dimming glow-worms hint 'tis time for bed!

No "fairy favours" now reward the fair;
     Nor pearls nor diamonds from her lips are told;
No elfin matron makes her bliss her care,
     With purse exhaustless, filled with fairy gold.

Your unseen aid, like angel-help, in vain,
     The toil-worn hind may, in his strait, implore;
The " shadowy flail " to ease his task will rain
     Its stalwart blows in his behoof no more!

Virtue no longer, in her sorest needs,
     By fairy hands is rescued from her thrall;
And rampant Vice, how dark soe'er his deeds,
     Your well-earned frowns may now no more
           appal!

* Green in his excellent poem, "The Spleen," says:–
' Fling but a stone, the giant dies."