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diff --git a/old/19469-8.txt b/old/19469-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..732160a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/19469-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16310 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two, by Various + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two + + +Author: Various + + + +Release Date: October 4, 2006 [eBook #19469] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR, BOOK TWO*** + + +E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + +BOOK TWO + +Selected by +Readers of "Normal Instructor-Primary Plans" +Containing More Than Two Hundred Poems Requested for Publication in That +Magazine on the Page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For" + + + + + + + +INDEX OF TITLES + + +African Chief, The _Bryant_ 145 +Annabel Lee _Poe_ 25 +Annie and Willie's Prayer _Snow_ 196 +April! April! Are You Here? _Goodale_ 59 +April Showers _Wilkins_ 26 +Armageddon _E. Arnold_ 157 +Autumn _Hood_ 186 +Autumn Leaves _Wray_ 65 +Aux Italiens _Lytton_ 72 +Awakening _Sangster_ 93 + +Babie, The _Miller_ 131 +Ballad of East and West, The _Kipling_ 23 +Ballad of the Tempest, The _Fields_ 56 +Battle of Bunker's Hill, The _Cozzens_ 102 +Bells of Ostend, The _Bowles_ 140 +Bernardo Del Carpio _Hemans_ 160 +Betty and the Bear 130 +Bible My Mother Gave Me, The 117 +Bill's in the Legislature 53 +Billy's Rose _Sims_ 104 +Bivouac of the Dead, The _O'Hara_ 15 +Boy and Girl of Plymouth _Smith_ 154 +Boys, The _O.W. Holmes_ 27 +Boy Who Didn't Pass, The 108 +Boy with the Hoe, The _Weaver_ 202 +Break, Break, Break _Tennyson_ 52 +"Brides of Enderby, The." + See "High Tide, The" 150 +Bridge Builder, The 54 +Broken Pinion, The _Butterworth_ 9 +Burial of Moses, The _Alexander_ 45 + +Casabianca _Hemans_ 164 +Charge of Pickett's Brigade, The 122 +Children _Longfellow_ 16 +Children, The _Dickinson_ 133 +Children We Keep, The _Wilson_ 146 +Christmas Day in the Workhouse _Sims_ 193 +Christmas Long Ago, A 47 +Chums _Foley_ 206 +Circling Year, The _Graham_ 208 +Cleon and I _Mackay_ 37 +Color in the Wheat _Garland_ 8 +Columbus _Smith_ 137 +Conscience and Future Judgment 81 +Courting in Kentucky 67 +Courtin', The _Lowell_ 59 +Cradle Hymn _Watts_ 35 + +Dandelion _Garabrant_ 82 +David's Lament for Absalom _Willis_ 191 +Death of the Flowers, The _Bryant_ 21 +Don't Kill the Birds _Colesworthy_ 53 +Duty _Browning_ 20 +Dying Newsboy, The _Thornton_ 52 + +Echo _Saxe_ 65 +Encouragement _Dunbar_ 71 +Engineer's Story, The _Hall_ 96 +Ensign Bearer, The 11 +Eve of Waterloo, The _Byron_ 17 +Excelsior _Longfellow_ 15 + +Finding of the Lyre, The _Lowell_ 150 +Fireman's Story, The 125 +Flower of Liberty, The _O.W. Holmes_ 85 +Flying Jim's Last Leap _Banks_ 128 +Fortunate Isles, The _Miller_ 168 + +Give Them the Flowers Now _Hodges_ 84 +God _Derzhavin_ 162 +God's Message to Men _Emerson_ 62 +God's Will Is Best _Mason_ 67 +Good Shepherd, The _Howe_ 166 +Grandfather's Clock _Work_ 35 +Grandmother's Quilt 186 +Graves of a Household, The _Hemans_ 130 +Gray Swan, The _A. Cary_ 207 +Gunga Din _Kipling_ 98 + +Hark, Hark! the Lark _Shakespeare_ 111 +Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls, The _Moore_ 71 +Health and Wealth 103 +Heartening, The _Webb_ 103 +Height of the Ridiculous, The _O.W. Holmes_ 14 +Heritage, The _Lowell_ 22 +He Who Has Vision _McKenzie_ 146 +He Worried About It _Foss_ 203 +Highland Mary _Burns_ 88 +High Tide, The _Ingelow_ 150 +His Mother's Song 39 +Home _Guest_ 7 +Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead _Tennyson_ 74 +House with Nobody in It, The _Kilmer_ 8 +How Did You Die? _Cooke_ 132 +How Salvator Won _Wilcox_ 120 +Hullo _Foss_ 123 + +If All the Skies _Van Dyke_ 36 +"If" for Girls, An _Otis_ 153 +If We Understood 29 +I Got to Go to School _Waterman_ 121 +I Have a Rendezvous with Death _Seeger_ 142 +I Have Drank My Last Glass 87 +Inasmuch _Ford_ 178 +Indian Names _Sigourney_ 135 +Inventor's Wife, The _Corbett_ 82 +Isle of Long Ago, The _B.F. Taylor_ 51 + +Jamie Douglas 9 +Jim Brady's Big Brother _Foley_ 206 +John Maynard _Alger_ 78 +John Thompson's Daughter _P. Cary_ 34 + +King and the Child, The _Hall_ 134 +King's Ring, The _Tilton_ 159 +Knight's Toast, The _W. Scott_ 57 + +Ladder of St. Augustine, The _Longfellow_ 33 +Lamb, The _Blake_ 86 +Land of Beginning Again, The _Tarkington_ 32 +Land Where Hate Should Die, The _McCarthy_ 18 +Last Leaf, The _O.W. Holmes_ 20 +Laugh in Church, A 29 +Laughing Chorus, A 59 +Law and Liberty _Cutler_ 39 +Leaving the Homestead 159 +Legend Beautiful, The _Longfellow_ 174 +Legend of the Northland, A _P. Cary_ 131 +Let Me Walk with the Men in the Road _Gresham_ 28 +Let Us Be Kind _Childress_ 143 +Life, I Know Not What Thou Art _Barbauld_ 65 +Lincoln, the Man of the People _Markham_ 118 +Little Bateese _Drummond_ 80 +Little Fir-Trees, The _Stein_ 203 +Little Willie's Hearing 127 +Loss and Gain _Longfellow_ 34 +Lost Occasion, The _Whittier_ 84 +Lullaby _Foley_ 205 + +Mad River _Longfellow_ 100 +Message for the Year, A _Hardy_ 66 +Minstrel-Boy, The _Moore_ 55 +Minuet, The _Dodge_ 48 +Mizpah 162 +Monterey _Hoffman_ 165 +More Cruel Than War _Hawkins_ 136 +Mortgage on the Farm, The 173 +Mother o' Mine _Kipling_ 70 +Mothers of Men _Miller_ 64 +My Prairies _Garland_ 74 +Mystic Weaver, The 171 + +Nearer Home _P. Cary_ 48 +New Leaf, A _Rice_ 202 +Newsboy, The _Corbett_ 94 +New Year, The _Craik_ 153 +Night with a Wolf, A _Bayard Taylor_ 89 +Nobody's Child _Case_ 46 +No Sects in Heaven _Cleaveland_ 180 + +O'Grady's Goat _Hays_ 44 +Old Actor's Story, The _Sims_ 106 +Old Flag Forever _Stanton_ 21 +Old Kitchen Floor, The 75 +Old Man Dreams, The _O.W. Holmes_ 58 +Old Man in the Model Church, The _Yates_ 148 +Old Man's Dreams, An _Sherman_ 61 +"One, Two, Three!" _Bunner_ 30 +Our Flag _Sangster_ 202 +Our Homestead _P. Cary_ 55 +Our Own _Sangster_ 119 +Our Presidents _Gilman_ 195 +Out in the Snow _Moulton_ 83 +Over the Hill from the Poor-House _Carleton_ 42 + +Papa's Letter 40 +Parting of Marmion and Douglas _W. Scott_ 95 +Parts of Speech, The 201 +Petrified Fern, The _Branch_ 36 +Picciola _Newell_ 158 +Piller Fights _Ellsworth_ 80 +Polish Boy, The _Stephens_ 12 +Poor Little Joe _Proudfit_ 32 +Prayer and Potatoes _Pettee_ 200 +Prayer for a Little Home, A 87 +President, The _Johnston_ 204 +Pride of Battery B _Gassaway_ 176 + +Quangle Wangle's Hat, The _Lear_ 91 + +Railroad Crossing, The _Strong_ 182 +Rain on the Roof _Kinney_ 97 +Rainy Day, The _Longfellow_ 28 +Real Riches, The _Saxe_ 12 +Red Jacket, The _Baker_ 77 +Reply to "A Woman's Question" _Pelham_ 155 +Rhodora, The _Emerson_ 90 +Ring Out, Wild Bells _Tennyson_ 63 +Roll Call, The _Shepherd_ 86 +Romance of Nick Van Stann _Saxe_ 156 +Rustic Courtship 76 + +Sandman, The _Vandegrift_ 62 +Santa Filomena _Longfellow_ 56 +School-Master's Guest, The _Carleton_ 68 +September _G. Arnold_ 75 +September Days _Smith_ 153 +September Gale, The _O.W. Holmes_ 137 +Sermon in Rhyme, A 167 +Service Flag, The _Herschell_ 127 +She Was a Phantom of Delight _Wordsworth_ 89 +Singing Leaves, The _Lowell_ 92 +Sin of Omission, The _Sangster_ 116 +Sin of the Coppenter Man _Cooke_ 139 +Small Beginnings _Mackay_ 97 +Solitude _Wilcox_ 139 +Somebody's Darling _La Coste_ 175 +Song of Marion's Men _Bryant_ 54 +Song of the Chattahoochee _Lanier_ 66 +"'Specially Jim" 44 +Station-Master's Story, The _Sims_ 109 +Stranger on the Sill, The _Read_ 147 +Sunset City, The _Gilman_ 183 + +Teacher's "If", The _Gale_ 165 +There Was a Boy _Wordsworth_ 90 +Things Divine, The _Burt_ 64 +Tin Gee Gee, The _Cape_ 169 +"Tommy" _Kipling_ 170 +Tommy's Prayer _Nicholls_ 112 +Towser Shall Be Tied To-night 37 +Trailing Arbutus _Whittier_ 199 +Trouble in the Amen Corner _Harbaugh_ 18 +Try, Try Again 135 +Two Angels, The _Longfellow_ 187 +Two Kinds of People, The _Wilcox_ 116 +Two Little Stockings, The _Hunt_ 141 +Two Pictures, The 114 + +Unawares _Lent_ 30 + +Vagabonds, The _Trowbridge_ 49 +Voice of Spring, The _Hemans_ 26 +Volunteer Organist, The _Foss_ 149 + +Warren's Address to the American Soldiers _Pierpont_ 99 +Washington _Bryant_ 37 +Washington's' Birthday _Butterworth_ 58 +Water Mill, The _Doudney_ 143 +What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet _Morrison_ 168 +When Father Carves the Duck _Wright_ 40 +When My Ship Comes In _Burdette_ 138 +When Papa Was a Boy _Brininstool_ 100 +When the Light Goes Out _Chester_ 199 +Which Shall It Be? _Beers_ 101 +Who Stole the Bird's Nest? _Child_ 41 +Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold 144 +Wishing Bridge, The _Whittier_ 63 +Witch's Daughter, The _Whittier_ 188 +With Little Boy Blue _Kennedy_ 122 +Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness _Shakespeare_ 94 +Women of Mumbles Head, The _C. Scott_ 123 +Wood-Box, The _Lincoln_ 177 +Work: A Song of Triumph _Morgan_ 154 +Work Thou for Pleasure _Cox_ 169 + +You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave _C.E.L. Holmes_ 140 + + + (An Index of First Lines is given on pages 209-213) + + + + +PREFACE + + +In homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has +pleased the taste of thousands. Our first collection of _Poems Teachers +Ask For_ was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present +volume is the response to a demand for "more." In Book One it was +impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the +basis of their being desired. We are constantly in receipt of requests +that certain selections be printed in NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS on +the page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." More than two hundred of +these were chosen for Book One, and more than two hundred others, as +much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in Book Two. + +Because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, +in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. By special arrangement, +a number of such poems were included in Book One of _Poems Teachers Ask +For_, and many more are given in the pages that follow. Acknowledgment +is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to +reprint in this volume material which they control: + +THE CENTURY COMPANY--_The Minuet_, from "Poems and Verses," by Mary +Mapes Dodge. + +W.B. CONKEY COMPANY--_Solitude_, from "Poems of Passion," and _How +Salvator Won_, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. + +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.--_Encouragement_, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, +copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company; _Work_, by Angela Morgan, from "The +Hour Has Struck," copyright 1914 by Angela Morgan. + +DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY--_How Did You Die?_ from "Impertinent Poems," +and _The Sin of the Coppenter Man_, from "I Rule the House," both by +Edmund Vance Cooke. + +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY--_The House with Nobody in It_, from "Trees and +Other Poems," by Joyce Kilmer, copyright 1914 by George H. Doran +Company, publishers. + +HAMLIN GARLAND--_My Prairies and Color in the Wheat_. + +ISABEL AMBLER GILMAN--_The Sunset City_. + +HARPER & BROTHERS--_Over the Hill from the Poor-House_ and _The +School-Master's Guests_, from "Farm Legends," by Will Carleton. + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--_The Sandman_, by Margaret Vandegrift; _The +Sin of Omission_ and _Our Own_, by Margaret E. Sangster; _The Ballad of +the Tempest_, by James T. Fields; also the poems by Henry W. Longfellow, +John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Oliver +Wendell Holmes, and J.T. Trowbridge, of whose works they are the +authorized publishers. + +CHARLES H.L. JOHNSTON--_The President_. + +RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, +England)--_Mother o' Mine_. + +LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY--_Hullo_ and _The Volunteer Organist_, +both from "Back Country Poems," by Sam Walter Foss, and _He Worried +About It_, from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," by Sam Walter Foss. + +EDWIN MARKHAM--_Lincoln, the Man of the People_. + +REILLY & LEE CO.--_Home_, from "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest. + +FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY--_Our Flag_, by Margaret E. Sangster. + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--_I Have a Rendezvous with Death_, by Alan +Seeger; _Song of the Chattahoochee_, by Sidney Lanier; _If All the +Skies_, by Henry van Dyke. + +HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING COMPANY--_Mothers of Men_ and _The Fortunate +Isles_, by Joaquin Miller. + + +THE PUBLISHERS. + + + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + +BOOK TWO + + * * * * * + + +Home + + +It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, +A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam +Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind, +An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. +It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, +How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; +It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, +Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything. + +Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; +Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it: +Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then +Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; +And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part +With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart; +The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore +Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door. + +Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh +An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; +An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, +An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. +Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, +Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; +An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories +O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these. + +Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, +An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; +Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year +Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear +Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run +The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; +Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: +It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home. + + _Edgar A. Guest._ + + + + +The House with Nobody In It + + +Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track +I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; +I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute +And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. + +I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; +That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. +I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do, +For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. + +This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, +And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. +It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, +But what it needs most of all is some people living inside. + +If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, +I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. +I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, +And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. + +Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door +Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, +But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone +For the lack of something within it that it has never known. + +But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has + sheltered life, +That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, +A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, +Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. + +So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track +I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, +Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen + apart, +For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken + heart. + + _Joyce Kilmer._ + + + + +Color in the Wheat + + +Like liquid gold the wheat field lies, + A marvel of yellow and russet and green, +That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, + With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen, + That play in the golden hair of a girl,-- + A ripple of amber--a flare + Of light sweeping after--a curl + In the hollows like swirling feet + Of fairy waltzers, the colors run + To the western sun + Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. + +Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, + Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, +The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye + Under the fierce sun's alchemy. + The slow hawk stoops + To his prey in the deeps; + The sunflower droops + To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps-- + Then swirling in dazzling links and loops, + A riot of shadow and shine, + A glory of olive and amber and wine, + To the westering sun the colors run + Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. + +O glorious land! My western land, + Outspread beneath the setting sun! +Once more amid your swells, I stand, + And cross your sod-lands dry and dun. +I hear the jocund calls of men + Who sweep amid the ripened grain +With swift, stern reapers; once again + The evening splendor floods the plain, + The crickets' chime + Makes pauseless rhyme, + And toward the sun, + The colors run + Before the wind's feet + In the wheat! + + _Hamlin Garland._ + + + + +The Broken Pinion + + +I walked through the woodland meadows, + Where sweet the thrushes sing; +And I found on a bed of mosses + A bird with a broken wing. +I healed its wound, and each morning + It sang its old sweet strain, +But the bird with a broken pinion + Never soared as high again. + +I found a young life broken + By sin's seductive art; +And touched with a Christlike pity, + I took him to my heart. +He lived with a noble purpose + And struggled not in vain; +But the life that sin had stricken + Never soared as high again. + +But the bird with a broken pinion + Kept another from the snare; +And the life that sin had stricken + Raised another from despair. +Each loss has its compensation, + There is healing for every pain; +But the bird with a broken pinion + Never soars as high again. + + _Hezekiah Butterworth._ + + + + +Jamie Douglas + + +It was in the days when Claverhouse + Was scouring moor and glen, +To change, with fire and bloody sword, + The faith of Scottish men. + +They had made a covenant with the Lord + Firm in their faith to bide, +Nor break to Him their plighted word, + Whatever might betide. + +The sun was well-nigh setting, + When o'er the heather wild, +And up the narrow mountain-path, + Alone there walked a child. + +He was a bonny, blithesome lad, + Sturdy and strong of limb-- +A father's pride, a mother's love, + Were fast bound up in him. + +His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, + His step was firm and light; +What was it underneath his plaid + His little hands grasped tight? + +It was bannocks which, that very morn, + His mother made with care. +From out her scanty store of meal; + And now, with many a prayer, + +Had sent by Jamie her ane boy, + A trusty lad and brave, +To good old Pastor Tammons Roy, + Now hid in yonder cave, + +And for whom the bloody Claverhouse + Had hunted long in vain, +And swore they would not leave that glen + Till old Tam Roy was slain. + +So Jamie Douglas went his way + With heart that knew no fear; +He turned the great curve in the rock, + Nor dreamed that death was near. + +And there were bloody Claverhouse men, + Who laughed aloud with glee, +When trembling now within their power, + The frightened child they see. + +He turns to flee, but all in vain, + They drag him back apace +To where their cruel leader stands, + And set them face to face. + +The cakes concealed beneath his plaid + Soon tell the story plain-- +"It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for," + Exclaimed the angry man. + +"Now guide me to his hiding place + And I will let you go." +But Jamie shook his yellow curls, + And stoutly answered--"No!" + +"I'll drop you down the mountain-side, + And there upon the stones +The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow + Shall battle for your bones." + +And in his brawny, strong right hand + He lifted up the child, +And held him where the clefted rocks + Formed a chasm deep and wild + +So deep it was, the trees below + Like stunted bushes seemed. +Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze, + It seemed some horrid dream. + +He looked up at the blue sky above + Then at the men near by; +Had _they_ no little boys at home, + That they could let him die? + +But no one spoke and no one stirred, + Or lifted hand to save +From such a fearful, frightful death, + The little lad so brave. + +"It is woeful deep," he shuddering cried, + "But oh! I canna tell, +So drop me down then, if you will-- + It is nae so deep as hell!" + +A childish scream, a faint, dull sound, + Oh! Jamie Douglas true, +Long, long within that lonely cave + Shall Tam Roy wait for you. + +Long for your welcome coming + Waits the mother on the moor, +And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad," + Through the half-open door. + +No more adown the rocky path + You come with fearless tread, +Or, on moor or mountain, take + The good man's daily bread. + +But up in heaven the shining ones + A wondrous story tell, +Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf + That is nae so deep as hell. + +And there before the great white throne, + Forever blessed and glad, +His mother dear and old Tam Roy + Shall meet their bonny lad. + + + + +The Ensign Bearer + + +Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast! +They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest. +All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall, +You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call; +And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, +Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight. + +All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down +Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown. +Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breast +To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? +See! the bayonets flash and falter--look! the foe begins to win; +See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are closing in. + +Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air, +Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair. +There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll-- +Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul! +Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale, +And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale! + +Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand! +I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band; +Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath-- +Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!-- +See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze-- +Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees. + +Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise! +I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. +Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe-- +Face to face with deadly meaning--shot and shell and trusty blow. +See the thinned ranks wildly breaking--see them scatter to the sun-- +I can die, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won! + +But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart, +And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart. +Oh I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all +That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call! +Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back +Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track. + +Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth, +What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth, +Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame, +Sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name; +Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his +In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is. + +And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will-- +That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still. +And--this touch of pride forgive me--where death sought our gallant host-- +Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most. +Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, +'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star. + +But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell, +When her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how I fell; +Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest, +Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; +But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, +'Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air. + +Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared, my enlistment endeth here; +Death, the Conqueror, has drafted--I can no more volunteer,-- +But I hear the roll call yonder and I go with willing feet-- +Through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet, +Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall-- +Strength and Union for my country--and God's banner over all. + + + + +The Real Riches + + +Every coin of earthly treasure + We have lavished upon earth +For our simple worldly pleasure + May be reckoned something worth; +For the spending was not losing, + Tho' the purchase were but small; +It has perished with the using. + We have had it,--that is all! + +All the gold we leave behind us, + When we turn to dust again, +Tho' our avarice may blind us, + We have gathered quite in vain; +Since we neither can direct it, + By the winds of fortune tost, +Nor in other worlds expect it; + What we hoarded we have lost. + +But each merciful oblation-- + Seed of pity wisely sown, +What we gave in self-negation, + We may safely call our own; +For the treasure freely given + Is the treasure that we hoard, +Since the angels keep in heaven, + What is lent unto the Lord. + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +The Polish Boy + + +Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, + That cut, like blades of steel, the air, +Causing the creeping blood to chill + With the sharp cadence of despair? + +Again they come, as if a heart + Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, +And every string had voice apart + To utter its peculiar woe. + +Whence came they? From yon temple, where +An altar, raised for private prayer, +Now forms the warrior's marble bed +Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. + +The dim funereal tapers throw +A holy luster o'er his brow, +And burnish with their rays of light +The mass of curls that gather bright +Above the haughty brow and eye +Of a young boy that's kneeling by. + +What hand is that, whose icy press + Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, +But meets no answering caress? + No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. +It is the hand of her whose cry + Rang wildly, late, upon the air, +When the dead warrior met her eye + Outstretched upon the altar there. + +With pallid lip and stony brow +She murmurs forth her anguish now. +But hark! the tramp of heavy feet +Is heard along the bloody street; +Nearer and nearer yet they come, +With clanking arms and noiseless drum. +Now whispered curses, low and deep, +Around the holy temple creep; +The gate is burst; a ruffian band +Rush in, and savagely demand, +With brutal voice and oath profane, +The startled boy for exile's chain. + +The mother sprang with gesture wild, +And to her bosom clasped her child; +Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, +Shouted with fearful energy, +"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread +Too near the body of my dead; +Nor touch the living boy; I stand +Between him and your lawless band. +Take _me_, and bind these arms--these hands,-- +With Russia's heaviest iron bands, +And drag me to Siberia's wild +To perish, if 'twill save my child!" + +"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, +Tearing the pale boy from her side, +And in his ruffian grasp he bore +His victim to the temple door. +"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! +Will land or gold redeem my son? +Take heritage, take name, take all, +But leave him free from Russian thrall! +Take these!" and her white arms and hands +She stripped of rings and diamond bands, +And tore from braids of long black hair +The gems that gleamed like starlight there; +Her cross of blazing rubies, last, +Down at the Russian's feet she cast. +He stooped to seize the glittering store;-- +Up springing from the marble floor, +The mother, with a cry of joy, +Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. +But no! the Russian's iron grasp +Again undid the mother's clasp. +Forward she fell, with one long cry +Of more than mortal agony. + +But the brave child is roused at length, + And, breaking from the Russian's hold, +He stands, a giant in the strength + Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. +Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, + So blue, and yet so bright, +Seems kindled from the eternal sky, + So brilliant is its light. + +His curling lips and crimson cheeks +Foretell the thought before he speaks; +With a full voice of proud command +He turned upon the wondering band. + +"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; +This hour has made the boy a man. +I knelt before my slaughtered sire, +Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. +I wept upon his marble brow, +Yes, wept! I was a child; but now +My noble mother, on her knee, +Hath done the work of years for me!" + +He drew aside his broidered vest, +And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, +The jeweled haft of poniard bright +Glittered a moment on the sight. +"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! +Think ye my noble father's glaive +Would drink the life-blood of a slave? +The pearls that on the handle flame +Would blush to rubies in their shame; +The blade would quiver in thy breast +Ashamed of such ignoble rest. +No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, +And fling him back a boy's disdain!" + +A moment, and the funeral light +Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; +Another, and his young heart's blood +Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. +Quick to his mother's side he sprang, +And on the air his clear voice rang: +"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! +The choice was death or slavery. +Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! +His freedom is forever won; +And now he waits one holy kiss +To bear his father home in bliss; +One last embrace, one blessing,--one! +To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. +What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel +My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? +Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! +What! silent still? Then art thou dead: +--Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I +Rejoice with thee,--and thus--to die." +One long, deep breath, and his pale head +Lay on his mother's bosom,--dead. + + _Ann S. Stephens._ + + + + +The Height of the Ridiculous + + +I wrote some lines once on a time + In wondrous merry mood, +And thought, as usual, men would say + They were exceeding good. + +They were so queer, so very queer, + I laughed as I would die; +Albeit, in the general way, + A sober man am I. + +I called my servant, and he came; + How kind it was of him +To mind a slender man like me, + He of the mighty limb! + +"These to the printer," I exclaimed, + And, in my humorous way, +I added (as a trifling jest), + "There'll be the devil to pay." + +He took the paper, and I watched, + And saw him peep within; +At the first line he read, his face + Was all upon the grin. + +He read the next; the grin grew broad, + And shot from ear to ear; +He read the third; a chuckling noise + I now began to hear. + +The fourth; he broke into a roar; + The fifth; his waistband split; +The sixth; he burst five buttons off, + And tumbled in a fit. + +Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, + I watched that wretched man, +And since, I never dare to write + As funny as I can. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Excelsior + + +The shades of night were falling fast, +As through an Alpine village passed +A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, +A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +His brow was sad his eye beneath +Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, +And like a silver clarion rung +The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + +In happy homes he saw the light +Of household fires gleam warm and bright; +Above, the spectral glaciers shone, +And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + +"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; +"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, +The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" +And loud the clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + +"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest +Thy weary head upon this breast!" +A tear stood in his bright blue eye, +But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + +"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! +Beware the awful avalanche!" +This was the peasant's last Good-night, +A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + +At break of day, as heavenward +The pious monks of Saint Bernard +Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, +A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + +A traveller, by the faithful hound, +Half-buried in the snow was found, +Still grasping in his hand of ice +That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +There in the twilight cold and gray, +Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, +And from the sky, serene and far, +A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Bivouac of the Dead + + +The muffled drum's sad roll has beat + The soldier's last tattoo; +No more on life's parade shall meet + That brave and fallen few. +On fame's eternal camping ground + Their silent tents are spread, +And Glory guards with solemn round + The bivouac of the dead. + +No rumor of the foe's advance + Now swells upon the wind; +No troubled thought at midnight haunts + Of loved ones left behind; +No vision of the morrow's strife + The warrior's dream alarms; +No braying horn or screaming fife + At dawn shall call to arms. + +Their shivered swords are red with rust; + Their plumèd heads are bowed; +Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, + Is now their martial shroud; +And plenteous funeral tears have washed + The red stains from each brow; +And the proud forms, by battle gashed, + Are free from anguish now. + +The neighing troop, the flashing blade, + The bugle's stirring blast, +The charge, the dreadful cannonade, + The din and shout are passed. +Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, + Shall thrill with fierce delight +Those breasts that nevermore shall feel + The rapture of the fight. + +Like a fierce northern hurricane + That sweeps his great plateau, +Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, + Came down the serried foe, +Who heard the thunder of the fray + Break o'er the field beneath, +Knew well the watchword of that day + Was "Victory or Death!" + +Full many a mother's breath hath swept + O'er Angostura's plain, +And long the pitying sky hath wept + Above its moulder'd slain. +The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, + Or shepherd's pensive lay, +Alone now wake each solemn height + That frowned o'er that dread fray. + +Sons of the "dark and bloody ground," + Ye must not slumber there, +Where stranger steps and tongues resound + Along the heedless air! +Your own proud land's heroic soil + Shall be your fitter grave; +She claims from war its richest spoil,-- + The ashes of her brave. + +Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, + Far from the gory field, +Borne to a Spartan mother's breast + On many a bloody shield. +The sunshine of their native sky + Smiles sadly on them here, +And kindred eyes and hearts watch by + The heroes' sepulcher. + +Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! + Dear as the blood ye gave; +No impious footsteps here shall tread + The herbage of your grave; +Nor shall your glory be forgot + While fame her record keeps, +Or honor points the hallowed spot + Where Valor proudly sleeps. + +Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone + In deathless song shall tell, +When many a vanished year hath flown, + The story how ye fell. +Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, + Nor time's remorseless doom, +Can dim one ray of holy light + That gilds your glorious tomb. + + _Theodore O'Hara._ + + + + +Children + + +Come to me, O ye children! + For I hear you at your play, +And the questions that perplexed me + Have vanished quite away. + +Ye open the eastern windows, + That look towards the sun, +Where thoughts are singing swallows + And the brooks of morning run. + +In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, + In your thoughts the brooklet's flow +But in mine is the wind of Autumn + And the first fall of the snow. + +Ah! what would the world be to us + If the children were no more? +We should dread the desert behind us + Worse than the dark before. + +What the leaves are to the forest, + With light and air for food, +Ere their sweet and tender juices + Have been hardened into wood,-- + +That to the world are children; + Through them it feels the glow +Of a brighter and sunnier climate + Than reaches the trunks below. + +Come to me, O ye children! + And whisper in my ear +What the birds and the winds are singing + In your sunny atmosphere. + +For what are all our contrivings, + And the wisdom of our books, +When compared with your caresses, + And the gladness of your looks? + +Ye are better than all the ballads + That ever were sung or said; +For ye are living poems, + And all the rest are dead. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Eve of Waterloo + +(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815) + + +There was a sound of revelry by night, + And Belgium's capital had gathered then +Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when +Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, +And all went merry as a marriage bell; +But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. + +Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: +On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; + No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet + To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- +But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat +And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! +Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar. + +Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, +And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago + Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press +The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess +If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, +Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! + +And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car +Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; + And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; +And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; +While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, +Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!" + +Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, +The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, + The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day + Battle's magnificently stern array! +The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent + The earth is covered thick with other clay, +Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, +Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent. + + _Lord Byron._ + + + + +The Land Where Hate Should Die + + +This is the land where hate should die-- + No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, +No darkly brooding fear should try + Beneath our flag to find a place. +Lo! every people here has sent + Its sons to answer freedom's call, +Their lifeblood is the strong cement + That builds and binds the nation's wall. + +This is the land where hate should die-- + Though dear to me my faith and shrine, +I serve my country when I + Respect the creeds that are not mine. +He little loves his land who'd cast + Upon his neighbor's word a doubt, +Or cite the wrongs of ages past + From present rights to bar him out. + +This is the land where hate should die-- + This is the land where strife should cease, +Where foul, suspicious fear should fly + Before the light of love and peace. +Then let us purge from poisoned thought + That service to the state we give, +And so be worthy as we ought + Of this great land in which we live. + + _Denis A. McCarthy._ + + + + +Trouble In the "Amen Corner" + + +'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, +And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, +And the chorus--all the papers favorably commented on it, +For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet. + +Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, +Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; +He was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, +And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. + +His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, +And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words +Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, +And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. + +The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, +And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; +At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, +That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. + +Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day +Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, +And having asked God's guidance in a printed pray'r or two, +They put their heads together to determine what to do. + +They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York," +Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, +Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, +And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir." + +Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, +And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; +Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing +Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing. + +"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, +We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; +But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old-- +If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold." + +Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, +With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; +And the sleek, well-dress'd committee, Brothers Sharkey, York and Lamb, +As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. + +They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair, +And the Summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; +He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a cracked voice and low +But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. + +Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation +To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation"; +"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, +"And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge. + +"It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus +That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; +If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, +It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. + +"We don't want any singing except that what we've bought! +The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; +And so we have decided--are you list'ning, Brother Eyer?-- +That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir." + +The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, +And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; +His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, +As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low: + +"I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he; +"They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; +I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; +But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. + +"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, +In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet-- +Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up high'r, +If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir." + +A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; +The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! +Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, +And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. + +The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, +A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. +Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires, +Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs! + + _T.C. Harbaugh._ + + + + +Duty + + +The sweetest lives are those to duty wed, +Whose deeds, both great and small, +Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, +Whose love ennobles all. +The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; +The book of life, the shining record tells. +Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes, +After its own life-working. A child's kiss +Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; +A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; +A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; +Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense +Of service thou renderest. + + _Robert Browning._ + + + + +The Last Leaf + + +I saw him once before, +As he passed by the door, + And again +The pavement stones resound, +As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + +They say that in his prime, +Ere the pruning-knife of Time + Cut him down, +Not a better man was found +By the Crier on his round + Through the town. + +But now he walks the streets, +And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan, +And he shakes his feeble head, +That it seems as if he said + "They are gone." + +The mossy marbles rest +On the lips that he has prest + In their bloom, +And the names he loved to hear +Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + +My grandmamma has said,-- +Poor old lady, she is dead + Long ago,-- +That he had a Roman nose, +And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + +But now his nose is thin, +And it rests upon his chin. + Like a staff, +And a crook is in his back, +And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + +I know it is a sin +For me to sit and grin + At him here; +But the old three-cornered hat, +And the breeches, and all that, + Are so queer! + +And if I should live to be +The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, +Let them smile, as I do now, +At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Old Flag Forever + + +She's up there--Old Glory--where lightnings are sped; +She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; +And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,-- +The flag of our country forever! + +She's up there--Old Glory--how bright the stars stream! +And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam! +And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream, +'Neath the flag of our country forever! + +She's up there--Old Glory--no tyrant-dealt scars, +No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! +The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars. +She's the flag of our country forever! + + _Frank L. Stanton._ + + + + +The Death of the Flowers + + +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, +Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. +Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; +They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. +The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, +And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. + +Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood +In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? +Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers +Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. +The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain +Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + +The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, +And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; +But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, +And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, +Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, +And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. + +And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, +To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, +When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, +And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, +The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, +And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. + +And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, +The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, +In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, +And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; +Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, +So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. + + _W.C. Bryant._ + + + + +The Heritage + + +The rich man's son inherits lands, + And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, +And he inherits soft white hands, + And tender flesh that fears the cold, + Nor dares to wear a garment old; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +The rich man's son inherits cares; + The bank may break, the factory burn, +A breath may burst his bubble shares, + And soft white hands could hardly earn + A living that would serve his turn; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +The rich man's son inherits wants, + His stomach craves for dainty fare; +With sated heart, he hears the pants + Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, + And wearies in his easy-chair; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, +A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; + King of two hands, he does his part + In every useful toil and art; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, +A rank, adjudged by toil-won merit, + Content that from employment springs, + A heart that in his labor sings; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + A patience learned of being poor, +Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, + A fellow-feeling that is sure + To make the outcast bless his door; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +O rich man's son! there is a toil + That with all others level stands; +Large charity doth never soil, +But only whiten, soft white hands,-- + This is the best crop from thy lands; +A heritage it seems to me, +Worth being rich to hold in fee. + +O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; + There is worse weariness than thine, +In merely being rich and great; + Toil only gives the soul to shine + And makes rest fragrant and benign; +A heritage, it seems to me, +Worth being poor to hold in fee. + +Both heirs to some six feet of sod, + Are equal in the earth at last; +Both, children of the same dear God, + Prove title to your heirship vast + By record of a well-filled past; +A heritage, it seems to me, +Well worth a life to hold in fee. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +The Ballad of East and West + + +Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, +Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; +But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, +When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends + of the earth! + +Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, +And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: +He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, +And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. +Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: +"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" +Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, +"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. +At dust he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is into Bonair, +But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, +So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, +By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, +But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, +For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's + men. +There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn + between, +And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." +The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, +With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the + gallows-tree. +The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- +Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. +He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, +Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, +Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, +And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. +He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. +"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." +It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, +The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. +The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, +But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a + glove. +There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn + between, +And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. +They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, +The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. +The dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, +And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. +He has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive, +"'Twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: +There was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, +But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. +If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, +The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: +If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, +The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." +Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, +But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. +If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, +Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. +They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered + grain, +The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are + slain. +But if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup. +The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! +And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, +Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" +Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. +"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. +May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; +What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" +Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: +Take up the mare of my father's gift--by God, she has carried a man!" +The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, +"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. +So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, +My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." +The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, +"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from + a friend?" +"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. +Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" +With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- +He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. +"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, +And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. +Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, +Thy life is his--thy fate is to guard him with thy head. +So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, +And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, +And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- +Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." +They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no + fault, +They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and + salt: +They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut + sod, +On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous Names of + God. +The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, +And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. +And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- +There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. +"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your + sides! +Last night ye had struck at a Border thief--to-night 'tis a man of the + Guides!" + +Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, +Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; +But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, +When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends + of the earth. + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Annabel Lee + + +It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, +That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of Annabel Lee; +And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + +I was a child, and she was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea, +But we loved with a love that was more than love, + I and my Annabel Lee; +With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + +And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, +A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful Annabel Lee; +So that her highborn kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, +To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + +The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me; +Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) +That the wind came out of the cloud by night, + Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. + +But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we, + Of many far wiser than we; +And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, +Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: + +For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; +And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: +And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side +Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, + In her sepulchre there by the sea, + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + + _Edgar Allan Poe._ + + + + +April Showers + + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, in the garden-bed, +The crocuses stood straight and gold: + "And they have come," the children said. + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, thro' the woodland spread +The Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth: + "And they are come," the children said. + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, sweetly, overhead, +The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung: + "And they have come," the children said. + + _Mary E. Wilkins._ + + + + +The Voice of Spring + + +I come, I come! ye have called me long; +I come o'er the mountains, with light and song; +Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth +By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, +By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, +By the green leaves opening as I pass. + +I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers +By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, +And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes +Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains; +But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, +To speak of the ruin or the tomb! + +I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, +And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; +The fisher is out on the sunny sea, +And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, +And the pine has a fringe of softer green, +And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. + +I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, +And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, +From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, +In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, +To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, +When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. + +From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; +They are sweeping on to the silvery main, +They are flashing down from the mountain brows, +They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, +They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, +And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. + + _Felicia D. Hemans._ + + + + +The Boys + + +Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? +If there has take him out, without making a noise. +Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! +Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight! + +We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? +He's tipsy--young jackanapes!--show him the door! +"Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! _white_ if we please; +Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! + +Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! +Look close--you will see not a sign of a flake! +We want some new garlands for those we have shed, +And these are white roses in place of the red. + +We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told. +Of talking (in public) as if we were old; +That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; +It's a neat little fiction--of course it's all fudge. + +That fellow's the "Speaker"--the one on the right; +"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? +That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; +There's the "Reverend" What's-his-name?--don't make me laugh. + +That boy with the grave mathematical look +Made believe he had written a wonderful book, +And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true_! +So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! + +There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, +That could harness a team with a logical chain; +When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, +We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." + +And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: +Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; +But he shouted a song for the brave and the free-- +Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" + +You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; +But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. +The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, +And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! + +Yes, we're boys--always playing with tongue or with pen; +And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? +Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, +Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? + +Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! +The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! +And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, +Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +The Rainy Day + + +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, +But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + +My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + +Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; +Thy fate is the common fate of all, +Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Let Me Walk With the Men in the Road + + +'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung + Of the "house by the side of the way"; +Our Master had neither a house nor a home, + But He walked with the crowd day by day. +And I think, when I read of the poet's desire, + That a house by the road would be good; +But service is found in its tenderest form + When we walk with the crowd in the road. + +So I say, let me walk with the men in the road, + Let me seek out the burdens that crush, +Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak + Who are falling behind in the rush. +There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend, + There's a cup of cold water to give; +And the man in the road by the side of his friend + Is the man who has learned to live. + +Then tell me no more of the house by the road. + There is only one place I can live-- +It's there with the men who are toiling along, + Who are needing the cheer I can give. +It is pleasant to live in the house by the way + And be a friend, as the poet has said; +But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load, + For your rest waiteth yonder ahead." + +I could not remain in the house by the road + And watch as the toilers go on, +Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin, + So burdened, their strength nearly gone. +I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer, + I'll help them to carry their load; +And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way, + As I walk with the crowd in the road. + +Out there in the road that goes by the house, + Where the poet is singing his song, +I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day, + And I'll help falling brothers along-- +Too busy to live in the house by the way, + Too happy for such an abode. +And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all, + Who is helping me serve in the road. + + _Walter J. Gresham._ + + + + +If We Understood + + +Could we but draw back the curtains +That surround each other's lives, +See the naked heart and spirit, +Know what spur the action gives, +Often we should find it better, +Purer than we judged we should, +We should love each other better, +If we only understood. + +Could we judge all deeds by motives, +See the good and bad within, +Often we should love the sinner +All the while we loathe the sin; +Could we know the powers working +To o'erthrow integrity, +We should judge each other's errors +With more patient charity. + +If we knew the cares and trials, +Knew the effort all in vain, +And the bitter disappointment, +Understood the loss and gain-- +Would the grim, eternal roughness +Seem--I wonder--just the same? +Should we help where now we hinder, +Should we pity where we blame? + +Ah! we judge each other harshly, +Knowing not life's hidden force; +Knowing not the fount of action +Is less turbid at its source; +Seeing not amid the evil +All the golden grains of good; +Oh! we'd love each other better, +If we only understood. + + + + +A Laugh in Church + + +She sat on the sliding cushion, + The dear, wee woman of four; +Her feet, in their shiny slippers, + Hung dangling over the floor. +She meant to be good; she had promised, + And so, with her big, brown eyes, +She stared at the meeting-house windows + And counted the crawling flies. + +She looked far up at the preacher, + But she thought of the honey bees +Droning away at the blossoms + That whitened the cherry trees. +She thought of a broken basket, + Where, curled in a dusky heap, +_Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears + Lay snuggled and fast asleep._ + +Such soft warm bodies to cuddle, + Such queer little hearts to beat, +Such swift, round tongues to kiss, + Such sprawling, cushiony feet; +She could feel in her clasping fingers + The touch of a satiny skin +And a cold wet nose exploring + The dimples under her chin. + +Then a sudden ripple of laughter + Ran over the parted lips +So quick that she could not catch it + With her rosy finger-tips. +The people whispered, "Bless the child," + As each one waked from a nap, +But the dear, wee woman hid her face + For shame in her mother's lap. + + + + +"One, Two, Three!" + + +It was an old, old, old, old lady, + And a boy that was half past three; +And the way that they played together + Was beautiful to see. + +She couldn't go running and jumping, + And the boy, no more could he; +For he was a thin little fellow, + With a thin little twisted knee, + +They sat in the yellow sunlight, + Out under the maple-tree; +And the game that they played I'll tell you, + Just as it was told to me. + +It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, + Though you'd never have known it to be-- +With an old, old, old, old lady, + And a boy with a twisted knee. + +The boy would bend his face down + On his one little sound right knee, +And he'd guess where she was hiding, + In guesses One, Two, Three! + +"You are in the china-closet!" + He would cry, and laugh with glee-- +It wasn't the china-closet; + But he still had Two and Three. + +"You are up in Papa's big bedroom, + In the chest with the queer old key!" +And she said: "You are _warm_ and _warmer_; + But you're not quite right," said she. + +"It can't be the little cupboard + Where Mamma's things used to be-- +So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!" + And he found her with his Three. + +Then she covered her face with her fingers, + That were wrinkled and white and wee, +And she guessed where the boy was hiding, + With a One and a Two and a Three. + +And they never had stirred from their places, + Right under the maple-tree-- +This old, old, old, old lady, + And the boy with the lame little knee-- +This dear, dear, dear old lady, + And the boy who was half past three. + + _Henry Cuyler Bunner._ + + + + +Unawares + + +They said, "The Master is coming + To honor the town to-day, +And none can tell at what house or home + The Master will choose to stay." +And I thought while my heart beat wildly, + What if He should come to mine, +How would I strive to entertain + And honor the Guest Divine! + +And straight I turned to toiling + To make my house more neat; +I swept, and polished, and garnished. + And decked it with blossoms sweet. +I was troubled for fear the Master + Might come ere my work was done, +And I hasted and worked the faster, + And watched the hurrying sun. + +But right in the midst of my duties + A woman came to my door; +She had come to tell me her sorrows + And my comfort and aid to implore, +And I said, "I cannot listen + Nor help you any, to-day; +I have greater things to attend to." + And the pleader turned away. + +But soon there came another-- + A cripple, thin, pale and gray-- +And said, "Oh, let me stop and rest + A while in your house, I pray! +I have traveled far since morning, + I am hungry, and faint, and weak; +My heart is full of misery, + And comfort and help I seek." + +And I cried, "I am grieved and sorry, + But I cannot help you to-day. +I look for a great and noble Guest," + And the cripple went away; +And the day wore onward swiftly-- + And my task was nearly done, +And a prayer was ever in my heart + That the Master to me might come. + +And I thought I would spring to meet Him, + And serve him with utmost care, +When a little child stood by me + With a face so sweet and fair-- +Sweet, but with marks of teardrops-- + And his clothes were tattered and old; +A finger was bruised and bleeding, + And his little bare feet were cold. + +And I said, "I'm sorry for you-- + You are sorely in need of care; +But I cannot stop to give it, + You must hasten otherwhere." +And at the words, a shadow + Swept o'er his blue-veined brow,-- +"Someone will feed and clothe you, dear, + But I am too busy now." + +At last the day was ended, + And my toil was over and done; +My house was swept and garnished-- + And I watched in the dark--alone. +Watched--but no footfall sounded, + No one paused at my gate; +No one entered my cottage door; + I could only pray--and wait. + +I waited till night had deepened, + And the Master had not come. +"He has entered some other door," I said, + "And gladdened some other home!" +My labor had been for nothing, + And I bowed my head and I wept, +My heart was sore with longing-- + Yet--in spite of it all--I slept. + +Then the Master stood before me, + And his face was grave and fair; +"Three times to-day I came to your door, + And craved your pity and care; +Three times you sent me onward, + Unhelped and uncomforted; +And the blessing you might have had was lost, + And your chance to serve has fled." + +"O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me! + How could I know it was Thee?" +My very soul was shamed and bowed + In the depths of humility. +And He said, "The sin is pardoned, + But the blessing is lost to thee; +For comforting not the least of Mine + You have failed to comfort Me." + + _Emma A. Lent._ + + + + +The Land of Beginning Again + + +I wish there were some wonderful place +Called the Land of Beginning Again, +Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, +And all our poor, selfish griefs +Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door, +And never put on again. + +I wish we could come on it all unaware, +Like the hunter who finds a lost trail; +And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done +The greatest injustice of all +Could be at the gate like the old friend that waits +For the comrade he's gladdest to hail. + +We would find the things we intended to do, +But forgot and remembered too late-- +Little praises unspoken, little promises broken, +And all of the thousand and one +Little duties neglected that might have perfected +The days of one less fortunate. + +It wouldn't be possible not to be kind. +In the Land of Beginning Again; +And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged +Their moments of victory here, +Would find the grasp of our loving handclasp +More than penitent lips could explain. + +For what had been hardest we'd know had been best, +And what had seemed loss would be gain, +For there isn't a sting that will not take wing +When we've faced it and laughed it away; +And I think that the laughter is most what we're after, +In the Land of Beginning Again. + +So I wish that there were some wonderful place +Called the Land of Beginning Again, +Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, +And all our poor, selfish griefs +Could be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door, +And never put on again. + + _Louisa Fletcher Tarkington._ + + + + +Poor Little Joe + + +Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, + Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. +Apples? No, a derned sight better! + Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! +Flowers, Joe--I know'd you'd like 'em-- + Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? +Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? + There--poor little Joe--don't cry! + +I was skippin' past a winder + W'ere a bang-up lady sot, +All amongst a lot of bushes-- + Each one climbin' from a pot; +Every bush had flowers on it-- + Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no! +Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin', + It was such a stunnin' show. + +Well, I thought of you, poor feller, + Lyin' here so sick and weak, +Never knowin' any comfort, + And I puts on lots o' cheek. +"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, + Could I ax you for a rose? +For my little brother, missus-- + Never seed one, I suppose." + +Then I told her all about you-- + How I bringed you up--poor Joe! +(Lackin' women folks to do it) + Sich a imp you was, you know-- +Till you got that awful tumble, + Jist as I had broke yer in +(Hard work, too), to earn your livin' + Blackin' boots for honest tin. + +How that tumble crippled of you, + So's you couldn't hyper much-- +Joe, it hurted when I seen you + Fur the first time with yer crutch. +"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, + 'Pears to weaken every day"; +Joe, she up and went to cuttin'-- + That's the how of this bokay. + +Say! it seems to me, ole feller, + You is quite yourself to-night-- +Kind o' chirk--it's been a fortnit + Sense yer eyes has been so bright. +Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it! + Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. +Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? + Well, I thought it would, you know. + +Never see the country, did you? + Flowers growin' everywhere! +Some time when you're better, Joey, + Mebbe I kin take you there. +Flowers in heaven? 'M--I s'pose so; + Dunno much about it, though; +Ain't as fly as wot I might be + On them topics, little Joe. + +But I've heerd it hinted somewheres + That in heaven's golden gates +Things is everlastin' cheerful-- + B'lieve that's what the Bible states. +Likewise, there folks don't git hungry: + So good people, w'en they dies, +Finds themselves well fixed forever-- + Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes? + +Thought they looked a little sing'ler. + Oh, no! Don't you have no fear; +Heaven was made fur such as you is-- + Joe, wot makes you look so queer? +Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way! + Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head! +Here's yer flowers--you dropped em, Joey. + Oh, my God, can Joe be dead? + + _David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright)._ + + + + +The Ladder of St. Augustine + + +Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame +A ladder, if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame! + +All common things, each day's events, + That with the hour begin and end, +Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + +The low desire, the base design, + That makes another's virtues less; +The revel of the ruddy wine, + And all occasions of excess; + +The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; +The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + +All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their root in thoughts of ill; +Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will;-- + +All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain +In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + +We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb +By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + +The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, +When nearer seen, and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs, + +The distant mountains, that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, +Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + +The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight. +But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + +Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, +We may discern--unseen before-- + A path to higher destinies. + +Nor deem the irrevocable Past + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, +If, rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Loss and Gain + + + When I compare +What I have lost with what I have gained, +What I have missed with what attained, + Little room do I find for pride. + + I am aware +How many days have been idly spent; +How like an arrow the good intent + Has fallen short or been turned aside. + + But who shall dare +To measure loss and gain in this wise? +Defeat may be victory in disguise; + The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +John Thompson's Daughter + +(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter") + + +A fellow near Kentucky's clime + Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry, +And I'll give thee a silver dime + To row us o'er the ferry." + +"Now, who would cross the Ohio, + This dark and stormy water?" +"Oh, I am this young lady's beau, + And she John Thompson's daughter. + +"We've fled before her father's spite + With great precipitation, +And should he find us here to-night, + I'd lose my reputation. + +"They've missed the girl and purse beside, + His horsemen hard have pressed me. +And who will cheer my bonny bride, + If yet they shall arrest me?" + +Out spoke the boatman then in time, + "You shall not fail, don't fear it; +I'll go not for your silver dime, + But--for your manly spirit. + +"And by my word, the bonny bird + In danger shall not tarry; +For though a storm is coming on, + I'll row you o'er the ferry." + +By this the wind more fiercely rose, + The boat was at the landing, +And with the drenching rain their clothes + Grew wet where they were standing. + +But still, as wilder rose the wind, + And as the night grew drearer, +Just back a piece came the police, + Their tramping sounded nearer. + +"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, + "It's anything but funny; +I'll leave the light of loving eyes, + But not my father's money!" + +And still they hurried in the race + Of wind and rain unsparing; +John Thompson reached the landing-place, + His wrath was turned to swearing. + +For by the lightning's angry flash, + His child he did discover; +One lovely hand held all the cash, + And one was round her lover! + +"Come back, come back," he cried in woe, + Across the stormy water; +"But leave the purse, and you may go, + My daughter, oh, my daughter!" + +'Twas vain; they reached the other shore, + (Such dooms the Fates assign us), +The gold he piled went with his child, + And he was left there, minus. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +Grandfather's Clock + + +My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf, +So it stood ninety years on the floor; +It was taller by half than the old man himself, +Though it weighed not a pennyweight more. +It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, +And was always his treasure and pride, +But it stopped short ne'er to go again + When the old man died. + +In watching its pendulum swing to and fro, +Many hours had he spent while a boy; +And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know +And to share both his grief and his joy, +For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door, +With a blooming and beautiful bride, +But it stopped short never to go again + When the old man died. + +My grandfather said that of those he could hire, +Not a servant so faithful he found, +For it wasted no time and had but one desire, +At the close of each week to be wound. +And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face, +And its hands never hung by its side. +But it stopped short never to go again + When the old man died. + + _Henry C. Work._ + + + + +A Cradle Hymn + + +Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! +Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; +All without thy care or payment: + All thy wants are well supplied. + +How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, +When from heaven He descended + And became a child like thee! + +Soft and easy is thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, +When His birthplace was a stable + And His softest bed was hay. + +Blessed babe! what glorious features-- + Spotless fair, divinely bright! +Must He dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford +To receive the heavenly stranger? + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; +'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, + And her arm shall be thy guard. + + * * * * * + +See the kinder shepherds round Him, + Telling wonders from the sky! +Where they sought Him, there they found Him, + With His Virgin mother by. + +See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how He smiled! +When He wept, His mother's blessing + Soothed and hush'd the holy Child, + +Lo, He slumbers in a manger, + Where the hornèd oxen fed:-- +Peace, my darling, here's no danger; + There's no ox anear thy bed. + + * * * * * + +May'st thou live to know and fear Him, + Trust and love Him all thy days; +Then go dwell forever near Him, + See His face, and sing His praise! + + _Isaac Watts._ + + + + +If All the Skies + + +If all the skies were sunshine, +Our faces would be fain +To feel once more upon them +The cooling splash of rain. + +If all the world were music, +Our hearts would often long +For one sweet strain of silence, +To break the endless song. + +If life were always merry, +Our souls would seek relief, +And rest from weary laughter +In the quiet arms of grief. + + _Henry van Dyke._ + + + + +The Petrified Fern + + +In a valley, centuries ago, + Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, + Veining delicate and fibers tender, +Waving when the wind crept down so low; +Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; +Playful sunbeams darted in and found it; +Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it; +But no foot of man e'er came that way; +Earth was young and keeping holiday. + +Monster fishes swam the silent main; + Stately forests waved their giant branches; + Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches; +Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, +Nature reveled in grand mysteries. +But the little fern was not like these, +Did not number with the hills and trees, +Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way; +No one came to note it day by day. + +Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, + Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion + Of the strong, dread currents of the ocean; +Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood; +Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, +Covered it, and hid it safe away. +Oh, the long, long centuries since that day; +Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost, +Since the little useless fern was lost! + +Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man + Searching Nature's secrets far and deep; + From a fissure in a rocky steep +He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran +Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, +Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine, +And the fern's life lay in every line. +So, I think, God hides some souls away, +Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day. + + _Mary L. Bolles Branch._ + + + + +Cleon and I + + +Cleon hath ten thousand acres, + Ne'er a one have I; +Cleon dwelleth in a palace, + In a cottage, I; +Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, + Not a penny, I, +Yet the poorer of the twain is + Cleon, and not I. + +Cleon, true, possesseth acres, + But the landscape, I; +Half the charms to me it yieldeth + Money cannot buy; +Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, + Freshening vigor, I; +He in velvet, I in fustian-- + Richer man am I. + +Cleon is a slave to grandeur, + Free as thought am I; +Cleon fees a score of doctors, + Need of none have I; +Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, + Cleon fears to die; +Death may come--he'll find me ready, + Happier man am I. + +Cleon sees no charms in nature, + In a daisy, I; +Cleon hears no anthems ringing + 'Twixt the sea and sky; +Nature sings to me forever, + Earnest listener, I; +State for state, with all attendants-- + Who would change?--Not I. + + _Charles Mackay._ + + + + +Washington + + +Great were the hearts and strong the minds + Of those who framed in high debate +The immortal league of love that binds + Our fair, broad empire, State with State. + +And deep the gladness of the hour + When, as the auspicious task was done, +In solemn trust the sword of power + Was given to Glory's Unspoiled Son. + +That noble race is gone--the suns + Of fifty years have risen and set;-- +But the bright links, those chosen ones, + So strongly forged, are brighter yet. + +Wide--as our own free race increase-- + Wide shall extend the elastic chain, +And bind in everlasting peace + State after State, a mighty train. + + _W.C. Bryant._ + + + + +Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night + +A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight." + + +Slow the Kansas sun was setting, + O'er the wheat fields far away, +Streaking all the air with cobwebs + At the close of one hot day; +And the last rays kissed the forehead + Of a man and maiden fair, +He with whiskers short and frowsy, + She with red and glistening hair, +He with shut jaws stern and silent; +She, with lips all cold and white, +Struggled to keep back the murmur, + "Towser shall be tied to-night." + +"Papa," slowly spoke the daughter, + "I am almost seventeen, +And I have a real lover, + Though he's rather young and green; +But he has a horse and buggy + And a cow and thirty hens,-- +Boys that start out poor, dear Papa, + Make the best of honest men, +But if Towser sees and bites him, +Fills his eyes with misty light, +He will never come again, Pa; + Towser must be tied to-night." + +"Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, + (Every word pierced her young heart +Like a carving knife through chicken + As it hunts the tender part)-- +"I've a patch of early melons, + Two of them are ripe to-day; +Towser must be loose to watch them + Or they'll all be stole away. +I have hoed them late and early + In dim morn and evening light; +Now they're grown I must not lose them; + Towser'll not be tied to-night." + +Then the old man ambled forward, + Opened wide the kennel-door, +Towser bounded forth to meet him + As he oft had done before. +And the farmer stooped and loosed him + From the dog-chain short and stout; +To himself he softly chuckled, + "Bessie's feller must look out." +But the maiden at the window + Saw the cruel teeth show white; +In an undertone she murmured,-- + "Towser must be tied to-night." + +Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful + And her breath came short and quick, +Till she spied the family clothesline, + And she whispered, "That's the trick." +From the kitchen door she glided + With a plate of meat and bread; +Towser wagged his tail in greeting, + Knowing well he would be fed. +In his well-worn leather collar, + Tied she then the clothesline tight, +All the time her white lips saying: + "Towser shall be tied to-night," + +"There, old doggie," spoke the maiden, + "You can watch the melon patch, +But the front gate's free and open, + When John Henry lifts the latch. +For the clothesline tight is fastened + To the harvest apple tree, +You can run and watch the melons, + But the front gate you can't see." +Then her glad ears hear a buggy, + And her eyes grow big and bright, +While her young heart says in gladness, + "Towser dog is tied to-night." + +Up the path the young man saunters + With his eye and cheek aglow; +For he loves the red-haired maiden + And he aims to tell her so. +Bessie's roguish little brother, + In a fit of boyish glee, +Had untied the slender clothesline, + From the harvest apple tree. +Then old Towser heard the footsteps, + Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,-- +"Bark away," the maiden whispers; + "Towser, you are tied to-night." + +Then old Towser bounded forward, + Passed the open kitchen door; +Bessie screamed and quickly followed, + But John Henry's gone before. +Down the path he speeds most quickly, + For old Towser sets the pace; +And the maiden close behind them + Shows them she is in the race. +Then the clothesline, can she get it? + And her eyes grow big and bright; +And she springs and grasps it firmly: + "Towser shall be tied to-night." + +Oftentimes a little minute + Forms the destiny of men. +You can change the fate of nations + By the stroke of one small pen. +Towser made one last long effort, + Caught John Henry by the pants, +But John Henry kept on running + For he thought that his last chance. +But the maiden held on firmly, + And the rope was drawn up tight. +But old Towser kept the garments, + For he was not tied that night. + +Then the father hears the racket; + With long strides he soon is there, +When John Henry and the maiden, + Crouching, for the worst prepare. +At his feet John tells his story, + Shows his clothing soiled and torn; +And his face so sad and pleading, + Yet so white and scared and worn, +Touched the old man's heart with pity, + Filled his eyes with misty light. +"Take her, boy, and make her happy,-- + Towser shall be tied to-night." + + + + +Law and Liberty + + +O Liberty, thou child of Law, + God's seal is on thy brow! +O Law, her Mother first and last, + God's very self art thou! +Two flowers alike, yet not alike, + On the same stem that grow, +Two friends who cannot live apart, + Yet seem each other's foe. +One, the smooth river's mirrored flow + Which decks the world with green; +And one, the bank of sturdy rock + Which hems the river in. +O Daughter of the timeless Past, + O Hope the Prophets saw, +God give us Law in Liberty + And Liberty in Law! + + _E.J. Cutler._ + + + + +His Mother's Song + + +Beneath the hot midsummer sun + The men had marched all day, +And now beside a rippling stream + Upon the grass they lay. +Tiring of games and idle jest + As swept the hours along, +They cried to one who mused apart, + "Come, friend, give us a song." + +"I fear I can not please," he said; + "The only songs I know +Are those my mother used to sing + For me long years ago." +"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried. +"There's none but true men here; +To every mother's son of us + A mother's songs are dear." + +Then sweetly rose the singer's voice + Amid unwonted calm: +"Am I a soldier of the Cross, + A follower of the Lamb? +And shall I fear to own His cause?" + The very stream was stilled, +And hearts that never throbbed with fear, + With tender thoughts were filled. + +Ended the song, the singer said, + As to his feet he rose, +"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight. + God grant us sweet repose." +"Sing us one more," the captain begged. + The soldier bent his head, +Then, glancing round, with smiling lips, + "You'll join with me?" he said. + +"We'll sing that old familiar air + Sweet as the bugle call, +'All hail the power of Jesus' name! + Let angels prostrate fall.'" +Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell. + As on the soldiers sang; +Man after man fell into line, + And loud the voices rang. + +The songs are done, the camp is still, + Naught but the stream is heard; +But, ah! the depths of every soul + By those old hymns are stirred, +And up from many a bearded lip, + In whispers soft and low, +Rises the prayer that mother taught + Her boy long years ago. + + + + +When Father Carves the Duck + + +We all look on with anxious eyes + When Father carves the duck, +And Mother almost always sighs + When Father carves the duck; +Then all of us prepare to rise +And hold our bibs before our eyes, +And be prepared for some surprise + When Father carves the duck. + +He braces up and grabs the fork, + Whene'er he carves the duck, +And won't allow a soul to talk + Until he carves the duck. +The fork is jabbed into the sides, +Across the breast the knife he slides, +While every careful person hides + From flying chips of duck. + +The platter's always sure to slip + When Father carves the duck, +And how it makes the dishes skip-- + Potatoes fly amuck. +The squash and cabbage leap in space, +We get some gravy in our face, +And Father mutters Hindoo grace + Whene'er he carves a duck. + +We then have learned to walk around + The dining room and pluck +From off the window-sills and walls + Our share of Father's duck. +While Father growls and blows and jaws, +And swears the knife was full of flaws, +And Mother laughs at him because + He couldn't carve a duck. + + _E.V. Wright._ + + + + +Papa's Letter + + +I was sitting in my study, + Writing letters when I heard, +"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me + Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. + +"But I'se tired of the kitty, + Want some ozzer fing to do. +Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? + Tan't I wite a letter too?" + +"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; + Run and play with kitty, now." +"No, no, mamma, me wite letter; + Tan if 'ou will show me how." + +I would paint my darling's portrait + As his sweet eyes searched my face-- +Hair of gold and eyes of azure, + Form of childish, witching grace. + +But the eager face was clouded, + As I slowly shook my head, +Till I said, "I'll make a letter + Of you, darling boy, instead." + +So I parted back the tresses + From his forehead high and white, +And a stamp in sport I pasted + 'Mid its waves of golden light. + +Then I said, "Now, little letter, + Go away and bear good news." +And I smiled as down the staircase + Clattered loud the little shoes. + +Leaving me, the darling hurried + Down to Mary in his glee, +"Mamma's witing lots of letters; + I'se a letter, Mary--see!" + +No one heard the little prattler, + As once more he climbed the stair, +Reached his little cap and tippet, + Standing on the entry stair. + +No one heard the front door open, + No one saw the golden hair, +As it floated o'er his shoulders + In the crisp October air. + +Down the street the baby hastened + Till he reached the office door. +"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman; + Is there room for any more? + +"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, + Papa lives with God, 'ou know, +Mamma sent me for a letter, + Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" + +But the clerk in wonder answered, + "Not to-day, my little man." +"Den I'll find anozzer office, + 'Cause I must go if I tan." + +Fain the clerk would have detained him, + But the pleading face was gone, +And the little feet were hastening-- + By the busy crowd swept on. + +Suddenly the crowd was parted, + People fled to left and right, +As a pair of maddened horses + At the moment dashed in sight. + +No one saw the baby figure-- + No one saw the golden hair, +Till a voice of frightened sweetness + Rang out on the autumn air. + +'Twas too late--a moment only + Stood the beauteous vision there, +Then the little face lay lifeless, + Covered o'er with golden hair. + +Reverently they raised my darling, + Brushed away the curls of gold, +Saw the stamp upon the forehead, + Growing now so icy cold. + +Not a mark the face disfigured, + Showing where a hoof had trod; +But the little life was ended-- + "Papa's letter" was with God. + + + + +Who Stole the Bird's Nest? + + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! +Such a thing I'd never do; +I gave you a wisp of hay, +But didn't take your nest away. +Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! +Such a thing I'd never do." + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! +I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! +I gave the hairs the nest to make, +But the nest I did not take. +Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! +I'm not so mean, anyhow." + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no! +I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. +I gave the wool the nest to line, +But the nest was none of mine. +Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no! +I wouldn't treat a poor bird so." + +"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; +"I should like to know +What thief took away +A bird's nest to-day?" + +"I would not rob a bird," +Said little Mary Green; +"I think I never heard +Of anything so mean." + +"It is very cruel, too," +Said little Alice Neal; +"I wonder if he knew +How sad the bird would feel?" + +A little boy hung down his head, +And went and hid behind the bed, +For he stole that pretty nest +From poor little yellow-breast; +And he felt so full of shame, +He didn't like to tell his name. + + _Lydia Maria Child._ + + + + +Over the Hill from the Poor-House + + +I, who was always counted, they say, +Rather a bad stick anyway, +Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, +Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six"; +I, the truant, saucy and bold, +The one black sheep in my father's fold, +"Once on a time," as the stories say, +Went over the hill on a winter's day-- + _Over the hill to the poor-house._ + +Tom could save what twenty could earn; +But _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn; +Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak-- +Committed a hundred verses a week; +Never forgot, an' never slipped; +But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped; + _So over the hill to the poor-house!_ + +As for Susan, her heart was kind +An' good--what there was of it, mind; +Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, +Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice +For one she loved; an' that 'ere one +Was herself, when all was said an' done; +An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, +But anyone could pull 'em about; +An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, +Save one poor fellow, an' that was me; +An' when, one dark an' rainy night, +A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, +They hitched on me, as the guilty chap +That carried one end o' the halter-strap. +An' I think, myself, that view of the case +Wasn't altogether out o' place; +My mother denied it, as mothers do, +But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. +Though for me one thing might be said-- +That I, as well as the horse, was led; +And the worst of whisky spurred me on, +Or else the deed would have never been done. +But the keenest grief I ever felt +Was when my mother beside me knelt, +An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down, +As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. +I kissed her fondly, then an' there, +An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. + +I served my sentence--a bitter pill +Some fellows should take who never will; +And then I decided to go "out West," +Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; +Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, +But Fortune seemed to like me well; +An' somehow every vein I struck +Was always bubbling over with luck. +An', better than that, I was steady an' true, +An' put my good resolutions through. +But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, +"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, +An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, +Than if I had lived the same as before." + +But when this neighbor he wrote to me, +"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, +I had a resurrection straightway, +An' started for her that very day. +And when I arrived where I was grown, +I took good care that I shouldn't be known; +But I bought the old cottage, through and through, +Of someone Charley had sold it to; +And held back neither work nor gold +To fix it up as it was of old. +The same big fire-place, wide and high, +Flung up its cinders toward the sky; +The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-- +I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself; +An' if everything wasn't just the same, +Neither I nor money was to blame; + _Then--over the hill to the poor-house!_ + +One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, +With a team an' cutter I started away; +My fiery nags was as black as coal; +(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;) +I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-- +A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; +She rose to her feet in great surprise, +And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; +I saw the whole of her trouble's trace +In the lines that marred her dear old face; +"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! +You're adopted along o' your horse thief son, + _Come over the hill from the poor-house!"_ + +She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, +An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. +An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, +An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; +An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, +An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, +To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, +An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; +An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, +In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, +Who often said, as I have heard, +That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; +(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, +For all of 'em owe me more or less;) +But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man +In always a-doin' the best he can; +That whether on the big book, a blot +Gets over a fellow's name or not, +Whenever he does a deed that's white, +It's credited to him fair and right. +An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, +An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats, +However they may settle my case, +Wherever they may fix my place, +My good old Christian mother, you'll see, +Will be sure to stand right up for me, + With _over the hill from the poor-house!_ + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +"'Specially Jim" + + +I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young, + Peart an' black-eyed an' slim, +With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, + 'Specially Jim. + +The likeliest one of 'em all was he, + Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, +But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds + 'Specially Jim! + +I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, + An' I wouldn't take stock in him! +But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, + 'Specially Jim! + +I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' + ('Specially Jim!) +I made up my mind I'd settle down + An' take up with him. + +So we was married one Sunday in church, + 'Twas crowded full to the brim; +'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, + 'Specially Jim. + + + + +O'Grady's Goat + + +O'Grady lived in Shanty row, + The neighbors often said +They wished that Tim would move away + Or that his goat was dead. +He kept the neighborhood in fear, + And the children always vexed; +They couldn't tell jist whin or where + The goat would pop up next. + +Ould Missis Casey stood wan day + The dirty clothes to rub +Upon the washboard, when she dived + Headforemosht o'er the tub; +She lit upon her back an' yelled, + As she was lying flat: +"Go git your goon an' kill the bashte." + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash + Upon the line to dry. +She wint to take it in at night, + But stopped to have a cry. +The sleeves av two red flannel shirts, + That once were worn by Pat, +Were chewed off almost to the neck. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +They had a party at McCune's, + An' they wor having foon, +Whin suddinly there was a crash + An' ivrybody roon. +The iseter soup fell on the floor + An' nearly drowned the cat; +The stove was knocked to smithereens. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea, + Both standin' at the gate, +An' they wor just about to kiss + Aich oother sly and shwate. +They coom togither loike two rams. + An' mashed their noses flat. +They niver shpake whin they goes by. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg + Av dannymite wan day +To blow a cistern in his yard + An' hid the stuff away. +But suddinly an airthquake coom, + O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat, +An' ivrything in sight wint up. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank, + That held the byes' sphare cash. +One day the news came doon the sthreet + The bank had gone to smash. +An' ivrybody 'round was dum + Wid anger and wid fear, +Fer on the dhoor they red the whords, + "O'Grady's goat sthruck here." + +The folks in Grady's naborhood + All live in fear and fright; +They think it's certain death to go + Around there after night. +An' in their shlape they see a ghost + Upon the air afloat, +An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: + "Luck out for Grady's goat." + + _Will S. Hays._ + + + + +The Burial of Moses + +"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against +Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." + + +By Nebo's lonely mountain, + On this side Jordan's wave, +In a vale in the land of Moab + There lies a lonely grave, +And no man knows that sepulchre, + And no man saw it e'er, +For the angels of God upturn'd the sod + And laid the dead man there. + +That was the grandest funeral + That ever pass'd on earth; +But no man heard the trampling, + Or saw the train go forth-- +Noiselessly as the daylight + Comes back when night is done, +And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek + Grows into the great sun. + +Noiselessly as the springtime + Her crown of verdure weaves, +And all the trees on all the hills + Open their thousand leaves; +So without sound of music, + Or voice of them that wept, +Silently down from the mountain's crown + The great procession swept. + +Perchance the bald old eagle + On gray Beth-peor's height, +Out of his lonely eyrie + Look'd on the wondrous sight; +Perchance the lion, stalking, + Still shuns that hallow'd spot, +For beast and bird have seen and heard + That which man knoweth not. + +But when the warrior dieth, + His comrades in the war, +With arms reversed and muffled drum, + Follow his funeral car; +They show the banners taken, + They tell his battles won, +And after him lead his masterless steed, + While peals the minute gun. + +Amid the noblest of the land + We lay the sage to rest, +And give the bard an honor'd place, + With costly marble drest, +In the great minster transept + Where lights like glories fall, +And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings + Along the emblazon'd wall. + +This was the truest warrior + That ever buckled sword, +This was the most gifted poet + That ever breathed a word; +And never earth's philosopher + Traced with his golden pen, +On the deathless page, truths half so sage + As he wrote down for men. + +And had he not high honor,-- + The hillside for a pall, +To lie in state while angels wait + With stars for tapers tall, +And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, + Over his bier to wave, +And God's own hand, in that lonely land, + To lay him in the grave? + +In that strange grave without a name, + Whence his uncoffin'd clay +Shall break again, O wondrous thought! + Before the judgment day, +And stand with glory wrapt around + On the hills he never trod, +And speak of the strife that won our life + With the Incarnate Son of God. + +O lonely grave in Moab's land + O dark Beth-peor's hill, +Speak to these curious hearts of ours, + And teach them to be still. +God hath His mysteries of grace, + Ways that we cannot tell; +He hides them deep like the hidden sleep + Of him He loved so well. + + _Cecil F. Alexander._ + + + + +Nobody's Child + + +Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, +With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, +All day have I wandered to and fro, +Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; +The night's coming on in darkness and dread, +And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. +Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? +Is it because I am nobody's child? + +Just over the way there's a flood of light, +And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; +Beautiful children, in robes so fair, +Are caroling songs in their rapture there. +I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, +Would pity a poor little beggar like me, +Wandering alone in the merciless street, +Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? + +Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down +In its terrible blackness all over the town? +Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, +On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, +When the beautiful children their prayers have said, +And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? +For no dear mother on me ever smiled. +Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child? + +No father, no mother, no sister, not one +In all the world loves me--e'en the little dogs run +When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see +How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! +Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie +Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, +Watching for hours some large bright star, +I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, + +And a host of white-robed, nameless things +Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; +A hand that is strangely soft and fair +Caresses gently my tangled hair, +And a voice like the carol of some wild bird-- +The sweetest voice that was ever heard-- +Calls me many a dear, pet name, +Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. + +They tell me of such unbounded love, +And bid me come to their home above; +And then with such pitiful, sad surprise +They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, +And it seems to me, out of the dreary night +I am going up to that world of light, +And away from the hunger and storm so wild; +I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. + + _Phila H. Case._ + + + + +A Christmas Long Ago + + +Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells; +Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells; +Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow, +To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago. + +And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene +Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between; +And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show, +As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago. + +I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about; +I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout; +I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill, +E'en the shadows on the ceiling--I can see them dancing still. + +I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet; +I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget. +Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might, +To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night. + +Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel +For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal. +But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow, +There will never come another like that Christmas long ago! + +For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain +In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again. +Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow; +Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago. + +Let the children have their Christmas--let them have it while they may; +Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day +When St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door, +Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore; + +When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room; +When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom; +When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow +Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago. + + + + +Nearer Home + + +One sweetly solemn thought + Comes to me o'er and o'er,-- +I am nearer home to-day + Than I've ever been before;-- + +Nearer my Father's house + Where the many mansions be, +Nearer the great white throne, + Nearer the jasper sea;-- + +Nearer the bound of life + Where we lay our burdens down; +Nearer leaving the cross, + Nearer gaining the crown. + +But lying darkly between, + Winding down through the night, +Is the dim and unknown stream + That leads at last to the light. + +Closer and closer my steps + Come to the dark abysm; +Closer death to my lips + Presses the awful chrism. + +Father, perfect my trust; + Strengthen the might of my faith; +Let me feel as I would when I stand + On the rock of the shore of death,-- + +Feel as I would when my feet + Are slipping o'er the brink; +For it may be I am nearer home, + Nearer now than I think. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +The Minuet + + +Grandma told me all about it, +Told me so I could not doubt it, +How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago! +How she held her pretty head, +How her dainty skirts she spread, +How she turned her little toes, +Smiling little human rose! + +Grandma's hair was bright and shining, +Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny! +Bless me, now she wears a cap, +My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; +Yet she danced the minuet long ago; +Now she sits there rocking, rocking, +Always knitting grandpa's stocking-- +Every girl was taught to knit long ago-- +But her figure is so neat, +And her ways so staid and sweet, +I can almost see her now, +Bending to her partner's bow, long ago. + +Grandma says our modern jumping, +Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, +Would have shocked the gentle people long ago. +No, they moved with stately grace, +Everything in proper place, +Gliding slowly forward, then +Slowly courtesying back again. + +Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, +But boys were charming-- +Girls and boys I mean, of course--long ago, +Sweetly modest, bravely shy! +What if all of us should try just to feel +Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago. +With the minuet in fashion, +Who could fly into a passion? +All would wear the calm they wore long ago, +And if in years to come, perchance, +I tell my grandchild of our dance, +I should really like to say, +We did it in some such way, long ago. + + _Mary Mapes Dodge._ + + + + +The Vagabonds + + +We are two travellers, Roger and I. + Roger's my dog--Come here, you scamp! +Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye! + Over the table--look out for the lamp!-- +The rogue is growing a little old; + Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, +And slept outdoors when nights were cold, + And ate, and drank--and starved together. + +We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: + A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, +A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, + The paw he holds up there has been frozen), +Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, + (This outdoor business is bad for strings), +Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, + And Roger and I set up for kings! + +No, thank you, Sir, I never drink. + Roger and I are exceedingly moral. +Aren't we, Roger? see him wink. + Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. +He's thirsty, too--see him nod his head? + What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk; +He understands every word that's said, + And he knows good milk from water and chalk. + +The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, + I've been so sadly given to grog, +I wonder I've not lost the respect + (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog. +But he sticks by through thick and thin; + And this old coat with its empty pockets +And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, + He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. + +There isn't another creature living + Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, +So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, + To such a miserable, thankless master. +No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- + By George! it makes my old eyes water-- +That is, there's something in this gin + That chokes a fellow, but no matter! + +We'll have some music, if you're willing. + And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) +Shall march a little.--Start, you villain! + Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! +'Bout face! attention! take your rifle! + (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold +Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle + To aid a poor old patriot soldier! + +March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes, + When he stands up to hear his sentence; +Now tell me how many drams it takes + To honor a jolly new acquaintance. +Five yelps--that's five; he's mighty knowing; + The night's before us, fill the glasses;-- +Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!-- + Some brandy,--thank you;--there,--it passes! + +Why not reform? That's easily said; + But I've gone through such wretched treatment, +Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, + And scarce remembering what meat meant, +That my poor stomach's past reform; + And there are times when, mad with thinking, +I'd sell out heaven for something warm + To prop a horrible inward sinking. + +Is there a way to forget to think? + At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, +A dear girl's love,--but I took to drink;-- + The same old story; you know how it ends. +If you could have seen these classic features,-- + You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then +Such a burning libel on God's creatures; + I was one of your handsome men-- + +If you had seen her, so fair, so young, + Whose head was happy on this breast; +If you could have heard the songs I sung + When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd +That ever I, Sir, should be straying + From door to door, with fiddle and dog, +Ragged and penniless, and playing + To you to-night for a glass of grog. + +She's married since,--a parson's wife, + 'Twas better for her that we should part; +Better the soberest, prosiest life + Than a blasted home and a broken heart. +I have seen her--once; I was weak and spent + On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, +But little she dreamed as on she went, + Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. + +You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry; + It makes me wild to think of the change! +What do you care for a beggar's story? + Is it amusing? you find it strange? +I had a mother so proud of me! + 'Twas well she died before--Do you know +If the happy spirits in heaven can see + The ruin and wretchedness here below? + +Another glass, and strong, to deaden + This pain; then Roger and I will start. +I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, + Aching thing, in place of a heart? +He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, + No doubt, remembering things that were,-- +A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, + And himself a sober, respectable cur. + +I'm better now; that glass was warming-- + You rascal! limber your lazy feet! +We must be fiddling and performing + For supper and bed, or starve in the street.-- +Not a very gay life to lead, you think. + But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, +And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;-- + The sooner, the better for Roger and me. + + _J.T. Trowbridge._ + + + + +The Isle of Long Ago + + +Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, + As it runs through the realm of tears, +With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, +And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, + As it blends with the ocean of Years. + +How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, + And the summers, like buds between; +And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go, +On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, + As it glides in the shadow and sheen. + +There's a magical isle up the river of Time, + Where the softest of airs are playing; +There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, +And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, + And the Junes with the roses are staying. + +And the name of that isle is the Long Ago, + And we bury our treasures there; +There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- +There are heaps of dust--but we love them so!-- + There are trinkets and tresses of hair; + +There are fragments of song that nobody sings, + And a part of an infant's prayer, +There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; +There are broken vows and pieces of rings, + And the garments that she used to wear. + +There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore + By the mirage is lifted in air; +And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, +Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, + When the wind down the river is fair. + +Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, + All the day of our life till night-- +When the evening comes with its beautiful smile. +And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, + May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight! + + _Benjamin Franklin Taylor_. + +NOTE: The last line of this poem needs explanation. "Greenwood" is the +name of a cemetery in Brooklyn, N.Y. "Greenwood of Soul" means the +soul's resting place, or heaven. + + + + +The Dying Newsboy + + +In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay +On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; +Scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room, +Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. +On a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page, +Where the mother had been reading lay a Bible stained by age, +Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept +With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept. + +Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, +Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away, +And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, +"'Ere's the morning _Sun_ and _'Erald_--latest news of steamship lost. +Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the cry fell to a moan, +Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: +"Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star. +It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!" + +Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; +Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head, +"Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day, +Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. +He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care +When Jim's gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there? +Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up! Papers! Read God's book instead, +Better'n papers that to die on! Jack--" one gasp, and Jim was dead! + +Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer, +And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there, +He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down his face, +Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace, +Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, +Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door; +For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere, +And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer. + + _Emily Thornton._ + + + + +Break, Break, Break + + +Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O sea! +And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + +O well for the fisherman's boy + That he shouts with his sister at play! +O well for the sailor lad + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + +And the stately ships go on + To their haven under the hill; +But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + +Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! +But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + + + +Don't Kill the Birds + + +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, + That sing about your door, +Soon as the joyous spring has come, + And chilling storms are o'er. +The little birds, how sweet they sing! + Oh! let them joyous live; +And never seek to take the life + That you can never give. + +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, + That play among the trees; +'Twould make the earth a cheerless place, + Should we dispense with these. +The little birds, how fond they play! + Do not disturb their sport; +But let them warble forth their songs, + Till winter cuts them short. + +Don't kill the birds, the happy birds, + That bless the fields and grove; +So innocent to look upon, + They claim our warmest love. +The happy birds, the tuneful birds, + How pleasant 'tis to see! +No spot can be a cheerless place + Where'er their presence be. + + _D.C. Colesworthy._ + + + + +Bill's in the Legislature + + +I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, +An' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, +To think the boy whose future I had once so nicely planned +Should wander from the right and come to such a bitter end. + +I told him when he left us, only three short years ago, +He'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row; +He'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too, +But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go. + +I know there's big temptations for a youngster in the West, +But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist; +An' when he left I warned him of the ever waitin' snares +That lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres. + +But Bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowed +That he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud. +But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, +And now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind! + +His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed +That Billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road; +But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, +And in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name. + +He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short-- +I jess can't tell his mother!--It'll crush her poor old heart! +An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her-- +Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what fur! + + + + +The Bridge Builder + + +An old man going a lone highway, +Came, at the evening cold and gray, +To a chasm vast and deep and wide, +The old man crossed in the twilight dim, +The sullen stream had no fear for him; +But he turned when safe on the other side +And built a bridge to span the tide. + +"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near, +"You are wasting your strength with building here; +Your journey will end with the ending day, +Yon never again will pass this way; +You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, +Why build this bridge at evening tide?" + +The builder lifted his old gray head; +"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, +"There followed after me to-day +A youth whose feet must pass this way. +This chasm that has been as naught to me +To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; +He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; +Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!" + + _Anonymous._ + + + + +Song of Marion's Men + + +Our band is few, but true and tried, + Our leader frank and bold; +The British soldier trembles + When Marion's name is told. +Our fortress is the good green wood, + Our tent the cypress tree; +We know the forest round us + As seamen know the sea; +We know its walls of thorny vines, + Its glades of reedy grass, +Its safe and silent islands + Within the dark morass. + +Woe to the English soldiery + That little dread us near! +On them shall light at midnight + A strange and sudden fear: +When, waking to their tents on fire, + They grasp their arms in vain, +And they who stand to face us + Are beat to earth again; +And they who fly in terror deem + A mighty host behind, +And hear the tramp of thousands + Upon the hollow wind. + +Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil; +We talk the battle over + And share the battle's spoil. +The woodland rings with laugh and shout + As if a hunt were up, +And woodland flowers are gathered + To crown the soldier's cup. +With merry songs we mock the wind + That in the pine-top grieves, +And slumber long and sweetly + On beds of oaken leaves. + +Well knows the fair and friendly moon + The band that Marion leads-- +The glitter of their rifles, + The scampering of their steeds. +'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide + Across the moonlight plains; +'Tis life to feel the night wind + That lifts their tossing manes. +A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away-- +Back to the pathless forest + Before the peep of day. + +Grave men there are by broad Santee, + Grave men with hoary hairs; +Their hearts are all with Marion, + For Marion are their prayers. +And lovely ladies greet our band + With kindliest welcoming, +With smiles like those of summer, + And tears like those of spring. +For them we wear these trusty arms, + And lay them down no more +Till we have driven the Briton + Forever from our shore. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +The Minstrel-Boy + + +The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, + In the ranks of death you'll find him; +His father's sword he has girded on, + And his wild harp slung behind him.-- +"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, + "Though all the world betrays thee, +One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, + One faithful harp shall praise thee!" +The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain + Could not bring his proud soul under; +The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, + For he tore its chords asunder; +And said, "No chains shall sully thee, + Thou soul of love and bravery! +Thy songs were made for the pure and free, + They shall never sound in slavery!" + + _Thomas Moore._ + + + + +Our Homestead + + +Our old brown homestead reared its walls, + From the wayside dust aloof, +Where the apple-boughs could almost cast + Their fruitage on its roof: +And the cherry-tree so near it grew, + That when awake I've lain, +In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs, + As they creaked against the pane: +And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees! + I've seen my little brothers rocked +In their tops by the summer breeze. + +The sweet-brier under the window-sill, + Which the early birds made glad, +And the damask rose by the garden fence + Were all the flowers we had. +I've looked at many a flower since then, + Exotics rich and rare, +That to other eyes were lovelier, + But not to me so fair; +O those roses bright, O those roses bright! + I have twined them with my sister's locks, +That are hid in the dust from sight! + +We had a well, a deep old well, + Where the spring was never dry, +And the cool drops down from the mossy stones + Were falling constantly: +And there never was water half so sweet + As that in my little cup, +Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, + Which my father's hand set up; +And that deep old well, O that deep old well! + I remember yet the splashing sound +Of the bucket as it fell. + +Our homestead had an ample hearth, + Where at night we loved to meet; +There my mother's voice was always kind, + And her smile was always sweet; +And there I've sat on my father's knee, + And watched his thoughtful brow, +With my childish hand in his raven hair,-- + That hair is silver now! +But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light! + And my father's look, and my mother's smile,-- +They are in my heart to-night. + + _Phoebe Gary._ + + + + +The Ballad of the Tempest + + +We were crowded in the cabin, + Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- +It was midnight on the waters, + And a storm was on the deep. + +'Tis a fearful thing in winter + To be shattered by the blast, +And to hear the rattling trumpet + Thunder, "Cut away the mast!" + +So we shuddered there in silence,-- + For the stoutest held his breath, +While the hungry sea was roaring + And the breakers talked with Death. + +As thus we sat in darkness, + Each one busy with his prayers, +"We are lost!" the captain shouted, + As he staggered down the stairs. + +But his little daughter whispered, + As she took his icy hand, +"Isn't God upon the ocean, + Just the same as on the land?" + +Then we kissed the little maiden, + And we spoke in better cheer, +And we anchored safe in harbor, + When the morn was shining clear. + + _James T. Fields._ + + + + +Santa Filomena + + +Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, +Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, +Our hearts, in glad surprise, +To higher levels rise. + +The tidal wave of deeper souls +Into our inmost being rolls +And lifts us unawares +Out of all meaner cares. + +Honor to those whose words or deeds +Thus help us in our daily needs, +And by their overflow, +Raise us from what is low! + +Thus thought I, as by night I read +Of the great army of the dead, +The trenches cold and damp, +The starved and frozen camp,-- + +The wounded from the battle-plain, +In dreary hospitals of pain, +The cheerless corridors, +The cold and stony floors. + +Lo! in that house of misery +A lady with a lamp I see +Pass through the glimmering gloom, +And flit from room to room. + +And slow, as in a dream of bliss, +The speechless sufferer turns to kiss +Her shadow, as it falls +Upon the darkening walls. + +As if a door in heaven should be +Opened and then closed suddenly, +The vision came and went, +The light shone and was spent. + +On England's annals, through the long +Hereafter of her speech and song, +That light its rays shall cast +From portals of the past. + +A lady with a lamp shall stand +In the great history of the land +A noble type of good, +Heroic Womanhood. + +Nor even shall be wanting here +The palm, the lily, and the spear, +The symbols that of yore +Saint Filomena bore. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Knight's Toast + + +The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine +In lordly cup is seen to shine + Before each eager guest; +And silence fills the crowded hall, +As deep as when the herald's call + Thrills in the loyal breast. + +Then up arose the noble host, +And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast! + To all our ladies fair! +Here before all, I pledge the name +Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, + The Ladye Gundamere!" + +Then to his feet each gallant sprung, +And joyous was the shout that rung, + As Stanley gave the word; +And every cup was raised on high, +Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry + Till Stanley's voice was heard. + +"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, +And lowly bent his haughty head; + "That all may have their due, +Now each in turn must play his part, +And pledge the lady of his heart, + Like gallant knight and true!" + +Then one by one each guest sprang up, +And drained in turn the brimming cup, + And named the loved one's name; +And each, as hand on high he raised, +His lady's grace or beauty praised, + Her constancy and fame. + +'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; +On him are fixed those countless eyes;-- + A gallant knight is he; +Envied by some, admired by all, +Far famed in lady's bower and hall,-- + The flower of chivalry. + +St. Leon raised his kindling eye, +And lifts the sparkling cup on high: + "I drink to one," he said, +"Whose image never may depart, +Deep graven on this grateful heart, + Till memory be dead. + +"To one, whose love for me shall last +When lighter passions long have past,-- + So holy 'tis and true; +To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, +More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, + Than any pledged by you." + +Each guest upstarted at the word, +And laid a hand upon his sword, + With fury flashing eye; +And Stanley said: "We crave the name, +Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, + Whose love you count so high." + +St. Leon paused, as if he would +Not breathe her name in careless mood, + Thus lightly to another; +Then bent his noble head, as though +To give that word the reverence due, + And gently said: "My Mother!" + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + + + +The Old Man Dreams + + +O for one hour of youthful joy! + Give back my twentieth spring! +I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy + Than reign a gray-beard king; + +Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! + Away with learning's crown! +Tear out life's wisdom-written page, + And dash its trophies down! + +One moment let my life-blood stream + From boyhood's fount of flame! +Give me one giddy, reeling dream + Of life all love and fame! + +My listening angel heard the prayer, + And, calmly smiling, said, +"If I but touch thy silvered hair, + Thy hasty wish hath sped. + +"But is there nothing in thy track + To bid thee fondly stay, +While the swift seasons hurry back + To find the wished-for day?" + +Ah! truest soul of womankind! + Without thee what were life? +One bliss I cannot leave behind: + I'll take--my--precious--wife! + +The angel took a sapphire pen + And wrote in rainbow dew, +"The man would be a boy again, + And be a husband, too!" + +"And is there nothing yet unsaid + Before the change appears? +Remember, all their gifts have fled + With those dissolving years!" + +"Why, yes; for memory would recall + My fond paternal joys; +I could not bear to leave them all: + I'll take--my--girl--and--boys!" + +The smiling angel dropped his pen-- + "Why, this will never do; +The man would be a boy again, + And be a father too!" + +And so I laughed--my laughter woke + The household with its noise-- +And wrote my dream, when morning broke, + To please the gray-haired boys. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Washington's Birthday + + +The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day, + And what say their melodious numbers +To the flag blooming air? List, what do they say? + "The fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!" + +The world's monument stands the Potomac beside, + And what says the shaft to the river? +"When the hero has lived for his country, and died, + Death crowns him a hero forever." + +The bards crown the heroes and children rehearse + The songs that give heroes to story, +And what say the bards to the children? "No verse + Can yet measure Washington's glory. + +"For Freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth, + And Freedom shall triumph forever, +And Time must long wait the true song of his birth + Who sleeps by the beautiful river." + + _Hezekiah Butterworth._ + + + + +April! April! Are You Here? + + +April! April! are you here? + Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! +See! the sky is bright and clear, + Oh, how green the grass is growing! +April! April! are you here? + +April! April! is it you? + See how fair the flowers are springing! +Sun is warm and brooks are clear, + Oh, how glad the birds are singing! +April! April! is it you? + +April! April! you are here! + Though your smiling turn to weeping, +Though your skies grow cold and drear, + Though your gentle winds are sleeping, +April! April! you are here! + + _Dora Read Goodale._ + + + + +A Laughing Chorus + + +Oh, such a commotion under the ground + When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" +Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, + Such whispering to and fro; +And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked, + "'Tis time to start, you know." +"Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; + "I'll follow as soon as you go." +Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came + Of laughter soft and low, +From the millions of flowers under the ground, + Yes--millions--beginning to grow. + +O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, + Imprisoned in walls of brown, +They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, + And the sleet and the hail came down, + +But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, + Or fashioned her beautiful crown; +And now they are coming to brighten the world, + Still shadowed by Winter's frown; +And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" + In a chorus soft and low, +The millions of flowers hid under the ground + Yes--millions--beginning to grow. + + + + +The Courtin' + + +God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur 'z you can look or listen, +Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + +Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru the winder. +An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'ith no one nigh to hender. + +A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in-- +There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + +The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her, +An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + +Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted +The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + +The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', +An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + +'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On sech a blessed cretur, +A dogrose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + +He was six foot o' man, A 1, + Clear grit an' human natur'; +None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter, + +He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, +Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- + All is, he couldn't love 'em, + +But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, +The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + +She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; +My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. + +An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnit +Felt somehow thru its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upun it. + +Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, +For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + +She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, + A-raspin' on the scraper,-- +All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + +He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle, +His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + +An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, +An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + +"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal--no--I come dasignin'"-- +"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + +To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; +Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ + Comes nateral to women. + +He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t'other, +An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + +Says he, "I'd better call agin"; + Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; +Thet last work pricked him like a pin, + An'--Wal, he up an' kist her. + +When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, +All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + +For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, +Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + +The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', +Tell mother see how metters stood, + An' gin 'em both her blessin'. + +Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy. +An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +An Old Man's Dreams + + + It was the twilight hour; +Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, +Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. +The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; +High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, +Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, +To still their restless brood. + Across the way +A noisy little brook made pleasant +Music on the summer air, +And farther on, the sweet, faint sound +Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell +Like some sweet chant at vespers. + The air is heavy +With the scent of mignonette and rose, +And from the beds of flowers the tall +White lilies point like angel fingers upward, +Casting on the air an incense sweet, +That brings to mind the old, old story +Of the alabaster box that loving Mary +Broke upon the Master's feet. + + Upon his vine-wreathed porch +An old white-headed man sits dreaming +Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; +And listening to the quaint old song +With which his daughter lulled her child to rest: + + "Abide with me," she says; + "Fast falls the eventide; + The darkness deepens,-- + Lord, with me abide." + +And as he listens to the sounds that fill the +Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts +Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; +And, for a while, he seems a boy again. + With feet all bare +He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout +Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, +That wave a welcome from the other side. + With those he wreathes +The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, +Companion of his sorrows and his joys. +Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life +Seemed early linked with his, +And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion. + + Long years have flown. +No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, +They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs +Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, +And tell the old, old story, +And promise to be true till life for them shall end. + + Again the years roll on, +And they are old. The frost of age +Has touched the once-brown hair, +And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. +Children, whose rosy lips once claimed +A father's blessing and a mother's love, +Have grown to man's estate, save two +Whom God called early home to wait +For them in heaven. + + And then the old man thinks +How on a night like this, when faint +And sweet as half-remembered dreams +Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft +Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies +Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, +God called the wife and mother home, +And bade him wait. + Oh! why is it so hard for +Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, +Apart, amid the busy throng, +And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; +To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves +Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, +And knows he may not join, +But only wait till God has said, "Enough!" + And calls him home! + +And thus the old man dreams, +And then awakes; awakes to hear +The sweet old song just dying +On the pulsing evening air: + + "When other helpers fail, + And comforts flee, + Lord of the helpless, + Oh, abide with me!" + + _Eliza M. Sherman._ + + + + +God's Message to Men + + +God said: I am tired of kings; + I suffer them no more; +Up to my ear the morning brings + The outrage of the poor. + +Think ye I have made this ball + A field of havoc and war, +Where tyrants great and tyrants small + Might harry the weak and poor? + +My angel--his name is Freedom-- + Choose him to be your king. +He shall cut pathways east and west + And fend you with his wing. + +I will never have a noble; + No lineage counted great, +Fishers and choppers and plowmen + Shall constitute a state, + +And ye shall succor man, + 'Tis nobleness to serve; +Help them who cannot help again; + Beware from right to swerve. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +The Sandman + + +The rosy clouds float overhead, + The sun is going down, +And now the Sandman's gentle tread + Comes stealing through the town. +"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, + And, as he shakes his hand, +Straightway there lies on babies' eyes + His gift of shining sand. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +From sunny beaches far away, + Yes, in another land, +He gathers up, at break of day, + His store of shining sand. +No tempests beat that shore remote, + No ships may sail that way; +His little boat alone may float + Within that lovely bay. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +He smiles to see the eyelids close + Above the happy eyes, +And every child right well he knows-- + Oh, he is very wise! +But if, as he goes through the land, + A naughty baby cries, +His other hand takes dull gray sand + To close the wakeful eyes. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +So when you hear the Sandman's song + Sound through the twilight sweet, +Be sure you do not keep him long + A-waiting in the street. +Lie softly down, dear little head, + Rest quiet, busy hands, +Till by your bed when good-night's said, + He strews the shining sands. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + + _Margaret Vandegrift._ + + + + +Ring Out, Wild Bells + + +Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, + The flying cloud, the frosty light: + The year is dying in the night; +Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. + +Ring out the old, ring in the new, + Ring, happy bells, across the snow: + The year is going, let him go; +Ring out the false, ring in the true. + +Ring out the grief that saps the mind, + For those that here we see no more; + Ring out the feud of rich and poor, +Ring in redress to all mankind. + +Ring out a slowly dying cause, + And ancient forms of party strife; + Ring in the nobler modes of life, +With sweeter manners, purer laws. + +Ring out false pride in place and blood, + The civic slander and the spite; + Ring in the love of truth and right, +Ring in the common love of good. + +Ring out old shapes of foul disease; + Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; + Ring out the thousand wars of old, +Ring in the thousand years of peace. + +Ring in the valiant man and free, + The larger heart, the kindlier hand; + Ring out the darkness of the land, +Ring in the Christ that is to be. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +The Wishing Bridge + + +Among the legends sung or said + Along our rocky shore, +The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead + May well be sung once more. + +An hundred years ago (so ran + The old-time story) all +Good wishes said above its span + Would, soon or late, befall. + +If pure and earnest, never failed + The prayers of man or maid +For him who on the deep sea sailed, + For her at home who stayed. + +Once thither came two girls from school + And wished in childish glee: +And one would be a queen and rule, + And one the world would see. + +Time passed; with change of hopes and fears + And in the selfsame place, +Two women, gray with middle years, + Stood wondering, face to face. + +With wakened memories, as they met, + They queried what had been: +"A poor man's wife am I, and yet," + Said one, "I am a queen. + +"My realm a little homestead is, + Where, lacking crown and throne, +I rule by loving services + And patient toil alone." + +The other said: "The great world lies + Beyond me as it laid; +O'er love's and duty's boundaries + My feet have never strayed. + +"I see but common sights at home, + Its common sounds I hear, +My widowed mother's sick-bed room + Sufficeth for my sphere. + +"I read to her some pleasant page + Of travel far and wide, +And in a dreamy pilgrimage + We wander side by side. + +"And when, at last, she falls asleep, + My book becomes to me +A magic glass: my watch I keep, + But all the world I see. + +"A farm-wife queen your place you fill, + While fancy's privilege +Is mine to walk the earth at will, + Thanks to the Wishing Bridge." + +"Nay, leave the legend for the truth," + The other cried, "and say +God gives the wishes of our youth + But in His own best way!" + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + + + +The Things Divine + + +These are the things I hold divine: +A trusting chi id's hand laid in mine, +Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees, +The taste of grapes and the drone of bees, +A rhythmic gallop, long June days, +A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays, +The welcome smile on neighbors' faces, +Cool, wide hills and open places, +Breeze-blown fields of silver rye, +The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry, +Fresh spring showers and scent of box, +The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox, +Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, +A flight of geese and an autumn moon, +Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights, +A fountain murmur on summer nights, +A dappled fawn in the forest hush, +Simple words and the song of a thrush, +Rose-red dawns and a mate to share +With comrade soul my gypsy fare, +A waiting fire when the twilight ends, +A gallant heart and the voice of friends. + + _Jean Brooks Burt._ + + + + +Mothers of Men + + +The bravest battle that ever was fought! + Shall I tell you where and when? +On the map of the world you will find it not, + 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. + +Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, + With sword or nobler pen, +Nay, not with eloquent words or thought + From mouths of wonderful men; + +But deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- + Of woman that would not yield, +But bravely, silently, bore her part-- + Lo, there is that battle field! + +No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, + No banner to gleam or wave, +But oh! these battles, they last so long-- + From babyhood to the grave. + +Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, + She fights in her walled-up town-- +Fights on and on in the endless wars, + Then, silent, unseen, goes down. + +Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, + And soldiers to shout and praise, +I tell you the kingliest victories fought + Were fought in those silent ways. + +Oh, spotless in a world of shame, + With splendid and silent scorn, +Go back to God as white as you came-- + The kingliest warrior born! + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +Echo + + +"I asked of Echo, t'other day + (Whose words are often few and funny), +What to a novice she could say + Of courtship, love and matrimony. + Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!' + +"Whom should I marry? Should it be + A dashing damsel, gay and pert, +A pattern of inconstancy; + Or selfish, mercenary flirt? + Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!' + +"What if, aweary of the strife + That long has lured the dear deceiver, +She promise to amend her life. + And sin no more; can I believe her? + Quoth Echo, very promptly;--'Leave her!' + +"But if some maiden with a heart + On me should venture to bestow it, +Pray should I act the wiser part + To take the treasure or forgo it? + Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!' + +"But what if, seemingly afraid + To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, +She vow she means to die a maid, + In answer to my loving letter? + Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--'Let her!' + +"What if, in spite of her disdain, + I find my heart entwined about +With Cupid's dear, delicious chain + So closely that I can't get out? + Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!' + +"But if some maid with beauty blest, + As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, +Will share my labor and my rest + Till envious Death shall overtake her? +Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-'Take her!'" + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Life, I Know Not What Thou Art + + +Life! I know not what thou art, +But know that thou and I must part; +And when, or how, or where we met +I own to me's a secret yet. + +Life! we've been long together +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; +'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-- +Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; + +Then steal away; give little warning, +Choose thine own time; +Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime +Bid me Good Morning. + + _Anna L. Barbauld._ + + + + +Autumn Leaves + + +In the hush and the lonely silence + Of the chill October night, +Some wizard has worked his magic + With fairy fingers light. + +The leaves of the sturdy oak trees + Are splendid with crimson and red. +And the golden flags of the maple + Are fluttering overhead. + +Through the tangle of faded grasses + There are trailing vines ablaze, +And the glory of warmth and color + Gleams through the autumn haze. + +Like banners of marching armies + That farther and farther go; +Down the winding roads and valleys + The boughs of the sumacs glow. + +So open your eyes, little children, + And open your hearts as well, +Till the charm of the bright October + Shall fold you in its spell. + + _Angelina Wray._ + + + + +A Message for the Year + + +Not who you are, but what you are, + That's what the world demands to know; +Just what you are, what you can do + To help mankind to live and grow. +Your lineage matters not at all, + Nor counts one whit your gold or gear, +What can you do to show the world + The reason for your being here? + +For just what space you occupy + The world requires you pay the rent; +It does not shower its gifts galore, + Its benefits are only lent; +And it has need of workers true, + Willing of hand, alert of brain; +Go forth and prove what you can do, + Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain. + +Give of your best to help and cheer, + The more you give the more you grow; +This message evermore rings true, + In time you reap whate'er you sow. +No failure you have need to fear, + Except to fail to do your best-- +What have you done, what can you do? + That is the question, that the test. + + _Elizabeth Clarke Hardy._ + + + + +Song of the Chattahoochee[*] + + + Out of the hills of Habersham, + Down the valleys of Hall, +I hurry amain to reach the plain, +Run the rapid and leap the fall, +Split at the rock and together again, +Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, +And flee from folly on every side +With a lover's pain to attain the plain + Far from the hills of Habersham, + Far from the valleys of Hall. + + All down the hills of Habersham, + All through the valleys of Hall, +The rushes cried "Abide, abide," +The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, +The laving laurel turned my tide, +The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay," +The dewberry dipped for to work delay, +And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide + Here in the hills of Habersham, + Here in the valleys of Hall." + + High o'er the hills of Habersham, + Veiling the valleys of Hall, +The hickory told me manifold +Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall +Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, +The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, +O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, +Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold + Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, + These glades in the valleys of Hall." + + And oft in the hills of Habersham, + And oft in the valleys of Hall, +The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone +Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, +And many a luminous jewel lone +--Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, +Ruby, garnet, and amethyst-- +Made lures with the lights of streaming stone, + In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, + In the beds of the valleys of Hall. + + But oh, not the hills of Habersham, + And oh, not the valleys of Hall +Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. +Downward the voices of Duty call-- +Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. +The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, +And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, +And the lordly main from beyond the plain + Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, + Calls through the valleys of Hall. + + _Sidney Lanier._ + +[Footnote *: Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles +Scribner's Sons.] + + + + +Courting in Kentucky + + +When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay +I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way, +I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, +Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly; +But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell +She come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. +My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk, +An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. + +Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; +But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" +Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, +He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. +I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, +An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. +Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, +Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong. + +One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree, +When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?" +An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." +Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way. +"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, +Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' +Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say; +But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay; +I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'" +An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be." + + + + +God's Will is Best + + +Whichever way the wind doth blow, +Some heart is glad to have it so; +Then blow it east, or blow it west, +The wind that blows, that wind is best. +My little craft sails not alone,-- +A thousand fleets, from every zone, +Are out upon a thousand seas, +And what for me were favoring breeze +Might dash another with the shock +Of doom upon some hidden rock. + +I leave it to a higher Will +To stay or speed me, trusting still +That all is well, and sure that He +Who launched my bark will sail with me +Through storm and calm, and will not fail, +Whatever breezes may prevail, +To land me, every peril past, +Within His Haven at the last. +Then blow it east, or blow it west, +The wind that blows, that wind is best. + + _Caroline H. Mason._ + + + + +The School-Master's Guests + + +I + +The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, +Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. +As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have + come, +His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. +There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding + a drouth. +And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; +There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that + could bloom, +And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, +With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, +Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin. +There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their + brain, +Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its + train; +There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his + slate, +And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; +And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short + twist, +As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with + the fist!" +There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty + possessed, +In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; +A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult + pains, +How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; +And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, +Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could. + + +II + +Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath, +With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath. +A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair, +Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair. +There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in + search of their prey; +Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day. +The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming + sores, +Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush + out-o'-doors. +White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the + cracks; +And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing + their backs. + + +III + +Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er, +And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard + at the door; +And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, +And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of + snow. +And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad, +Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that + they had: +"We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye + 'round, +Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been + found; +To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about, +An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out. + +"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read +You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need; +You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han', +An' you turn a stray _g_ in their _doin's_, an' tack an odd _d_ + on their _an'_; +There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see, +Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be. +An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto + last; +It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past. +Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say, +Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew." +"Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into + this, +That you turn the _u_ out o' your _labour_, an' make the word shorter + than 'tis; +An' clip the _k_ off yer _musick_, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed, +An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next. +They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters + along; +But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong. +You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about + war, +As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was + for." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments + tew." +"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me, +Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three; +An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please, +With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' _w's, x's, y's_ an' _z's_. +We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be + reached +By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." +"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day, +Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say. +My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear, +But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this + here: +'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' + an' 'They--' +An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'--'twas all I could get 'em + to say. +Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so +As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to + know." + + +IV + +Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening + before, +Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; +And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had + said, +A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. +The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place +And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the + face. +The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books +And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' + looks. +And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; +And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my + sentiments tew." + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +Mother o' Mine + + +If I were hanged on the highest hill, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose love would follow me still; + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + +If I were drowned in the deepest sea, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose tears would flow down to me, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + +If I were damned o' body and soul, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose prayers would make me whole, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Encouragement + + +Who dat knockin' at de do'? +Why, Ike Johnson--yes, fu' sho'! +Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad +You come down. I t'ought you's mad +At me 'bout de othah night, +An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. +Say, now, was you mad fu' true +W'en I kin' o' laughed at you? + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, +An' a-mekin' out you's mad; +Ef you's gwine to be so glum, +Wondah why you evah come. +I don't lak nobidy 'roun' +Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown-- +Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! +Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? +Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. +I's done all dat I kin do-- +Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; +Reckon I'd a' bettah wo' +My ol' ragged calico. +Aftah all de pains I's took, +Cain't you tell me how I look? + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got +Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. +Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, +She gwine ma'y Lucius White? +Miss Lize say I allus wuh +Heap sight laklier 'n huh; +An' she'll git me somep'n new, +Ef I wants to ma'y too. + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +I could ma'y in a week, +If de man I wants 'ud speak. +Tildy's presents 'll be fine, +But dey wouldn't ekal mine. +Him whut gits me fu' a wife +'ll be proud, you bet yo' life. +I's had offers, some ain't quit; +But I hasn't ma'ied yit! + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Ike, I loves you--yes, I does; +You's my choice, and allus was. +Laffin' at you ain't no harm-- +Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? +Hug me closer--dah, da's right! +Wasn't you a awful sight, +Havin' me to baig you so? +Now ax whut you want to know-- + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + + _Paul Laurence Dunbar._ + + + + +The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls + + +The harp that once through Tara's halls + The soul of music shed, +Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls + As if that soul were fled. +So sleeps the pride of former days, + So glory's thrill is o'er, +And hearts, that once beat high for praise, +Now feel that pulse no more. + +No more to chiefs and ladies bright + The harp of Tara swells: +The chord alone, that breaks at night, + Its tale of ruin tells. +Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, + The only throb she gives +Is when some heart indignant breaks, + To show that still she lives. + + _Thomas Moore._ + + + + +Aux Italiens + + +At Paris it was, at the opera there;-- + And she looked like a queen in a book that night, +With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, + And the brooch on her breast so bright. + +Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, + The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; +And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, + The souls in purgatory. + +The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; + And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, +As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, + _Non ti scordar di me?_[A] + +The emperor there, in his box of state, + Looked grave, as if he had just then seen +The red flag wave from the city gate, + Where his eagles in bronze had been. + +The empress, too, had a tear in her eye, + You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, +For one moment, under the old blue sky, + To the old glad life in Spain. + +Well, there in our front-row box we sat + Together, my bride betrothed and I; +My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, + And hers on the stage hard by. + +And both were silent, and both were sad. + Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, +With that regal, indolent air she had; + So confident of her charm! + +I have not a doubt she was thinking then + Of her former lord, good soul that he was! +Who died the richest and roundest of men. + The Marquis of Carabas. + +I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, + Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; +I wish him well, for the jointure given + To my Lady of Carabas. + +Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, + As I had not been thinking of aught for years, +Till over my eyes there began to move + Something that felt like tears. + +I thought of the dress that she wore last time, + When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, +In that lost land, in that soft clime, + In the crimson evening weather: + +Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); + And her warm white neck in its golden chain; +And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, + And falling loose again; + +And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; + (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) +And the one bird singing alone to his nest; + And the one star over the tower. + +I thought of our little quarrels and strife, + And the letter that brought me back my ring; +And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, + Such a very little thing! + +For I thought of her grave below the hill, + Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; +And I thought, "Were she only living still, + How I could forgive her and love her!" + +And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, + And of how, after all, old things are best, +That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower + Which she used to wear in her breast. + +It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, + It made me creep, and it made me cold; +Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet + Where a mummy is half unrolled. + +And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, + In a dim box over the stage, and drest +In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, + And that jasmine in her breast! + +I was here, and she was there; + And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:-- +From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, + And her sumptuous, scornful mien, + +To my early love, with her eyes downcast, + And over her primrose face the shade, +(In short, from the future back to the past,) + There was but a step to be made. + +To my early love from my future bride + One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, +I traversed the passage; and down at her side + I was sitting, a moment more. + +My thinking of her or the music's strain, + Or something which never will be exprest, +Had brought her back from the grave again, + With the jasmine in her breast. + +She is not dead, and she is not wed! + But she loves me now, and she loved me then! +And the very first word that her sweet lips said, + My heart grew youthful again. + +The marchioness there, of Carabas, + She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; +And but for her--well, we'll let that pass; + She may marry whomever she will. + +But I will marry my own first love, + With her primrose face, for old things are best; +And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above + The brooch in my lady's breast. + +The world is filled with folly and sin, + And love must cling where it can, I say: +For beauty is easy enough to win; + But one isn't loved every day, + +And I think in the lives of most women and men, + There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, +If only the dead could find out when + To come back, and be forgiven. + +But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! + And oh, that music! and oh, the way +That voice rang out from the donjon tower, + _Non ti scordar di me_, + _Non ti scordar di me!_ + + _Robert Bulwer Lytton._ + +[Footnote A: A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget +me."] + + + + +My Prairies + + +I love my prairies, they are mine + From zenith to horizon line, +Clipping a world of sky and sod + Like the bended arm and wrist of God. + +I love their grasses. The skies + Are larger, and my restless eyes +Fasten on more of earth and air + Than seashore furnishes anywhere. + +I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, + The never resting prairie winds. The trees +That stand like spear points high + Against the dark blue sky + +Are wonderful to me. I love the gold + Of newly shaven stubble, rolled +A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be + The pathway of a deity. + +I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds + Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's +Mad bellowing or the shadow stride + Of mounted herdsmen at my side. + +I love my prairies, they are mine + From high sun to horizon line. +The mountains and the cold gray sea + Are not for me, are not for me. + + _Hamlin Garland._ + + + + +Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead + +(_From "The Princess"_) + + +Home they brought her warrior dead: + She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: +All her maidens, watching, said, + "She must weep or she will die." +Then they praised him, soft and low, + Call'd him worthy to be loved, +Truest friend and noblest foe; + Yet she neither spoke nor moved. +Stole a maiden from her place, + Lightly to the warrior stept, +Took the face-cloth from the face; + Yet she neither moved nor wept. +Rose a nurse of ninety years, + Set his child upon her knee-- +Like summer tempest came her tears-- + "Sweet my child, I live for thee." + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +September + + + Sweet is the voice that calls + From babbling waterfalls +In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; + And soft the breezes blow, + And eddying come and go +In faded gardens where the rose is dying. + + Among the stubbled corn + The blithe quail pipes at morn, +The merry partridge drums in hidden places, + And glittering insects gleam + Above the reedy stream, +Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. + + At eve, cool shadows fall + Across the garden wall, +And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; + And pearly vapors lie + Along the eastern sky, +Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. + + Ah, soon on field and hill + The wind shall whistle chill, +And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, + To fly from frost and snow, + And seek for lands where blow +The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. + + The cricket chirps all day, + "O fairest summer, stay!" +The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; + The wild fowl fly afar + Above the foamy bar, +And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. + + Now comes a fragrant breeze + Through the dark cedar-trees +And round about my temples fondly lingers, + In gentle playfulness, + Like to the soft caress +Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. + + Yet, though a sense of grief + Comes with the falling leaf, +And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, + In all my autumn dreams + A future summer gleams, +Passing the fairest glories of the present! + + _George Arnold._ + + + + +The Old Kitchen Floor + + +Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast +To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed. +I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall, +But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. +Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be +And all its surroundings were sacred to me, +From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door, +And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor. + +I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide +And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side +Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies +And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes. +And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still +Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill. +But the dearest of memories laid up in store +Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor. + +To-night those old musings come back at their will +But the wheel and its music forever are still. +The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, +And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay. +The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then +And the voices of children ring out there again. +The sun at the window looks in as of yore, +But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor. + + + + +Rustic Courtship + + +The night was dark when Sam set out + To court old Jones's daughter; +He kinder felt as if he must, + And kinder hadn't oughter. +His heart against his waistcoat throbbed, + His feelings had a tussle, +Which nearly conquered him despite + Six feet of bone and muscle. + +The candle in the window shone + With a most doleful glimmer, +And Sam he felt his courage ooze, + And through his fingers simmer. +Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool, + Take courage, shaking doubter, +Go on, and pop the question right, + For you can't live without her." + +But still, as he drew near the house, + His knees got in a tremble, +The beating of his heart ne'er beat + His efforts to dissemble. +Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose, + And let the female wimmin +Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so, + And set your heart a-swimmin'." + +So Sam, he kinder raised the latch, + His courage also raising, +And in a moment he sat inside, + Cid Jones's crops a-praising. +He tried awhile to talk the farm + In words half dull, half witty, +Not knowing that old Jones well knew + His only thought was--Kitty. + +At last the old folks went to bed-- + The Joneses were but human; +Old Jones was something of a man, + And Mrs. Jones--a woman. +And Kitty she the pitcher took, + And started for the cellar; +It wasn't often that she had + So promising a feller. + +And somehow when she came upstairs, + And Sam had drank his cider, +There seemed a difference in the chairs, + And Sam was close beside her; +His stalwart arm dropped round her waist, + Her head dropped on his shoulder, +And Sam--well, he had changed his tune +And grown a trifle bolder. + +But this, if you live long enough, + You surely will discover, +There's nothing in this world of ours + Except the loved and lover. +The morning sky was growing gray + As Sam the farm was leaving, +His face was surely not the face + Of one half grieved, or grieving. + +And Kitty she walked smiling back, + With blushing face, and slowly; +There's something in the humblest love + That makes it pure and holy. +And did he marry her, you ask? + She stands there with the ladle +A-skimming of the morning's milk-- + That's Sam who rocks the cradle. + + + + +The Red Jacket + + +'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar +The north winds beat and clamor at the door; +The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, +Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; +The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend +But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; +Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, +Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. + +In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, +Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; +In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet +The weary traveler with their smiles to greet; +In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm +Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, +Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-- +"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!" + +But hark! above the beating of the storm +Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. +Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, +And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; +From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, +The ready friend no danger can appall; +Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, +He hurries forth to battle and to save. + +From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, +Devouring all they coil themselves about, +The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, +Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. +Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe +In vain attempts their power to overthrow; +With mocking glee they revel with their prey, +Defying human skill to check their way. + +And see! far up above the flame's hot breath, +Something that's human waits a horrid death; +A little child, with waving golden hair, +Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,-- +Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, +While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. +And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, +A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!" + +Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng +A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; +Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, +Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. +The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, +Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; +But up, still up he goes! the goal is won! +His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! + +Gone to his death. The wily flames surround +And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, +In flaming columns move with quickened beat +To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. +Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, +Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; +Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, +Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. + +Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; +Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, +Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm +Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm, +Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance! +Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance! +Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly; +Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die! + +Silence! he comes along the burning road, +Bearing, with tender care, his living load; +Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save +The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! +He's up again! and now he's coming fast-- +One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed-- +And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain. +A happy mother clasps her child again. + + _George M. Baker._ + + + + +John Maynard + + +'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse + One bright midsummer day, +The gallant steamer Ocean Queen + Swept proudly on her way. +Bright faces clustered on the deck, + Or, leaning o'er the side, +Watched carelessly the feathery foam + That flecked the rippling tide. + +Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, + That smiling bends serene, +Could dream that danger, awful, vast, + Impended o'er the scene; +Could dream that ere an hour had sped + That frame of sturdy oak +Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, + Blackened with fire and smoke? + +A seaman sought the captain's side, + A moment whispered low; +The captain's swarthy face grew pale; + He hurried down below. +Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, + And clear his orders came, +No human efforts could avail + To quench th' insidious flame. + +The bad news quickly reached the deck, + It sped from lip to lip, +And ghastly faces everywhere + Looked from the doomed ship. +"Is there no hope, no chance of life?" + A hundred lips implore; +"But one," the captain made reply, + "To run the ship on shore." + +A sailor, whose heroic soul + That hour should yet reveal, +By name John Maynard, eastern-born, + Stood calmly at the wheel. +"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, + Above the smothered roar, +"Head her southeast without delay! + Make for the nearest shore!" + +No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, + Or clouds his dauntless eye, +As, in a sailor's measured tone, + His voice responds, "Ay! ay!" +Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, + Crowd forward wild with fear, +While at the stern the dreaded flames + Above the deck appear. + +John Maynard watched the nearing flames, + But still with steady hand +He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly + He steered the ship to land. +"John Maynard, can you still hold out?" + He heard the captain cry; +A voice from out the stifling smoke + Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!" + +But half a mile! a hundred hands + Stretch eagerly to shore. +But half a mile! That distance sped + Peril shall all be o'er. +But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames + No longer slowly creep, +But gather round that helmsman bold, + With fierce, impetuous sweep. + +"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice + The captain cries once more, +"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, + And we shall reach the shore." +Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart + Responded firmly still, +Unawed, though face to face with death, + "With God's good help I will!" + +The flames approach with giant strides, + They scorch his hand and brow; +One arm, disabled, seeks his side, + Ah! he is conquered now. +But no, his teeth are firmly set, + He crushes down his pain, +His knee upon the stanchion pressed, + He guides the ship again. + +One moment yet! one moment yet! + Brave heart, thy task is o'er, +The pebbles grate beneath the keel, + The steamer touches shore. +Three hundred grateful voices rise + In praise to God that He +Hath saved them from the fearful fire, + And from the engulfing sea. + +But where is he, that helmsman bold? + The captain saw him reel, +His nerveless hands released their task, + He sank beside the wheel. +The wave received his lifeless corse, + Blackened with smoke and fire. +God rest him! Never hero had + A nobler funeral pyre! + + _Horatio Alger, Jr._ + + + + +Piller Fights + + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you; +There isn't anything I'd rather do +Than get a big piller and hold it tight, +Stand up in bed and then just fight. + +Us boys allers have our piller fights +And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night. +Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night," +Then go right upstairs for a piller fight. + +Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs +And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?" +And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has; +Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says. + +Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door; +If she's a-listenin' both of us snore, +But as soon as ever she goes we light a light +And pitch right into our piller fight. + +We play that the bed is Bunker Hill +And George is Americans, so he stands still. +But I am the British, so I must hit +As hard as ever I can to make him git. +We played Buena Vista one night-- +Tell you, that was an awful hard fight! + +Held up our pillers like they was a flag, +An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!" +That was the night that George hit the nail-- +You just ought to have seen those feathers sail! + +I was covered as white as flour, +Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour; +Next day when our ma saw that there mess +She was pretty mad, you better guess; + +And she told our pa, and he just said, +"Come right on out to this here shed." +Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore +And made us both promise to do it no more. + +That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights +Or when Pa's away we have piller fights, +But in Buena Vista George is bound +To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round. + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you; +There isn't anything I'd rather do +Than get a big piller and hold it tight, +Stand up in bed, and then just fight. + + _D.A. Ellsworth._ + + + + +Little Bateese + + +You bad leetle boy, not moche you care +How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere +Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day +Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay. +W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay! + Leetle Bateese! + +Off on de fiel' you foller de plough, +Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow, +Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall +So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all, +An' you're only five an' a half this fall-- + Leetle Bateese! + +Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight? +Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right; +Say dem to-morrow--ah! dere he go! +Fas' asleep in a minute or so-- +An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow-- + Leetle Bateese. + +Den wake up right away, toute suite, +Lookin' for somethin' more to eat, +Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane, +Soon as they swaller, dey start again; +I wonder your stomach don't get no pain, + Leetle Bateese. + +But see heem now lyin' dere in bed, +Look at de arm onderneat' hees head; +If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year, +I bet he'll be stronger than Louis Cyr +And beat de voyageurs leevin' here-- + Leetle Bateese. + +Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,-- +Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack +On de long portage, any size canoe; +Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do, +For he's got double-joint on hees body too-- + Leetle Bateese. + +But leetle Bateese! please don't forget +We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet. +So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare, +An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere, +For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere-- + Leetle Bateese! + + _W.H. Drummond._ + + + + +Conscience and Future Judgment + + +I sat alone with my conscience, +In a place where time had ceased, +And we talked of my former living +In the land where the years increased; +And I felt I should have to answer +The question it might put to me, +And to face the question and answer +Throughout an eternity. + +The ghosts of forgotten actions +Came floating before my sight, +And things that I thought had perished +Were alive with a terrible might; +And the vision of life's dark record +Was an awful thing to face-- +Alone with my conscience sitting +In that solemnly silent place. + +And I thought of a far-away warning, +Of a sorrow that was to be mine, +In a land that then was the future, +But now is the present time; +And I thought of my former thinking +Of the judgment day to be; +But sitting alone with my conscience +Seemed judgment enough for me. + +And I wondered if there was a future +To this land beyond the grave; +But no one gave me an answer +And no one came to save. +Then I felt that the future was present, +And the present would never go by, +For it was but the thought of a future +Become an eternity. + +Then I woke from my timely dreaming, +And the vision passed away; +And I knew the far-away warning +Was a warning of yesterday. +And I pray that I may not forget it +In this land before the grave, +That I may not cry out in the future, +And no one come to save. + +I have learned a solemn lesson +Which I ought to have known before, +And which, though I learned it dreaming, +I hope to forget no more. + +So I sit alone with my conscience +In the place where the years increase, +And I try to fathom the future, +In the land where time shall cease. +And I know of the future judgment, +How dreadful soe'er it be, +That to sit alone with my conscience +Will be judgment enough for me. + + + + +Dandelion + + +There's a dandy little fellow, +Who dresses all in yellow, +In yellow with an overcoat of green; +With his hair all crisp and curly, +In the springtime bright and early +A-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen. +Through all the bright June weather, +Like a jolly little tramp, +He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road; +Around his yellow feather, +Thy gypsy fireflies camp; +His companions are the wood lark and the toad. + +But at last this little fellow +Doffs his dainty coat of yellow, +And very feebly totters o'er the green; +For he very old is growing +And with hair all white and flowing, +A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen. +Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy, +Golden dancer on the lea! +Older growing, white hair flowing, +Poor little baldhead dandy now is he! + + _Nellie M. Garabrant._ + + + + +The Inventor's Wife + + +It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try + him! +Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come + nigh him. +Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what--ef you want to be sick of your + life, +Jest come and change places with me a spell--for I'm an inventor's wife. +And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, +That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot. +Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; +And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'? +And there was his "Patent Peeler," too--a wonderful thing, I'll say; +But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. +As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such + trash, +Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash. +Law! that don't worry him--not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man-- +He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, +Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, +While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' + our corn. +When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; +Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart--but that was years ago. +He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way-- +I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day; +But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, +And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried. +We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun +But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. +So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright-- +'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. +Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things. +Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?--'Twas full of wheels and springs; +It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; +All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, +That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, +And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. +Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, +But he hadn't mor'n got into it when--dear me! sakes alive! +Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap! +And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! +I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long + night +A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright; +I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin'; +So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.--There was 'Bijah peacefully + lyin', +Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, +But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day. +Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life? +Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife? + + _Mrs. E.T. Corbett._ + + + + +Out in the Snow + + +The snow and the silence came down together, + Through the night so white and so still; +And young folks housed from the bitter weather, + Housed from the storm and the chill-- + +Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, + Coasted the hill-sides under the moon, +Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, + Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon. + +They saw the snow when they rose in the morning, + Glittering ghosts of the vanished night, +Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, + And the day with a frosty pomp was bright. + +Out in the clear, cold, winter weather-- + Out in the winter air, like wine-- +Kate with her dancing scarlet feather, + Bess with her peacock plumage fine, + +Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter, + Frank and Tom with their gay hallo, +And half a score of roisterers after, + Out in the witching, wonderful snow, + +Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, + Righting themselves with a frozen frown, +Grumbling at every snowy tumble; + But young folks know why the snow came down. + + _Louise Chandler Moulton._ + + + + +Give Them the Flowers Now + + +Closed eyes can't see the white roses, + Cold hands can't hold them, you know; +Breath that is stilled cannot gather + The odors that sweet from them blow. +Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, + Its children of earth doth endow; +Life is the time we can help them, + So give them the flowers now! + +Here are the struggles and striving, + Here are the cares and the tears; +Now is the time to be smoothing + The frowns and the furrows and fears. +What to closed eyes are kind sayings? + What to hushed heart is deep vow? +Naught can avail after parting, + So give them the flowers now! + +Just a kind word or a greeting; + Just a warm grasp or a smile-- +These are the flowers that will lighten + The burdens for many a mile. +After the journey is over + What is the use of them; how +Can they carry them who must be carried? + Oh, give them the flowers now! + +Blooms from the happy heart's garden, + Plucked in the spirit of love; +Blooms that are earthly reflections + Of flowers that blossom above. +Words cannot tell what a measure + Of blessing such gifts will allow +To dwell in the lives of many, + So give them the flowers now! + + _Leigh M. Hodges._ + + + + +The Lost Occasion + +(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.) + + +Some die too late and some too soon, +At early morning, heat of noon, +Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, +Whom the rich heavens did so endow +With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, +With all the massive strength that fills +Thy home-horizon's granite hills, +With rarest gifts of heart and head +From manliest stock inherited-- +New England's stateliest type of man, +In port and speech Olympian; +Whom no one met, at first, but took +A second awed and wondering look +(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece +On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece); +Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, +The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, +With power reserved at need to reach +The Roman forum's loftiest speech, +Sweet with persuasion, eloquent +In passion, cool in argument, +Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes +As fell the Norse god's hammer blows. +Crushing as if with Talus' flail +Through Error's logic-woven mail, +And failing only when they tried +The adamant of the righteous side,-- +Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved +Of old friends, by the new deceived, +Too soon for us, too soon for thee, +Beside thy lonely Northern sea, +Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, +Laid wearily down thy august head. + +Thou shouldst have lived to feel below +Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,-- +The late-sprung mine that underlaid +Thy sad concessions vainly made. +Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall +The star-flag of the Union fall, +And armed Rebellion pressing on +The broken lines of Washington! +No stronger voice than thine had then +Called out the utmost might of men, +To make the Union's charter free +And strengthen law by liberty. +How had that stern arbitrament +To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, +Shaming ambition's paltry prize +Before thy disillusioned eyes; +Breaking the spell about thee wound +Like the green withes that Samson bound; +Redeeming, in one effort grand, +Thyself and thy imperiled land! +Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, +O sleeper by the Northern sea, +The gates of opportunity! +God fills the gaps of human need, +Each crisis brings its word and deed. +Wise men and strong we did not lack; +But still, with memory turning back, +In the dark hours we thought of thee, +And thy lone grave beside the sea. + +Above that grave the east winds blow, +And from the marsh-lands drifting slow +The sea-fog comes, with evermore +The wave-wash of a lonely shore, +And sea-bird's melancholy cry, +As Nature fain would typify +The sadness of a closing scene, +The loss of that which should have been. +But, where thy native mountains bare +Their foreheads to diviner air, +Fit emblem of enduring fame, +One lofty summit keeps thy name. +For thee the cosmic forces did +The rearing of that pyramid, +The prescient ages shaping with +Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. +Sunrise and sunset lay thereon +With hands of light their benison, +The stars of midnight pause to set +Their jewels in its coronet. +And evermore that mountain mass +Seems climbing from the shadowy pass +To light, as if to manifest +Thy nobler self, they life at best! + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +The Flower of Liberty + + +What flower is this that greets the morn, +Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? +With burning star and flaming band +It kindles all the sunset land: +O tell us what its name may be,-- +Is this the Flower of Liberty? + It is the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +In savage Nature's far abode +Its tender seed our fathers sowed; +The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, +Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, +Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see +The full-blown Flower of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +Behold its streaming rays unite, +One mingling flood of braided light-- +The red that fires the Southern rose, +With spotless white from Northern snows, +And, spangled o'er its azure, see +The sister Stars of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +The blades of heroes fence it round, +Where'er it springs is holy ground; +From tower and dome its glories spread; +It waves where lonely sentries tread; +It makes the land as ocean free, +And plants an empire on the sea! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, +Shall ever float on dome and tower, +To all their heavenly colors true, +In blackening frost or crimson dew,-- +And God love us as we love thee, +Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +The Lamb + + + Little lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee, +Gave thee life, and made thee feed +By the stream and o'er the mead? +Gave thee clothing of delight,-- +Softest clothing, woolly, bright? +Gave thee such a tender voice, +Making all the vales rejoice? + Little lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + + Little lamb, I'll tell thee; + Little lamb, I'll tell thee; +He is called by thy name, +For he calls himself a lamb. +He is meek and He is mild; +He became a little child: +I a child, and thou a lamb, +We are called by His name. + Little lamb, God bless thee! + Little lamb, God bless thee! + + _William Blake._ + + + + +The Roll Call + + +"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried; + "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, + From the lips of the soldier standing near, +And "Here" was the answer the next replied. + +"Cyrus Drew!"--then a silence fell-- + This time no answer followed the call, + Only the rear man had seen him fall, +Killed or wounded he could not tell. + +There they stood in the failing light, + These men of battle, with grave dark looks, + As plain to be read as open books, +While slowly gathered the shades of night. + +The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood, + And down in the corn, where the poppies grew + Were redder stains than the poppies knew +And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. + +"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came + Two stalwart soldiers into the line, + Bearing between them Herbert Kline, +Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. + +"Ezra Kerr!"--and a voice said "Here!" + "Hiram Kerr!"--but no man replied. + They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, +And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. + +"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke; + "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; + "Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead, +Just after the enemy wavered and broke. + +"Close by the roadside his body lies; + I paused a moment and gave him a drink, + He murmured his mother's name I think, +And Death came with it and closed his eyes." + +'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear-- + For that company's roll when called that night, + Of a hundred men who went into the fight, +Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" + + _N.G. Shepherd._ + + + + +A Prayer for a Little Home + + +God send us a little home +To come back to when we roam-- +Low walls and fluted tiles, +Wide windows, a view for miles; +Red firelight and deep chairs; +Small white beds upstairs; +Great talk in little nooks; +Dim colors, rows of books; +One picture on each wall; +Not many things at all. +God send us a little ground-- +Tall trees standing round, +Homely flowers in brown sod, +Overhead, Thy stars, O God! +God bless, when winds blow, +Our home and all we know. + + _London "Spectator."_ + + + + +I Have Drank My Last Glass + + +No, comrades, I thank you--not any for me; +My last chain is riven--henceforward I'm free! +I will go to my home and my children to-night +With no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight; +And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife +To forgive me the wreck I have made of her life. +_I have never refused you before?_ Let that pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace, +With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face; +Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand, +And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand; +See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees, +Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze. +Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;-- + But I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now +That a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow-- +When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride, +Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side; +But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky +Bidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye." +And I'll do it, God helping! Your _smile_ I let pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late, +For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait +On a fellow who's left every cent in their till, +And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill. +Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured! +And I begged for one glass--just one would have cured,-- +But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair, +I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer; +From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down, +And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown, +And she prayed--prayed for _bread_, just a poor crust of bread, +For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead! +And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas! + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, +Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold, +There, on the bare floor, asked God to bless _me_! +And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see, +I _believe_ what I ask for!" Then sobered, I crept +Away from the house; and that night, when I slept, +Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys + I have drank my last glass. + +My darling child saved me! Her faith and her love +Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above! +I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race, +And sober I'll go to my last resting place; +And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank God +No _drunkard_ lies under the daisy-strewn sod! +Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + + + + +Highland Mary + + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o' Montgomery, +Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! +There simmer first unfauld her robes, + And there the langest tarry; +For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + +How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn's blossom, +As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasp'd her to my bosom! +The golden hours, on angel wings, + Flew o'er me and my dearie; +For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary! + +Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, + Our parting was fu' tender; +And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder; +But, oh, fell death's untimely frost, + That nipp'd my flower sae early! +Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + +Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, + I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly! +And closed for aye the sparkling glance + That dwalt on me sae kindly! +And mouldering now in silent dust, + That heart that lo'ed me dearly; +But still within my bosom's core + Shall live my Highland Mary! + + _Robert Burns._ + + + + +A Night with a Wolf + + +Little one, come to my knee! + Hark, how the rain is pouring +Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, + And the wind in the woods a-roaring! + +Hush, my darling, and listen, + Then pay for the story with kisses; +Father was lost in the pitch-black night, + In just such a storm as this is! + +High up on the lonely mountains, + Where the wild men watched and waited +Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, + And I on my path belated. + +The rain and the night together + Came down, and the wind came after, +Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, + And snapping many a rafter. + +I crept along in the darkness, + Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,-- +Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, + And a sheltering rock behind it. + +There, from the blowing and raining + Crouching, I sought to hide me: +Something rustled, two green eyes shone, + And a wolf lay down beside me. + +Little one, be not frightened; + I and the wolf together, +Side by side, through the long, long night + Hid from the awful weather. + +His wet fur pressed against me; + Each of us warmed the other; +Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, + That beast and man was brother. + +And when the falling forest + No longer crashed in warning, +Each of us went from our hiding-place + Forth in the wild, wet morning. + +Darling, kiss me in payment! + Hark, how the wind is roaring; +Father's house is a better place + When the stormy rain is pouring! + + _Bayard Taylor._ + + + + +She Was a Phantom of Delight + + +She was a Phantom of delight +When first she gleamed upon my sight; +A lovely Apparition sent +To be a moment's ornament; +Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; +Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; +But all things else about her drawn +From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; +A dancing Shape, an Image gay, +To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. + +I saw her upon nearer view, +A Spirit, yet a Woman too! +Her household motions light and free, +And steps of virgin-liberty; +A countenance in which did meet +Sweet records, promises as sweet; +A Creature not too bright or good +For human nature's daily food; +For transient sorrows, simple wiles, +Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. + +And now I see with eye serene +The very pulse of the machine; +A Being breathing thoughtful breath, +A Traveler between life and death; +The reason firm, the temperate will, +Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; +A perfect Woman, nobly planned, +To warn, to comfort, and command; +And yet a Spirit still, and bright +With something of angelic light. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +The Rhodora + +(_On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower_) + + +In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, +I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, +Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, +To please the desert and the sluggish brook. +The purple petals, fallen in the pool, +Made the black water with their beauty gay; +Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, +And court the flower that cheapens his array. +Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why +This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, +Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, +Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: +Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! +I never thought to ask, I never knew: +But, in my simple ignorance, suppose +The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +There Was a Boy + + +There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs +And islands of Winander!--many a time, +At evening, when the earliest stars began +To move along the edges of the hills, +Rising or setting, would he stand alone, +Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; +And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands +Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth +Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, +Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, +That they might answer him,--And they would shout +Across the watery vale, and shout again, +Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, +And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud +Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild +Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause +Of silence such as baffled his best skill, +Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung +Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise +Has carried far into his heart the voice +Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene +Would enter unawares into his mind +With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, +Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received +Into the bosom of the steady lake. +This boy was taken from his mates, and died +In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. +Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale +Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs +Upon a slope above the village-school; +And through that church-yard when my way has led +On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there +A long half-hour together I have stood +Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies! + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +The Quangle Wangle's Hat + + +On the top of the Crumpetty Tree + The Quangle Wangle sat, +But his face you could not see, + On account of his Beaver Hat. +For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, +With ribbons and bibbons on every side, +And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, +So that nobody ever could see the face + Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +The Quangle Wangle said + To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, +"Jam, and jelly, and bread + Are the best of food for me! +But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree +The plainer than ever it seems to me +That very few people come this way +And that life on the whole is far from gay!" + Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +But there came to the Crumpetty Tree + Mr. and Mrs. Canary; +And they said, "Did ever you see + Any spot so charmingly airy? +May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? +Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! +Oh, please let us come and build a nest +Of whatever material suits you best, + Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" + +And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree + Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; +The Snail and the Bumblebee, + The Frog and the Fimble Fowl +(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg); +And all of them said, "We humbly beg +We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,-- +Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! + Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" + +And the Golden Grouse came there, + And the Pobble who has no toes, +And the small Olympian bear, + And the Dong with a luminous nose. +And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, +And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, +And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,-- +All came and built on the lovely Hat + Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +And the Quangle Wangle said + To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, +"When all these creatures move + What a wonderful noise there'll be!" +And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon +They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, +On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, +And all were as happy as happy could be, +With the Quangle Wangle Quee. + + _Edward Lear._ + + + + +The Singing Leaves + + +I + +"What fairings will ye that I bring?" + Said the King to his daughters three; +"For I to Vanity Fair am boun, + Now say what shall they be?" + +Then up and spake the eldest daughter, + That lady tall and grand: +"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, + And gold rings for my hand." + +Thereafter spake the second daughter, + That was both white and red: +"For me bring silks that will stand alone, + And a gold comb for my head." + +Then came the turn of the least daughter, + That was whiter than thistle-down, +And among the gold of her blithesome hair + Dim shone the golden crown. + +"There came a bird this morning, + And sang 'neath my bower eaves, +Till I dreamed, as his music made me, + 'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'" + +Then the brow of the King swelled crimson + With a flush of angry scorn: +"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, + And chosen as ye were born, + +"But she, like a thing of peasant race, + That is happy binding the sheaves"; +Then he saw her dead mother in her face, + And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves." + + +II + +He mounted and rode three days and nights + Till he came to Vanity Fair, +And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, + But no Singing Leaves were there. + +Then deep in the greenwood rode he, + And asked of every tree, +"Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf, + I pray you give it me!" + +But the trees all kept their counsel, + And never a word said they, +Only there sighed from the pine-tops + A music of seas far away. + +Only the pattering aspen + Made a sound of growing rain, +That fell ever faster and faster. + Then faltered to silence again. + +"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page + That would win both hose and shoon, +And will bring to me the Singing Leaves + If they grow under the moon?" + +Then lightly turned him Walter the page, + By the stirrup as he ran: +"Now pledge you me the truesome word + Of a king and gentleman, + +"That you will give me the first, first thing + You meet at your castle-gate, +And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, + Or mine be a traitor's fate." + +The King's head dropt upon his breast + A moment, as it might be; +'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said, + "My faith I plight to thee." + +Then Walter took from next his heart + A packet small and thin, +"Now give you this to the Princess Anne, + The Singing Leaves are therein." + + +III + +As the King rode in at his castle-gate, + A maiden to meet him ran, +And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried + Together, the Princess Anne. + +"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he, + "And woe, but they cost me dear!" +She took the packet, and the smile + Deepened down beneath the tear. + +It deepened down till it reached her heart, + And then gushed up again, +And lighted her tears as the sudden sun + Transfigures the summer rain. + +And the first Leaf, when it was opened, + Sang: "I am Walter the page, +And the songs I sing 'neath thy window + Are my only heritage." + +And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land + That is neither on earth nor sea, +My lute and I are lords of more + Than thrice this kingdom's fee." + +And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!" + And ever it sang, "Be mine!" +Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, + And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!" + +At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, + At the second she turned aside, +At the third,'twas as if a lily flushed + With a rose's red heart's tide. + +"Good counsel gave the bird," said she, + "I have my hope thrice o'er, +For they sing to my very heart," she said, + "And it sings to them evermore." + +She brought to him her beauty and truth, + But and broad earldoms three, +And he made her queen of the broader lands + He held of his lute in fee. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +Awakening + + +Never yet was a springtime, + Late though lingered the snow, +That the sap stirred not at the whisper + Of the south wind, sweet and low; +Never yet was a springtime + When the buds forgot to blow. + +Ever the wings of the summer + Are folded under the mold; +Life that has known no dying + Is Love's to have and to hold, +Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter! + The song! the green and the gold! + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness + +_(From "King Henry VIII")_ + + +Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth +The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, +And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, +And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely +His greatness is a-ripening,--nips his root, +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, +This many summers in a sea of glory, +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride +At length broke under me, and now has left me +Weary, and old with service, to the mercy +Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, +More pangs and fears than wars or women have; +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, +Never to hope again. + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +The Newsboy + + +Want any papers, Mister? + Wish you'd buy 'em of me-- +Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, + An' bizness dull, you see. +Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, + An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat, +None on 'em earning money-- + What do you think of that? + +_Couldn't Dad work?_ Why yes, Boss, + He's workin' for Gov'ment now-- +They give him his board for nothin', + All along of a drunken row, +_An' Mam?_ well, she's in the poor-house, + Been there a year or so, +So I'm taking care of the others, + Doing as well as I know. + +_Tibby my sister?_ Not much, Boss, + She's a kitten, a real Maltee; +I picked her up last summer-- + Some boys was a drownin' of she; +Throw'd her inter a hogshead; + But a p'liceman came along, +So I jest grabbed up the kitten + And put for home, right strong. + +And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby + Hain't never quarreled yet-- +They sleep in my bed in winter + An' keeps me warm--you bet! +Mam's cat sleeps in the corner, + With a piller made of her paw-- +Can't she growl like a tiger + If anyone comes to our straw! + +_Oughtn't to live so?_ Why, Mister, + What's a feller to do? +Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, + Seems as if each on 'em knew-- +They'll all three cuddle around me, + Till I get cheery, and say: +Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, + An' money an' clothes, too, some day. + +But if I do git rich, Boss, + (An' a lecturin' chap one night +Said newsboys could be Presidents + If only they acted right); +So, if I was President, Mister, + The very first thing I'd do, +I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby + A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too! + +None o' your scraps an' leavin's, + But a good square meal for all three; +If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, + That shows you don't know _me_. +So 'ere's your papers--come take one, + Gimme a lift if you can-- +For now you've heard my story, +You see I'm a fam'ly man! + + _E.T. Corbett._ + + + + +Parting of Marmion and Douglas + + +Not far advanced was morning day, +When Marmion did his troop array + To Surrey's camp to ride; +He had safe conduct for his band, +Beneath the royal seal and hand, + And Douglas gave a guide: +The ancient Earl, with stately grace, +Would Clara on her palfrey place, +And whispered in an undertone, +"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." +The train from out the castle drew, +But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.-- +"Though something I might plain," he said, +"Of cold respect to stranger guest, +Sent hither by your king's behest, +While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, +Part we in friendship from your land, +And, noble Earl, receive my hand."-- +But Douglas round him drew his cloak, +Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- +"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still +Be open, at my sovereign's will, +To each one whom he lists, howe'er +Unmeet to be the owner's peer. +My castles are my king's alone, +From turret to foundation-stone,-- +The hand of Douglas is his own; +And never shall in friendly grasp +The hand of such as Marmion clasp." + +Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, +And shook his very frame for ire, + And--"This to me!" he said,-- +"An't were not for thy hoary beard, +Such hand as Marmion's had not spared + To cleave the Douglas' head! +And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, +He who does England's message here, + Even in thy pitch of pride, +Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, +(Nay, never look upon your lord, +And lay your hands upon your sword,) + I tell thee thou'rt defied! +And if thou said'st I am not peer +To any lord in Scotland here, +Lowland or Highland, far or near, + Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"-- +On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage +O'ercame the ashen hue of age: +Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then +To beard the lion in his den, + The Douglas in his hall? +And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? +No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! +Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! + Let the portcullis fall."-- +Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- +And dashed the rowels in his steed; +Like arrow through the archway sprung; +The ponderous grate behind him rung; +To pass there was such scanty room, +The bars, descending, razed his plume. + +The steed along the drawbridge flies. +Just as it trembled on the rise; +Not lighter does the swallow skim +Along the smooth lake's level brim; +And when Lord Marmion reached his band, +He halts, and turns with clenched hand, +And shout of loud defiance pours, +And shook his gauntlet at the towers, +"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" +But soon he reined his fury's pace: +"A royal messenger he came, +Though most unworthy of the name. + + * * * * * + +St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! +Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, +I thought to slay him where he stood. +'Tis pity of him too," he cried; +"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: +I warrant him a warrior tried." +With this his mandate he recalls, +And slowly seeks his castle halls. + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + + + +The Engineer's Story + + +Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. +Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. +What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, +She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell." + +I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago +On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. +There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, +With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams. + +'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, +An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, +Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, +With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below. + +Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, +Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, +Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, +Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. + +I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, +Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, +When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. +Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. + +I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, +Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, +An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, +An' the river roared below us--I shall hear her till I die! + +Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge +An' I found her--dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge +Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, +An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill! + +So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be-- +Now we're married--she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. +An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell-- +She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell." + + _Eugene J. Hall._ + + + + +Small Beginnings + + +A traveler on the dusty road + Strewed acorns on the lea; +And one took root and sprouted up, + And grew into a tree. +Love sought its shade, at evening time, + To breathe his early vows; +And age was pleased, in heats of noon, + To bask beneath its boughs; +The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, + The birds sweet music bore; +It stood a glory in its place, + A blessing evermore. + +A little spring had lost its way + Amid the grass and fern, +A passing stranger scooped a well + Where weary men might turn; +He walled it in, and hung with care + A ladle at the brink; +He thought not of the deed he did, + But judged that all might drink. +He paused again, and lo! the well, + By summer never dried, +Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues + And saved a life beside. + +A dreamer dropped a random thought; + 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; +A simple fancy of the brain, + But strong in being true. +It shone upon a genial mind, + And, lo! its light became +A lamp of life, a beacon ray, + A monitory flame; +The thought was small, its issue great; + A watch-fire on the hill; +It shed its radiance far adown, + And cheers the valley still. + +A nameless man, amid a crowd + That thronged the daily mart, +Let fall a word of Hope and Love, + Unstudied from the heart; +A whisper on the tumult thrown, + A transitory breath-- +It raised a brother from the dust, + It saved a soul from death. +O germ! O fount! O word of love! + O thought at random cast! +Ye were but little at the first, + But mighty at the last. + + _Charles Mackay._ + + + + +Rain on the Roof + + +When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, +And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, +'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, +And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. + +Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, +And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; +And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, +As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. + +There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, +To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. +I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain +Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. + +Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, +And her bright-eyed, cherub brother--a serene, angelic pair-- +Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, +As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. + +And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, +I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, +I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, +And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. + +There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, +In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, +As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, +Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain! + + _Coates Kinney._ + + + + +Gunga Din + +The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often +one of the most devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much +appreciated by the men. + + +You may talk o' gin an' beer +When you're quartered safe out 'ere, +An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; +But if it comes to slaughter +You will do your work on water, +An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. +Now in Injia's sunny clime, +Where I used to spend my time +A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, +Of all them black-faced crew +The finest man I knew +Was our regimental _bhisti_, Gunga Din. + He was "Din! Din! Din! + You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! + Hi! _Slippy hitherao!_ + Water, get it! _Panee lao!_ + You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!" + +The uniform 'e wore +Was nothin' much before, +An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, +For a twisty piece o' rag +An' a goatskin water bag +Was all the field-equipment 'e could find, +When the sweatin' troop-train lay +In a sidin' through the day, +Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, +We shouted "Harry By!" +Till our throats were bricky-dry, +Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, + It was "Din! Din! Din! + You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? + You put some _juldee_ in it, + Or I'll _marrow_ you this minute + If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" + +'E would dot an' carry one +Till the longest day was done, +An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. +If we charged or broke or cut, +You could bet your bloomin' nut, +'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. +With 'is _mussick_ on 'is back, +'E would skip with our attack, +An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." +An' for all 'is dirty 'ide +'E was white, clear white, inside +When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! + It was "Din! Din! Din!" + With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. + When the cartridges ran out, + You could 'ear the front-files shout: + "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" + +I sha'n't forgit the night +When I dropped be'ind the fight +With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. +I was chokin' mad with thirst, +An' the man that spied me first +Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. +'E lifted up my 'ead, +An' 'e plugged me where I bled, +An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water--green: +It was crawlin' and it stunk, +But of all the drinks I've drunk, +I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. + It was "Din! Din! Din! + 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; + 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: + For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!" + +'E carried me away +To where a _dooli_ lay, +An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. +'E put me safe inside, +An', just before 'e died: +"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. +So I'll meet 'im later on +In the place where 'e is gone-- +Where it's always double drill and no canteen; +'E'll be squattin' on the coals +Givin' drink to pore damned souls, +An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! + Din! Din! Din! + You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! + Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, + By the livin' Gawd that made you, + You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +"Panee lao"--Bring water swiftly. + +"Harry Ry"-The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!" + +"Put some juldee in it"--Be quick. + +"Marrow you"--Hit you. + +"Mussick"--Water-skin. + + + + +Warren's Address to the American Soldiers + +(_Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775_) + + +Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! +Will ye give it up to slaves? +Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? +What's the mercy despots feel? +Hear it in that battle peal! +Read it on yon bristling steel! + Ask it--ye who will. + +Fear ye foes who kill for hire? +Will ye to your homes retire? +Look behind you! They're afire! + And, before you, see +Who have done it! From the vale +On they come! and will ye quail? +Leaden rain and iron hail + Let their welcome be! + +In the God of battles trust! +Die we may--and die we must; +But, O where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, +As where Heaven its dews shall shed +On the martyred patriot's bed, +And the rocks shall raise their head, + Of his deeds to tell! + + _John Pierpont._ + + + + +Mad River + +IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS + + +_Traveler_ + +Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, + Mad River, O Mad River? +Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour +Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er + This rocky shelf forever? + +What secret trouble stirs thy breast? + Why all this fret and flurry? +Dost thou not know that what is best +In this too restless world is rest + From overwork and worry? + + +_The River_ + +What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, + O stranger from the city? +Is it perhaps some foolish freak +Of thine, to put the words I speak + Into a plaintive ditty? + + +_Traveler_ + +Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, + With all its flowing numbers, +And in a voice as fresh and strong +As thine is, sing it all day long, + And hear it in my slumbers. + + +_The River_ + +A brooklet nameless and unknown + Was I at first, resembling +A little child, that all alone +Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, + Irresolute and trembling. + +Later, by wayward fancies led, + For the wide world I panted; +Out of the forest dark and dread +Across the open fields I fled, + Like one pursued and haunted. + +I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, + My voice exultant blending +With thunder from the passing cloud, +The wind, the forest bent and bowed, + The rush of rain descending. + +I heard the distant ocean call, + Imploring and entreating; +Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall +I plunged, and the loud waterfall + Made answer to the greeting. + +And now, beset with many ills, + A toilsome life I follow; +Compelled to carry from the hills +These logs to the impatient mills + Below there in the hollow. + +Yet something ever cheers and charms + The rudeness of my labors; +Daily I water with these arms +The cattle of a hundred farms, + And have the birds for neighbors. + +Men call me Mad, and well they may, + When, full of rage and trouble, +I burst my banks of sand and clay, +And sweep their wooden bridge away, + Like withered reeds or stubble. + +Now go and write thy little rhyme, + As of thine own creating. +Thou seest the day is past its prime; +I can no longer waste my time; + The mills are tired of waiting. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +When Papa Was a Boy + + +When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find +In all the country round about a child so quick to mind. +His mother never called but once, and he was always there; +He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair. +He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise, +And never in his life was known to fight with other boys. +He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight, +And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late. + +He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old, +And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told. +He never, never thought of play until his work was done, +He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun. +He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor, +And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door. +"But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy, +"How he could never do these things and really be a boy." + + _E.A. Brininstool._ + + + + +Which Shall It Be? + + +"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" +I looked at John,--John looked at me, +(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet +As well as though my locks were jet.) +And when I found that I must speak, +My voice seemed strangely low and weak; +"Tell me again what Robert said"; +And then I listening bent my head. +"This is his letter: + 'I will give +A house and land while you shall live, +If, in return, from out your seven, +One child to me for aye is given.'" + +I looked at John's old garments worn, +I thought of all that John had borne +Of poverty, and work, and care, +Which I, though willing, could not share; +Of seven hungry mouths to feed, +Of seven little children's need, +And then of this. + "Come John," said I, +"We'll choose among them as they lie +Asleep"; so walking hand in hand, +Dear John and I surveyed our band. + +First to the cradle lightly stepped, +Where Lilian, the baby, slept; +Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, +A glory 'gainst the pillow white; +Softly her father stooped to lay +His rough hand down in loving way, +When dream or whisper made her stir, +And huskily he said, "Not _her_." +We stooped beside the trundle-bed, +And one long ray of lamp-light shed +Athwart the boyish faces there, +In sleep so pitiful and fair. +I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek +A tear undried; ere John could speak, +"He's but a baby too," said I, +And kissed him as we hurried by. +Pale, patient Robby's angel face +Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; +"No, for a thousand crowns not him," +He whispered, while our eyes were dim. +Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, +Turbulent, reckless, idle one,-- +Could _he_ be spared? "Nay, He who gave +Bids us befriend him to the grave; +Only a mother's heart can be +Patient enough for such as he; +And so," said John, "I would not dare +To send him from her bedside prayer." +Then stole we softly up above, +And knelt by Mary, child of love; +"Perhaps for _her_ 'twould better be," +I said to John. Quite silently +He lifted up a curl, that lay +Across her cheek in wilful way, +And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee"; +The while my heart beat audibly. +Only one more, our eldest lad, +Trusty and truthful, good and glad,-- +So like his father: "No, John, no; +I cannot, will not, let him go!" + +And so we wrote, in courteous way, +We could not give one child away; +And afterward toil lighter seemed, +Thinking of that of which we dreamed; +Happy, in truth, that not one face +We missed from its accustomed place; +Thankful to work for all the seven, +Trusting then to One in heaven. + + _Ethel Lynn Beers._ + + + + +The Battle of Bunker's Hill + + +It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, +When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; +Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, +But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; +And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, +"We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!" + +"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" +The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, +But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, +A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; +So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; +We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!" + +See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky! +The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by; +The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied, +For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side; +And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill, +With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill; +But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply, +For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh! + +Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands +Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands; +Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, +With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray. +But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, +Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers, +Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part, +And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart! + +Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf +Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off; +With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array, +Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! +And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, +Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep. + +And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance: +We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; +We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; +Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing; +But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,-- +As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb. + +And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, +The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; +When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst +From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed. +Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; +Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire. + +Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel, +And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; +And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,-- +"Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!" +And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, +As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land. + +Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes, +And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; +And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies, +We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise, +Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight, +Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height. + +What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave +No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave! +What though the day to us was lost!--upon that deathless page +The everlasting charter stands for every land and age! + +For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust, +And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; +While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, +O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore, +Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies, +He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise. + + _F.S. Cozzens._ + + + + +Health and Wealth + + +We squander health in search of wealth; + We scheme and toil and save; +Then squander wealth in search of health, + But only find a grave. +We live, and boast of what we own; +We die, and only get a stone. + + + + +The Heartening + + +It may be that the words I spoke + To cheer him on his way, +To him were vain, but I myself + Was braver all that day. + + _Winifred Webb._ + + + + +Billy's Rose + + +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell: +There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; +Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air +Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. + +In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, +Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, +While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, +Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb. + +Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, +Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; +Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, +Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door. + +Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told +How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, +Where, when all the pain was over,--where, when all the tears were shed,-- +He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head. + +Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, +How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, +Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, +And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. + +This was Nell's idea of heaven,--just a bit of what she'd heard, +With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. +But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, +For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land. + +"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell, +Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; +I can see them there with Jesus--He is playing with them, too! +Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you." + +She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent +In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; +Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows +Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close. + +But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, +"You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. +You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill; +But I'll come to you, dear brother,--yes, I promise that I will. + +"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; +I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. +They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, +While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." + +"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, +Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. +But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away +Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day. + +"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out +To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, +And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, +Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand. + +"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as + those, +And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. +I have never seen them since, dear--how I wish that I had one! +Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun." + +Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, +On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. +Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, +Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn. + +When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, +All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. +She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, +But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet. + +She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; +She had found the famous meadow--it was wrapped in cruel snow; +Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade +Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed; + +With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, +And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. +Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; +And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb. + +"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,--just a rose to take to Bill!" +And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; +And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; +As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet. + +Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, +And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; +But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, +And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize. + +Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, +From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play. +Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, +And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand. + +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell; +Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,-- +That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, +And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"? + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +The Old Actor's Story + + +Mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard; +There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; +It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; +The scene was a ship, and the actors--were myself and my new-wed wife. + +You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; +I'm old, you know, and I wander--it's a way with old women and men, +For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, +And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. + +The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, +But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. +We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, +When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. + +We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down +With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; +We played the lovers together--we were leading lady and gent-- +And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. + +The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, +And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. +How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"! +But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow. + +We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, +When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. +We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,-- +Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. + +Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; +Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,-- +Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; +But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. + +We got an offer for Melbourne,--got it that very week. +Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, +The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot +Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot. + +We hadn't a friend in England--we'd only ourselves to please-- +And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. +We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; +We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. + +But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, +When misery came upon us,--came in a hideous form. +My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad +That the doctor said she was dying,--I thought 'twould have sent me mad,-- + +Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, +And the nearest land was hundreds--aye, thousands--of miles away. +She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, +So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. + +She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,-- +She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. +I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, +Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless--my wife was dead! + +Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, +For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. +I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, +And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried. + +They locked me away from my fellows,--put me in cruel chains, +It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. +I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent +To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. + +I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, +And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, +Beat at my prison panels, and then--O God!--and then +I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. + +I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, +And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; +Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, +And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood. + +I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, +And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack +I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, +Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. + +I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! +Die in this burning prison!"--but I caught no answering cry. +Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, +And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. + +I was free--with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; +I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath +Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, +And then--O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. + +There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; +The flames flung a smile on her features,--a horrible, lurid light. +God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; +I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died. + +In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; +I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; +Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? +The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. + +I cursed like a madman raving--I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" +They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; +They had left us alone to perish--forgotten me living--and she +Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. + +I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; +I seized her in spite of my fetters,--fear gave a giant's will. +God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the + wreck +Up--up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. + +We'd a moment of life together,--a moment of life, the time +For one last word to each other,--'twas a moment supreme, sublime. +From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, +And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife! + +It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, +When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, +Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; +They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. + +I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she +Tore with new strength at my fetters--God helped her, and I was free; +Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. +Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. + +We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by +Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. +We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, +But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! + + _George B. Sims._ + + + + +The Boy Who Didn't Pass + + +A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, +There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; +He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear +Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; +He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, +And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass. + +In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, +But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; +Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, +But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. +All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, +And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass. + +How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, +For they've left him with the dullards--gone ahead a half a year, +And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, +But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. +He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too-- +The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through. + +Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, +And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night +With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, +Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, +And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, +He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass. + + + + +The Station-Master's Story + + +Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; +I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. +This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; +I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, +I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain +Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. +One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, +And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here. + +I was on at the box down yonder--that's where we turn the mails, +And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; +The side's for the other traffic--the luggage and local slows. +It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. +I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, +Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; +But I've worked the points half-sleeping--and once I slept outright, +Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright. + +Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate +Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; +And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame +As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. +I could see the bloody wreckage--I could see the mangled slain-- +And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. +That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought +Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought. + +That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, +My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, +That Johnny had made his mind up--he'd be a pointsman, too. +"He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." +I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; +Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. +I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, +For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. + +But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, +She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep-- +It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, +You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill. +There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"-- +My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. +But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I, +"I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by." + +Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; +She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. +She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, +And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late. +So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key-- +For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. +He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good-- +He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should. + +It was noon when the missus started,--her train went by my box; +She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, +I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, +Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. +But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, +Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid; +For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie +In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die. + +The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, +Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. +For a time the box had vanished--I'd worked like a mere machine-- +My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen, +With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, +Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; +There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight +That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. + +It was all in one awful moment--I saw that the boy was lost: +He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed; +The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, +And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. +I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, +And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; +On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, +And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine! + +'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?-- +Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew-- +"What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear +On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. +Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. +"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick; +The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, +I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar. + +Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face-- +I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. +Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail +To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! +Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes. +How can I look--his father--on that which there mangled lies? +That voice!--O merciful Heaven!--'tis the child's, and he calls my name! +I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. + +I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; +The place reeled round, and I fainted,--swooned with the sudden joy. +But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed +With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, +That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, +And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad-- +She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, +And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through. + +She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; +The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found +With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: +I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. +Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? +Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? +If I hadn't 'a' done my duty--had I ventured to disobey-- +My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day. + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +Hark, Hark! the Lark + +_(From "Cymbeline")_ + + +Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, + And Phoebus 'gins arise, +His steeds to water at those springs + On chaliced flowers that lies; +And winking Mary-buds begin + To ope their golden eyes: +With every thing that pretty is, + My lady sweet, arise! + Arise, arise! + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +Tommy's Prayer + + +In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, +Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; +He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born +Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. + +He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago +Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. +He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, +But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. + +There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, +Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life + bright; +Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love-- +For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. + +'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; +Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, +Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, +Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. + +Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came-- +Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. +Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, +And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. + +'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, +All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; +"So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; +Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" + +"My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, +For it makes me feel so happy--sing me something, anything," +Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, +But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'" + +Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, +Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; +But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, +And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. + +Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word +As it fell from "Singing Jessie"--was it true, what he had heard? +And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" +And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. + +"Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, +And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." +"Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, +When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?" + +So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School +All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, +Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, +Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. + +Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, +Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; +And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, +For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. + +"Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, +"Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; +So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, +And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:-- + +"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, +That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, +And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day +And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. + +"Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, +And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; +And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, +In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. + +"Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, +For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; +And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, +Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you? + +"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, +And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; +I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise-- +Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys? + +"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, +For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, +How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! +Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!" + +Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, +And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; +Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, +Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. + +Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face +As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; +For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, +And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. + +He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, +He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; +But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, +Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care. + +In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, +She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, +And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold-- +He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. + +Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come +To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home +Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, +And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. + + _John F. Nicholls._ + + + + +The Two Pictures + + +It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, +Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, +The air was redolent with perfumed balm, +And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, +Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. +An artist, weary of his narrow room +Within the city's pent and heated walls, +Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, +Until, remembering his neglected themes, +He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. +These led him through a rustic, winding lane, +Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, +And overarched by trees of noblest growth. +But when at last he reached the farther end +Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld +A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, +That weariness and haste were both obscured, +It was a child--a young and lovely child +With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, +And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, +Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. +Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, +No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, +No line of bitter grief or dark despair, +Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, +Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, +And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, +The artist seized his pencil, and there traced +In soft and tender lines that image fair: +Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, +A word of holiest import--Innocence. + +Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, +Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, +But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, +While all men spake in words of praise his name; +For he had traced full many a noble work +Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, +And drawn them from the baser things of earth, +Toward the light and purity of heaven. +One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, +He chanced upon the picture of the child, +Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, +And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, +A ray of inspiration seemed to dart +Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, +Placed it before his easel, and with care +That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, +Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, +Until all seemed to glow with life divine-- +'Twas innocence personified. But still +The artist could not pause. He needs must have +A meet companion for his fairest theme; +And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, +Through miry courts of misery and guilt, +Seeking a face which at the last was found. +Within a prison cell there crouched a man-- +Nay, rather say a fiend--with countenance seamed +And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; +Each mark of degradation might be traced, +And every scene of horror he had known, +And every wicked deed that he had done, +Were visibly written on his lineaments; +Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, +A parricide within a murderer's cell. + +Here then the artist found him; and with hand +Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, +Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, +And also wrote beneath it just one word, +A word of darkest import--it was Vice. +Then with some inspiration not his own, +Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, +And wake it to repentance e'er too late, +The artist told the tale of that bright morn, +Placed the two pictured faces side by side, +And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek +That echoed through those vaulted corridors, +Like to the cries that issue from the lips +Of souls forever doomed to woe, +Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, +And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. +"I was that child once--I, yes, even I-- +In the gracious years forever fled, +That innocent and happy little child! +These very hands were raised to God in prayer, +That now are reddened with a mother's blood. +Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, +Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!" + +He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm +And grasped it with demoniac power, +The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth +And tell my history to the tempted youth. +I looked upon the wine when it was red, +I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, +I heeded not the warnings of my friends, +But tasted of the wine when it was red, +Until it left a demon in my heart +That led me onward, step by step, to this, +This horrible place from which my body goes +Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" +He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; +But even as he went, unto his ears +Were borne the awful echoes of despair, +Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, +Cursing the demon that had brought him there. + + + + +The Two Kinds of People + + +There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; +Just two kinds of people, no more, I say. + +Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, +The good are half bad and the bad are half good. + +Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, +You must first know the state of his conscience and health. + +Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, +Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man. + +Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years +Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears. + +No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, +Are the people who lift and the people who lean. + +Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses +Are always divided in just these two classes. + +And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween, +There's only one lifter to twenty who lean. + +In which class are you? Are you easing the load +Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road? + +Or are you a leaner, who lets others share +Your portion of labor, and worry and care? + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +The Sin of Omission + + +It isn't the thing you do, dear, + It's the thing you leave undone +That gives you a bit of a heartache + At the setting of the sun. +The tender word forgotten; + The letter you did not write; +The flowers you did not send, dear, + Are your haunting ghosts at night. + +The stone you might have lifted + Out of a brother's way; +The bit of hearthstone counsel + You were hurried too much to say; +The loving touch of the hand, dear, + The gentle, winning tone +Which you had no time nor thought for + With troubles enough of your own. + +Those little acts of kindness + So easily out of mind, +Those chances to be angels + Which we poor mortals find-- +They come in night and silence, + Each sad, reproachful wraith, +When hope is faint and flagging + And a chill has fallen on faith. + +For life is all too short, dear, + And sorrow is all too great, +To suffer our slow compassion + That tarries until too late; +And it isn't the thing you do, dear, + It's the thing you leave undone +Which gives you a bit of a heartache + At the setting of the sun, + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +The Bible My Mother Gave Me + + +Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, +Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. +Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, +Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold. + +When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, +And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, +As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, +God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen. + +Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, +Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; +Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, +Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God. + +Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll +Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; +Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, +Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries. + +I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, +Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, +How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, +It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime. + +How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days +The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon + blaze. +How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, +It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as + now. + +He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, +Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; +How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, +But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came. + +That housed in caves and caverns--how it stirs our Scottish blood!-- +The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; +And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls, +Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls! + +That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, +Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, +Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, +The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free. + +So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, +As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, +As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, +The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits + for all. + + + + +Lincoln, the Man of the People + +This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln +Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No +oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. +Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln +poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument +of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless +martyr--the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved +friend of humanity." + + +When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour +Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, +She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down +To make a man to meet the mortal need, +She took the tried clay of the common road-- +Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, +Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; +Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; +Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. +Into the shape she breathed a flame to light +That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; +And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, +Moving--all husht--behind the mortal veil. +Here was a man to hold against the world, +A man to match the mountains and the sea. + +The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; +The smack and tang of elemental things; +The rectitude and patience of the cliff; +The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; +The friendly welcome of the wayside well; +The courage of the bird that dares the sea; +The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; +The pity of the snow that hides all scars; +The secrecy of streams that make their way +Under the mountain to the rifted rock; +The tolerance and equity of light +That gives as freely to the shrinking flower +As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- +To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn +That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, +He drank the valorous youth of a new world. +The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, +The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. +His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts +Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth. + +Up from log cabin to the Capitol, +One fire was on his spirit, one resolve-- +To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, +Clearing a free way for the feet of God, +The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, +To make his deed the measure of a man. +He built the rail-pile as he built the State, +Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; +The grip that swung the ax in Illinois +Was on the pen that set a people free. + +So came the Captain with the mighty heart; +And when the judgment thunders split the house, +Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, +He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again +The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- +Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- +Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. +And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down +As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, +Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, +And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. + + _Edwin Markham._ + + + + +Our Own + + +If I had known in the morning + How wearily all the day + The words unkind + Would trouble my mind + I said when you went away, +I had been more careful, darling, + Nor given you needless pain; + But we vex "our own" + With look and tone + We may never take back again. + +For though in the quiet evening + You may give me the kiss of peace, + Yet it might be + That never for me, + The pain of the heart should cease. +How many go forth in the morning, + That never come home at night! + And hearts have broken + For harsh words spoken + That sorrow can ne'er set right. + +We have careful thoughts for the stranger, + And smiles for the sometime guest, + But oft for "our own" + The bitter tone, + Though we love "our own" the best. +Ah, lips with the curve impatient! + Ah, brow with that look of scorn! + 'Twere a cruel fate, + Were the night too late + To undo the work of morn. + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +How Salvator Won + + +The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, +More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. +I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout +Went up from the people who watched me ride out. +And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd +Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. +My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, +As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane; +And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand +As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. +The great wave of cheering came billowing back +As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, +And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, +Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle +That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. +My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse +As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight-- +Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright-- +Stood taking the plaudits as only his due +And nothing at all unexpected or new. + +And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, +There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead; +At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!" +He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. +I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son; +He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. +Half-way down the furlong their heads are together, +Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; +Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, +Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! +I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, +I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; +I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, +While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. +We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed-- +'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; +The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on, +As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, +His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained-- +A noble opponent well born and well trained. + +I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost +Of that one second's flagging will be--the race lost; +One second's yielding of courage and strength, +And the daylight between us has doubled its length. +The first mile is covered, the race is mine--no! +For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow; +He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, +And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. +My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, +For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump; +And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, +I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. +With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; +I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! +O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls, +For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. +There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, +As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form; +One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, +I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. +We are under the string now--the great race is done-- +And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won! + +Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say; +'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! +Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men +Ye never will see such a grand race again. +Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, +For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf, +He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; +He has won the first place in the vast line of peers. +'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, +And even his enemies grant him his place. +Down into the dust let old records be hurled, +And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world! + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +I Got to Go to School + + +I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! +I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main! +An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule; +But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school. + +'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got +The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot; +An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, +An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school. + +I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer! +I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer! +An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool; +But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school. + +I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake. +O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make! +It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; +Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school. + +I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"! +I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains! +I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, +An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school. + +What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, +Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls? +An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll +Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school. + + _Nixon Waterman._ + + + + +With Little Boy Blue + +(_Written after the death of Eugene Field._) + + +Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog-- + Tin toys on the little armchair, +Keeping their tryst through the slow going years + For the hand that had stationed them there; +And he said that perchance the dust and the rust + Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew, +And his heart watched with them all the dark years, + Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue. + +Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue, + Three ere the cold winds had begun; +Now two are left watching--the soldier and dog; + But for him the vigil is done. +For him too, the angel has chanted a song + A song that is lulling and true. +He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest, + Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue. + +God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul-- + Not the Reaper who cometh for all-- +But out of the shadows that curtained the day + He heard his lost little one call, +Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, + Passed on to the far-away strand; +And he walks the streets of the City of Peace, + With Little Boy Blue by the hand. + + _Sarah Beaumont Kennedy._ + + + + +The Charge of Pickett's Brigade + + +In Gettysburg at break of day + The hosts of war are held in leash +To gird them for the coming fray, + E'er brazen-throated monsters flame, + Mad hounds of death that tear and maim. +Ho, boys in blue, +And gray so true, + Fate calls to-day the roll of fame. + +On Cemetery Hill was done + The clangor of four hundred guns; +Through drifting smoke the morning sun + Shone down a line of battled gray + Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay. +Virginians all, +Heed glory's call, + You die at Gettysburg to-day, + +'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade, + Great Lee had named; he knew them well; +Oft had their steel the battle stayed. + O warriors of the eagle plume, + Fate points for you the hour of doom. +Ring rebel yell, +War cry and knell! + The stars, to-night, will set in gloom. + +O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate, + Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds. +For you the centuries did wait, + While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll + And God had set the judgment roll. +A thousand years +Shall wait in tears, + And one swift hour bring to goal. + +The charge is done, a cause is lost; + But Pickett's men heed not the din +Of ragged columns battle tost; + For fame enshrouds them on the field, + And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield. +But stars and bars +Shall drape thy scars; + No cause is lost till honor yield. + + + + +Hullo + + +W'en you see a man in woe, +Walk right up and say "Hullo!" +Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do? +How's the world a-usin' you?" +Slap the fellow on the back; +Bring your hand down with a whack; +Walk right up, and don't go slow; +Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!" + +Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho; +Walk right up an' say "Hullo!" +Rags is but a cotton roll +Jest for wrappin' up a soul; +An' a soul is worth a true +Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?" +Don't wait for the crowd to go, +Walk right up and say "Hullo!" + +When big vessels meet, they say +They saloot an' sail away. +Jest the same are you an' me +Lonesome ships upon a sea; +Each one sailin' his own log, +For a port behind the fog; +Let your speakin' trumpet blow; +Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!" + +Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?" +Other folks are good as you. +W'en you leave your house of clay +Wanderin' in the far away, +W'en you travel through the strange +Country t'other side the range, +Then the souls you've cheered will know +Who ye be, an' say "Hullo." + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The Women of Mumbles Head + + +Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! +And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. +It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, +Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! +Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; +Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; +It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, +And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay. + +Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, +In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; +It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, + or when +There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry + for men. +When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! +Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, +Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, +Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! + +So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, +And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, +Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! +Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; +Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; +Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! +Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, +For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? +It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! +And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; + +And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! +But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. +Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! +"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"! +Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, +But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. + +Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, +And saw in the boiling breakers a figure--a fighting form; +It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; +It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; +It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips +Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. +They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and + more, +Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, +straight to shore. + +There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, +Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, +'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, +But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? +What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men +Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then +Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, +Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! + +"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come + back!" +As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. +"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, +"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" + +"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and + pale, +"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the + gale!" +"_Come back_!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, +We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!" + +"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your + hand! +Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! +Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, +And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." +Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, +They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- +Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, +And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!" + + _Clement Scott._ + + + + +The Fireman's Story + + +"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct; + That man on the enjine thar +Don't pack the han'somest countenance-- + Every inch of it sportin' a scar; +But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough + Piled up in the National Banks +To buy that face, nor a single scar-- + (No, I never indulges. Thanks.) + +"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer, + An' a better one never war knowed! +Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine + War put on the Quincy Road; +An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug + From Maine to the jumpin' off place +That knows more about the big iron hoss + Than him with the battered-up face. + +"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done + In a sort o' legitimate way; +He got it a-trying to save a gal + Up yar on the road last May. +I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, + For we pull out at two-twenty-five-- +Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal, + So's to keep old '90' alive. + +"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then, + Left Quincy a half an hour late, +An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not + To lay out No. 21 freight. +The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up + An' a-quiverin' in every nerve! +When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!' + As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. + +"I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead + 'Bout two hundred paces or so +Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, + An' her face jist as white as the snow; +It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright + That she couldn't move for'ard or back, +An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell + Right down in a heap on the track! + +"I'll never forgit till the day o' my death + The look that cum over Jim's face; +He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot + So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace, +Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, + An' out through the window he fled, +An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, + An' lay on the pilot ahead. + +"Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, + He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm, +An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side + Out o' reach of danger an' harm. +But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head + On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, +An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face + In a frightful and horrible mass! + +"As soon as we stopped I backed up the train + To that spot where the poor fellow lay, +An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap + An' wipin' the warm blood away. +The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, + While she sobbed like her heart war all broke-- +I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar + Would move the tough heart of an oak! + +"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town, + What for week arter week the boy lay +A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death, + An' that gal by his bed every day. +But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around-- + Kinder snatched him right outer the grave-- +His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart + Remains just as noble an' brave. + + * * * * * + +"Of course thar's a sequel--as story books say-- + He fell dead in love, did this Jim; +But hadn't the heart to ax her to have + Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. +She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day + War the fust o' leap year as you know, +So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, + An' you bet he didn't say no. + +"He's building a house up thar on the hill, + An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, +The weddin's to be on the first o' next May-- + Jist a year from the day o' the smash-- +The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, + An' she'll just turn the tables about, +An' give him the life that he saved--thar's the bell. + Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out." + + + + +Little Willie's Hearing + + +Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows, +My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose: +An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" +An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be; +An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still, +W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill." +But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see, +W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" + +An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow +It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow"; +An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before-- +I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more. +An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!" +But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be. +If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way, +He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play. + +But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it," +They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git, +Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee; +He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me. +You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear +W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!" +Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma, +It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa. + + + + +The Service Flag + + +Dear little flag in the window there, +Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, +Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- +Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! + +Blue is your star in its field of white, +Dipped in the red that was born of fight; +Born of the blood that our forebears shed +To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head. + +And now you've come, in this frenzied day, +To speak from a window--to speak and say: +"I am the voice of a soldier son, +Gone, to be gone till the victory's won. + +"I am the flag of The Service, sir: +The flag of his mother--I speak for her +Who stands by my window and waits and fears, +But hides from the others her unwept tears. + +"I am the flag of the wives who wait +For the safe return of a martial mate-- +A mate gone forth where the war god thrives, +To save from sacrifice other men's wives. + +"I am the flag of the sweethearts true; +The often unthought of--the sisters, too. +I am the flag of a mother's son, +Who won't come home till the victory's won!" + +Dear little flag in the window there, +Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, +Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- +Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! + + _William Herschell._ + + + + +Flying Jim's Last Leap + +(_The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer._) + + +Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands, +Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. +Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair +Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; +Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, +Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. +His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, +Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. +Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door; +Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; +Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start +Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. +"_Drink_! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me + sick, +Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you + quick." +Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, +Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, +Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, +Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, +Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; +Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; +Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, +In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; +Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, +Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. +Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again +Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" +"Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you + take." +Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake +With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down +O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; +That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, +When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own. +"Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask. +"I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task, +It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those +Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'" + +Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground +Conning o'er and o'er that lesson--with a grace to him new found. +Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, +Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. +Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, +Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! +"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; +Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now." +As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek +With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. +Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay +Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay +All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: +"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all." +At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, +Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each + flame now seems; +They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean +About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene; +The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around-- +Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground +Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. +Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare +For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled + face, +Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a + race +With life and death--the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around, +Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound-- +A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave! +Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands--the fiery wave +Fierce rolling round--his arms enclasp the child--God help him yet to save! +"For life or for eternal sleep," +He cries, then makes a vaulting leap, +A tree branch catches, with sure aim, +And by the act proclaims his name; +The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, +A rough voice cried from out the crowd, +"Huzza, my boys, well we know him, +None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" +A jail-bird--outlaw--thief, indeed, +Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. +"Do now your worst," his gasping cry, +"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; +I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; +Then hushed all murmurs through the throng. +With reverent hands they bore him where +The summer evening's cooling air +Came softly sighing through the trees; +The child's proud father on his knees +Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, +Which dying lips accorded him. +A mark of whip on white face stirred +To gleaming scarlet at his words. +"Forgive them all who use you ill, +She taught me that and I fulfill; +I would her hand might touch my face, +Though she's so pure and I so base." +Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, +With smile of bliss transfigured now: +Death, the angel, sealed it there, +'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer." + + _Emma Dunning Banks._ + + + + +Betty and the Bear + + +In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, +A great big black grizzly trotted one day, +And seated himself on the hearths and began +To lap the contents of a two gallon pan +Of milk and potatoes,--an excellent meal,-- +And then looked, about to see what he could steal. +The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, +And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep +Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, +And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. + +So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau, +"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!" +"A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!" +"Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." +So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. +While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed, +As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows. +Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, +Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, +"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, +Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out." +So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone +At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. + +Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, +He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, +And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor, +Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell +All the wonderful things that that morning befell; +And he published the marvellous story afar, +How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! +O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it, +Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it." + + + + +The Graves of a Household + + +They grew in beauty, side by side, + They filled one home with glee;--- +Their graves are severed, far and wide, + By mount, and stream and sea. + +The same fond mother bent at night + O'er each fair sleeping brow; +She had each folded flower in sight-- + Where are those dreamers now? + +One, 'midst the forest of the West, + By a dark stream is laid-- +The Indian knows his place of rest + Far in the cedar shade. + +The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- + He lies where pearls lie deep; +_He_ was the loved of all, yet none + O'er his low bed may weep. + +One sleeps where southern vines are drest + Above the noble slain: +He wrapped his colors round his breast + On a blood-red field of Spain. + +And one--o'er _her_ the myrtle showers + Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; +She faded 'midst Italian flowers-- + The last of that bright band. + +And parted thus they rest, who play'd + Beneath the same green tree; +Whose voices mingled as they pray'd + Around the parent knee. + +They that with smiles lit up the hall, + And cheer'd with song the hearth!-- +Alas! for love, if _thou_ wert all, + And naught beyond, O earth! + + _Felicia Dorothea Hemans._ + + + + +The Babie + + +Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, + Nae stockings on her feet; +Her supple ankles white as snow, + Or early blossoms sweet. +Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, + Her double, dimpled chin; +Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou', + With nae ane tooth between. +Her een sae like her mither's een, + Twa gentle, liquid things; +Her face is like an angel's face-- + We're glad she has nae wings. + + _Hugh Miller._ + + + + +A Legend of the Northland + + +Away, away in the Northland, + Where the hours of the day are few, +And the nights are so long in winter, + They cannot sleep them through; + +Where they harness the swift reindeer + To the sledges, when it snows; +And the children look like bears' cubs + In their funny, furry clothes: + +They tell them a curious story-- + I don't believe 't is true; +And yet you may learn a lesson + If I tell the tale to you + +Once, when the good Saint Peter + Lived in the world below, +And walked about it, preaching, + Just as he did, you know; + +He came to the door of a cottage, + In traveling round the earth, +Where a little woman was making cakes, + And baking them on the hearth; + +And being faint with fasting, + For the day was almost done, +He asked her, from her store of cakes, + To give him a single one. + +So she made a very little cake, + But as it baking lay, +She looked at it, and thought it seemed + Too large to give away. + +Therefore she kneaded another, + And still a smaller one; +But it looked, when she turned it over, + As large as the first had done. + +Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, + And rolled, and rolled it flat; +And baked it thin as a wafer-- + But she couldn't part with that. + +For she said, "My cakes that seem too small + When I eat of them myself, +Are yet too large to give away," + So she put them on the shelf. + +Then good Saint Peter grew angry, + For he was hungry and faint; +And surely such a woman + Was enough to provoke a saint. + +And he said, "You are far too selfish + To dwell in a human form, +To have both food and shelter, + And fire to keep you warm. + +"Now, you shall build as the birds do, + And shall get your scanty food +By boring, and boring, and boring, + All day in the hard dry wood," + +Then up she went through the chimney, + Never speaking a word, +And out of the top flew a woodpecker. + For she was changed to a bird. + +She had a scarlet cap on her head, + And that was left the same, +Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned + Black as a coal in the flame. + +And every country school boy + Has seen her in the wood; +Where she lives in the woods till this very day, + Boring and boring for food. + +And this is the lesson she teaches: + Live not for yourself alone, +Lest the needs you will not pity + Shall one day be your own. + +Give plenty of what is given to you, + Listen to pity's call; +Don't think the little you give is great, + And the much you get is small. + +Now, my little boy, remember that, + And try to be kind and good, +When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, + And see her scarlet hood. + +You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live + As selfishly as you can; +But you will be changed to a smaller thing-- + A mean and selfish man. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +How Did You Die? + + +Did you tackle the trouble that came your way + With a resolute heart and cheerful? +Or hide year face from the light of day + With a craven soul and fearful? +Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, + Or a trouble is what you make it, +And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, + But only how did you take it? + +You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? + Come up with a smiling face, +Its nothing against you to fall down flat, + But to lie there--that's disgrace. +The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce; + Be proud of your blackened eye! +It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; + It's how did you fight--and why? + +And though you be done to the death, what then? + If you battled the best you could, +If you played your part in the world of men, + Why, the Critic will call it good. +Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, + And whether he's slow or spry, +It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, + But only how did you die? + + _Edmund Vance Cooke._ + + + + +The Children + + +When the lessons and tasks are all ended, + And the school for the day is dismissed, +And the little ones gather around me, + To bid me good-night and be kissed,-- +Oh, the little white arms that encircle + My neck in a tender embrace! +Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, + Shedding sunshine and love on my face! + +And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming + Of my childhood, too lovely to last; +Of love that my heart will remember + When it wakes to the pulse of the past; +Ere the world and its wickedness made me + A partner of sorrow and sin; +When the glory of God was about me, + And the glory of gladness within. + +Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's + And the fountains of feeling will flow, +When I think of the paths, steep and stony + Where the feet of the dear ones must go. +Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, + Of the tempests of fate blowing wild-- +Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy + As the innocent heart of a child! + +They are idols of hearts and of households, + They are angels of God in disguise. +His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, + His glory still beams in their eyes: +Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, + They have made me more manly and mild! +And I know how Jesus could liken + The Kingdom of God to a child. + +Seek not a life for the dear ones + All radiant, as others have done. +But that life may have just enough shadow + To temper the glare of the sun; +I would pray God to guard them from evil, + But my prayer would bound back to myself. +Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner, + But the sinner must pray for himself. + +The twig is so easily bended, + I have banished the rule of the rod; +I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge, + They have taught me the goodness of God. +My heart is a dungeon of darkness, + Where I shut them from breaking a rule; +My frown is sufficient correction, + My love is the law of the school. + +I shall leave the old house in the autumn + To traverse the threshold no more, +Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones + That meet me each morn at the door. +I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, + And the gush of their innocent glee; +The group on the green and the flowers + That are brought every morning to me. + +I shall miss them at morn and at evening. + Their song in the school and the street, +I shall miss the low hum of their voices + And the tramp of their delicate feet. +When the lessons and tasks are all ended, + And death says the school is dismissed, +May the little ones gather around me + To bid me good-night and be kissed. + + _Charles M. Dickinson._ + + + + +The King and the Child + + +The sunlight shone on walls of stone, + And towers sublime and tall, +King Alfred sat upon his throne + Within his council hall. + +And glancing o'er the splendid throng, + With grave and solemn face, +To where his noble vassals stood, + He saw a vacant place. + +"Where is the Earl of Holderness?" + With anxious look, he said. +"Alas, O King!" a courtier cried, + "The noble Earl is dead!" + +Before the monarch could express + The sorrow that he felt, +A soldier, with a war-worn face, + Approached the throne, and knelt. + +"My sword," he said, "has ever been, + O King, at thy command, +And many a proud and haughty Dane + Has fallen by my hand. + +"I've fought beside thee in the field, + And 'neath the greenwood tree; +It is but fair for thee to give + Yon vacant place to me." + +"It is not just," a statesman cried, + "This soldier's prayer to hear, +My wisdom has done more for thee + Than either sword or spear. + +"The victories of thy council hall + Have made thee more renown +Than all the triumphs of the field + Have given to thy crown. + +"My name is known in every land, + My talents have been thine, +Bestow this Earldom, then, on me, + For it is justly mine." + +Yet, while before the monarch's throne + These men contending stood, +A woman crossed the floor, who wore + The weeds of widowhood. + +And slowly to King Alfred's feet + A fair-haired boy she led-- +"O King, this is the rightful heir + Of Holderness," she said. + +"Helpless, he comes to claim his own, + Let no man do him wrong, +For he is weak and fatherless, + And thou art just and strong." + +"What strength or power," the statesman cried, + "Could such a judgement bring? +Can such a feeble child as this + Do aught for thee, O King? + +"When thou hast need of brawny arms + To draw thy deadly bows, +When thou art wanting crafty men + To crush thy mortal foes." + +With earnest voice the fair young boy + Replied: "I cannot fight, +But I can pray to God, O King, + And God can give thee might!" + +The King bent down and kissed the child, + The courtiers turned away, +"The heritage is thine," he said, + "Let none thy right gainsay. + +"Our swords may cleave the casques of men, + Our blood may stain the sod, +But what are human strength and power + Without the help of God?" + + _Eugene J. Hall._ + + + + +Try, Try Again + + +'Tis a lesson you should heed, + Try, try again; +If at first you don't succeed, + Try, try again; +Then your courage shall appear, +For if you will persevere, +You will conquer, never fear, + Try, try again. + +Once or twice though you should fail, + Try, try again; +If at last you would prevail, + Try, try again; +If we strive 'tis no disgrace +Tho' we may not win the race, +What should you do in that case? + Try, try again. + +If you find your task is hard, + Try, try again; +Time will bring you your reward, + Try, try again; +All that other folks can do, +Why, with patience, may not you? +Only keep this rule in view, + Try, try again. + + + + +Indian Names + + +Ye say they all have passed away--that noble race and brave, +That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave; +That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout, +But their name is on your waters--ye may not wash it out. + +'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled, +Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world; +Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west, +And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast. + +Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale, +Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale; +But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore, +Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore. + +Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown, +And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown; +Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves, +And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves. + +Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart, +And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart; +Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust; +Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust. + +Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour, +Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power; +Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal, +But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal? + +Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow, +On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe. +Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? +Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him? + + _Lydia H. Sigourney._ + + + + +More Cruel Than War + +(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay +sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of +Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl, +had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins +having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem +is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly +broke the engagement.) + + +Your letter, lady, came too late, + For heaven had claimed its own; +Ah, sudden change--from prison bars + Unto the great white throne; +And yet I think he would have stayed, + To live for his disdain, +Could he have read the careless words + Which you have sent in vain. + +So full of patience did he wait, + Through many a weary hour, +That o'er his simple soldier-faith + Not even death had power; +And you--did others whisper low + Their homage in your ear, +As though among their shallow throng + His spirit had a peer? + +I would that you were by me now, + To draw the sheet aside +And see how pure the look he wore + The moment when he died. +The sorrow that you gave to him + Had left its weary trace, +As 'twere the shadow of the cross + Upon his pallid face. + +"Her love," he said, "could change for me + The winter's cold to spring." +Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, + Thou art a bitter thing! +For when these valleys, bright in May, + Once more with blossoms wave, +The northern violets shall blow + Above his humble grave. + +Your dole of scanty words had been + But one more pang to bear +For him who kissed unto the last + Your tress of golden hair; +I did not put it where he said, + For when the angels come, +I would not have them find the sign + Of falsehood in the tomb. + +I've read your letter, and I know + The wiles that you have wrought +To win that trusting heart of his, + And gained it--cruel thought! +What lavish wealth men sometimes give + For what is worthless all! +What manly bosoms beat for them + In folly's falsest thrall! + +You shall not pity him, for now + His sorrow has an end; +Yet would that you could stand with me + Beside my fallen friend! +And I forgive you for his sake, + As he--if he be forgiven-- +May e'en be pleading grace for you + Before the court of Heaven. + +To-night the cold winds whistle by, + As I my vigil keep +Within the prison dead-house, where + Few mourners come to weep. +A rude plank coffin holds his form; + Yet death exalts his face, +And I would rather see him thus + Than clasped in your embrace. + +To-night your home may shine with light + And ring with merry song, +And you be smiling as your soul + Had done no deadly wrong; +Your hand so fair that none would think + It penned these words of pain; +Your skin so white--would God your heart + Were half as free from stain. + +I'd rather be my comrade dead + Than you in life supreme; +For yours the sinner's waking dread, + And his the martyr's dream! +Whom serve we in this life we serve + In that which is to come; +He chose his way, you--yours; let God + Pronounce the fitting doom. + + _W.S. Hawkins._ + + + + +Columbus + + +A harbor in a sunny, southern city; +Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee; +A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, +Who ever watched the waters lovingly. + +A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; +Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: +Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, +Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild. + +And ever in the boyish soul was ringing +The urging, surging challenge of the sea, +To dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger, +To learn,--as they, its charm and mystery. + +Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, +You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; +Thank God for men--their deeds have crowned the ages-- +Who once were little dreamy lads like you. + + _Helen L. Smith._ + + + + +The September Gale + + +I'm not a chicken; I have seen + Full many a chill September, +And though I was a youngster then, + That gale I well remember; +The day before, my kite-string snapped, + And I, my kite pursuing, +The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- + For me two storms were brewing! + +It came as quarrels sometimes do, + When married folks get clashing; +There was a heavy sigh or two, + Before the fire was flashing,-- +A little stir among the clouds, + Before they rent asunder,-- +A little rocking of the trees, + And then came on the thunder. + +Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, + And how the shingles rattled! +And oaks were scattered on the ground, + As if the Titans battled; +And all above was in a howl, + And all below a clatter,-- +The earth was like a frying-pan. + Or some such hissing matter. + +It chanced to be our washing-day, + And all our things were drying: +The storm came roaring through the lines, + And set them all a-flying; +I saw the shirts and petticoats + Go riding off like witches; +I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- + I lost my Sunday breeches! + +I saw them straddling through the air, + Alas! too late to win them; +I saw them chase the clouds, as if + The devil had been in them; +They were my darlings and my pride, + My boyhood's only riches,-- +"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- +"My breeches! O my breeches!" + +That night I saw them in my dreams, + How changed from what I knew them! +The dews had steeped their faded threads, + The winds had whistled through them! +I saw the wide and ghastly rents + Where demon claws had torn them; +A hole was in their amplest part, + As if an imp had worn them. + +I have had many happy years + And tailors kind and clever, +But those young pantaloons have gone + Forever and forever! +And not till fate has cut the last + Of all my earthly stitches, +This aching heart shall cease to mourn + My loved, my long-lost breeches! + + _O.W. Holmes_ + + + + +When My Ship Comes In + + +Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, + Where the winds dance and spin; +Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, + Over the breakers' din; +Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, +Out where the blinding fog is drifting, +Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, + My ship is coming in. + +O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, + Day after weary day; +O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking + While the long nights ebbed away; +Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, +Could I but know what storms had crossed her, +Could I but know where the winds had lost her, + Out in the twilight gray! + +But though the storms her course have altered, + Surely the port she'll win, +Never my faith in my ship has faltered, + I know she is coming in. +For through the restless ways of her roaming, +Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, +Through the white crest of the billows combing, + My ship is coming in. + +Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, + Swiftly she's coming in: +Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, + Bravely she's coming in. +Precious the love she will bring to bless me, +Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, +In the proud purple of kings she will dress me-- + My ship that is coming in. + +White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, + See, where my ship comes in; +At masthead and peak her colors streaming, + Proudly she's sailing in; +Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, +Music will welcome her glad appearing, +And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, + When my ship comes in. + + _Robert Jones Burdette._ + + + + +Solitude + + +Laugh, and the world laughs with you, + Weep, and you weep alone; +For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, + But has trouble enough of its own. + +Sing, and the hills will answer, + Sigh, it is lost on the air; +The echoes bound to a joyful sound, + But shirk from voicing care. + +Rejoice and men will seek you; + Grieve, and they turn and go; +They want full measure of all your pleasure, + But they do not need your woe. + +Be glad, and your friends are many; + Be sad, and you lose them all, +There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, + But alone you must drink life's gall. + +Feast, and your halls are crowded; + Fast, and the world goes by; +Succeed and give, and it helps you live, + But no man can help you die. + +There is room in the halls of pleasure + For a large and lordly train, +But one by one we must all file on + Through the narrow aisle of pain. + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +Sin of the Coppenter Man + + +The coppenter man said a wicked word, + When he hitted his thumb one day, +En I know what it was, because I heard, + En it's somethin' I dassent say. + +He growed us a house with rooms inside it, + En the rooms is full of floors +It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it, + It was nothin' but just outdoors. + +En they planted stones in a hole for seeds, + En that's how the house began, +But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds, + Except for the coppenter man. + +En the coppenter man took a board and said + He'd skin it and make some curls, +En I hung 'em onto my ears en head, + En they make me look like girls. + +En he squinted along one side, he did, + En he squinted the other side twice, +En then he told me, "You squint it, kid," + 'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice. + +But the coppenter man said a wicked word, + When he hitted 'his thumb that day; +He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard, + En it's something I dassent say. + +En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad, + When you hitted your thumb, kerspat! +En there'd be no coppenter men to be had, + If it wasn't for words like that. + + _Edmund Vance Cooke_. + + + + +The Bells of Ostend + + +No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, +Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! +The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, +And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud. +My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, +My heart sighed in secret for those far away; +When slowly the morning advanced from the east, +The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; +The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, +"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" +Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, +I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again; +I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, +And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; +I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, +Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. +But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, +Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, +And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, +Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! + + _W.L. Bowles._ + + + + +You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave + + +With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, +The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; +And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests +Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. +Ended at last is the labor of love; +Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-- +A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, +Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; +Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child +Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild: + +"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-- +Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? +I know he was poor, but as kind and as true +As ever marched into the battle with you; +His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, +You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! +For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, +And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. +He didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood +In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod +Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-- +And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' +O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, +But you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave. +If mamma were here--but she lies by his side, +Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!" + +"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, +"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." +Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, +He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate +The long line repasses, and many an eye +Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. +"This way, it is--here, sir, right under this tree; +They lie close together, with just room for me." +"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; +A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." + +"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay +The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; +But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, +'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. +I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too-- +I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; +And they will both bless you, I know, when I say +How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; +How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, +And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; +And when the kind angels shall call _you_ to come +We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home +Where death never comes his black banners to wave, +And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." + + _C.E.L. Holmes._ + + + + +The Two Little Stockings + + +Two little stockings hung side by side, +Close to the fireside broad and wide. +"Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, +Loaded with toys and many a game. +"Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, +"I'll have no cheating, my pretty one. + +"I know who dwells in this house, my dear, +There's only one little girl lives here." +So he crept up close to the chimney place, +And measured a sock with a sober face; +Just then a wee little note fell out +And fluttered low, like a bird, about. + +"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, +As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, +And read the address in a child's rough plan. +"Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, +"The other stocking you see on the wall +I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall. + +"She's a poor little girl, but very good, +So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would +Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, +And help to make her Christmas bright. +If you've not enough for both stockings there, +Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care." + +Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, +And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; +Then softly he blew through the chimney high +A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, +When down came two of the funniest mortals +That ever were seen this side earth's portals. + +"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare +All a little girl wants where money is rare." +Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! +Away went the elves, but down from the gloom +Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low +A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe. + +How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in, +And fastened each one to the sock with a pin; +Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,-- +"She'll think it came from the sky, I guess," +Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, +And tying the hood to the stocking, too. + +When all the warm clothes were fastened on, +And both little socks were filled and done, +Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there, +And hurried away to the frosty air, +Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child +Who pities them, too, on this night so wild." + +The wind caught the words and bore them on high +Till they died away in the midnight sky; +While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air, +Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere. + + _Sara Keables Hunt._ + + + + +I Have a Rendezvous with Death + + + I have a rendezvous with Death +At some disputed barricade, +When Spring comes back with rustling shade +And apple-blossoms fill the air-- +I have a rendezvous with Death +When Spring brings back blue days and fair. + + It may be he shall take my hand +And lead me into his dark land +And close my eyes and quench my breath-- +It may be I shall pass him still. +I have a rendezvous with Death +On some scarred slope of battered hill, +When Spring comes round again this year +And the first meadow-flowers appear. + + God knows't were better to be deep +Pillowed in silk and scented down, +Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, +Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath-- +Where hushed awakenings are dear.... +But I've a rendezvous with Death +At midnight in some flaming town, +When Spring trips north again this year, +And I to my pledged word am true, +I shall not fail that rendezvous. + + _Alan Seeger._ + + + + +Let Us Be Kind + + Let us be kind; +The way is long and lonely, +And human hearts are asking for this blessing only-- + That we be kind. +We cannot know the grief that men may borrow, +We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, +But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +This is a wealth that has no measure, +This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure-- + Let us be kind. +A tender word, a smile of love in meeting, +A song of hope and victory to those retreating, +A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +Around the world the tears of time are falling, +And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling-- + Let us be kind. +To age and youth let gracious words be spoken; +Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken, +We live in vain who give no tender token-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +The sunset tints will soon be in the west, +Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast-- + Let us be kind. +And when the angel guides have sought and found us, +Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, +And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us-- + Let us be kind. + + _W. Lomax Childress._ + + + + +The Water Mill + + +Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, +As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; +How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves +As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! +A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, +The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; +The rippling stream flows on--aye, tranquil, deep and still, +But never glideth back again to busy water mill; +The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, +For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; +Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, +For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; +Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, +Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; +Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, +Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. +Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, +The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; +Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, +For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." +Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last, +For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; +Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, +And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. +Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + + _Sarah Doudney._ + + + + +Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold + + +What makes the dog's nose always cold? +I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold, +If you will good and quiet be, +And come and stand by mamma's knee. +Well, years and years and years ago-- +How many I don't really know-- +There came a rain on sea and shore, +Its like was never seen before +Or since. It fell unceasing down, +Till all the world began to drown; +But just before it began to pour, +An old, old man--his name was Noah-- +Built him an Ark, that he might save +His family from a wat'ry grave; +And in it also he designed +To shelter two of every kind +Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, +And heavy clouds obscured the sun, +The Noah folks to it quickly ran, +And then the animals began +To gravely march along in pairs; +The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, +The deer, the hippopotamuses, +The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, +The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, +The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, +The rats, the big rhinoceroses, +The dromedaries and the horses, +The sheep, and mice and kangaroos, +Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, +And hundreds more-'twould take all day, +My dear, so many names to say-- +And at the very, very end +Of the procession, by his friend +And master, faithful dog was seen; +The livelong time he'd helping been, +To drive the crowd of creatures in; +And now, with loud, exultant bark, +He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. +Alas! so crowded was the space +He could not in it find a place; +So, patiently, he turned about, +Stood half way in, half way out, +And those extremely heavy showers +Descended through nine hundred hours +And more; and, darling, at the close, +'Most frozen was his honest nose; +And never could it lose again +The dampness of that dreadful rain. +And that is what, my Curls of Gold, +Made all the doggies' noses cold. + + + + +The African Chief + + +Chained in the market-place he stood, + A man of giant frame, +Amid the gathering multitude + That shrunk to hear his name-- +All stern of look and strong of limb, + His dark eye on the ground:-- +And silently they gazed on him, + As on a lion bound. + +Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, + He was a captive now, +Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, + Was written on his brow. +The scars his dark broad bosom wore + Showed warrior true and brave; +A prince among his tribe before, + He could not be a slave. + +Then to his conqueror he spake: + "My brother is a king; +Undo this necklace from my neck, + And take this bracelet ring, +And send me where my brother reigns, + And I will fill thy hands +With store of ivory from the plains, + And gold-dust from the sands." + +"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold + Will I unbind thy chain; +That bloody hand shall never hold + The battle-spear again. +A price thy nation never gave + Shall yet be paid for thee; +For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, + In lands beyond the sea." + +Then wept the warrior chief and bade + To shred his locks away; +And one by one, each heavy braid + Before the victor lay. +Thick were the platted locks, and long, + And deftly hidden there +Shone many a wedge of gold among + The dark and crispèd hair. + +"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold + Long kept for sorest need: +Take it--thou askest sums untold, + And say that I am freed. +Take it--my wife, the long, long day + Weeps by the cocoa-tree, +And my young children leave their play, + And ask in vain for me." + +"I take thy gold--but I have made + Thy fetters fast and strong, +And ween that by the cocoa shade + Thy wife will wait thee long," +Strong was the agony that shook + The captive's frame to hear, +And the proud meaning of his look + Was changed to mortal fear. + +His heart was broken--crazed his brain; + At once his eye grew wild; +He struggled fiercely with his chain, + Whispered, and wept, and smiled; +Yet wore not long those fatal bands, + And once, at shut of day, +They drew him forth upon the sands, + The foul hyena's prey. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +He Who Has Vision + +_Where there is no vision the people perish.--Prov. 29:17._ + + +He who has the vision sees more than you or I; +He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; +Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought, +But the visionary came ere the builders wrought; +Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, +He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march! + +He who has the vision hears more than you may hear, +Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; +From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, +Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; +Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows +Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows! + +He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, +Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel-- +For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, +In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, +He who has the vision lives round and all complete, +And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet. + + _Folger McKinsey._ + + + + +The Children We Keep + + +The children kept coming one by one, + Till the boys were five and the girls were three. +And the big brown house was alive with fun, + From the basement floor to the old roof-tree, +Like garden flowers the little ones grew, + Nurtured and trained with tenderest care; +Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew, + They blossomed into beauty rare. + +But one of the boys grew weary one day, + And leaning his head on his mother's breast, +He said, "I am tired and cannot play; + Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." +She cradled him close to her fond embrace, + She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, +And rapturous love still lightened his face + When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. + +Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, + Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," +Stole softly away into Paradise + E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet. +While the father's eyes on the graves were bent, + The mother looked upward beyond the skies: +"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; + Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." + +The years flew by, and the children began + With longings to think of the world outside, +And as each in turn became a man, + The boys proudly went from the father's side. +The girls were women so gentle and fair, + That lovers were speedy to woo and to win; +And with orange-blooms in their braided hair, + Their old home they left, new homes to begin. + +So, one by one the children have gone-- + The boys were five, the girls were three; +And the big brown house is gloomy and alone, + With but two old folks for its company. +They talk to each other about the past, + As they sit together at eventide, +And say, "All the children we keep at last + Are the boy and girl who in childhood died." + + _Mrs. E.V. Wilson._ + + + + +The Stranger on the Sill + + +Between broad fields of wheat and corn +Is the lowly home where I was born; +The peach-tree leans against the wall, +And the woodbine wanders over all; +There is the shaded doorway still,-- +But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. + +There is the barn--and, as of yore, +I can smell the hay from the open door, +And see the busy swallows throng, +And hear the pewee's mournful song; +But the stranger comes--oh! painful proof-- +His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. + +There is the orchard--the very trees +Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, +And watched the shadowy moments run +Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: +The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,-- +But the stranger's children are swinging there. + +There bubbles the shady spring below, +With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; +'Twas there I found the calamus root, +And watched the minnows poise and shoot, +And heard the robin lave his wing:-- +But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. + +Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, +Step lightly, for I love it still! +And when you crowd the old barn eaves, +Then think what countless harvest sheaves +Have passed within' that scented door +To gladden eyes that are no more. + +Deal kindly with these orchard trees; +And when your children crowd your knees, +Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, +As if old memories stirred their heart: +To youthful sport still leave the swing, +And in sweet reverence hold the spring. + + _Thomas Buchanan Read._ + + + + +The Old Man In the Model Church + + +Well, wife, I've found the _model_ church! I worshiped there to-day! +It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; +The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. +But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. + +The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; +He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; +He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through +The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. + +I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; +The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" +The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, +Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. + +My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; +I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, +And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, +Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all." + +I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; +I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; +I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, +And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm. + +_The preachin'_? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; +I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; +He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye +Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. + +The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; +It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; +'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; +'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed. + +The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; +He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; +And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear +That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. + +How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! +How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! +Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend-- +"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end." + +I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- +In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; +I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, +The happy hour of worship in that model church today. + +Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; +The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; +O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, +To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. + + _John H. Yates._ + + + + +The Volunteer Organist + + +The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, +An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; +Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, +An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. + +The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: +"Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, +An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, +Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" + +An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, +Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. +Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, +An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. + +Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: +"This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" +The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, +An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. + +He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain +Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; +An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, +He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. + +The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, +It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; +The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, +An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!" + +An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, +Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; +An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, +Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that! + +An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- +Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; +The morning stars together sung--no soul wuz left alone-- +We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne! + +An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, +An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; +No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, +An' then--the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night! + +But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, +An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; +He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, +W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray." + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The Finding of the Lyre + + +There lay upon the ocean's shore +What once a tortoise served to cover; +A year and more, with rush and roar, +The surf had rolled it over, +Had played with it, and flung it by, +As wind and weather might decide it, +Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry +Cheap burial might provide it. +It rested there to bleach or tan, +The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; +With many a ban the fisherman +Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; +And there the fisher-girl would stay, +Conjecturing with her brother +How in their play the poor estray +Might serve some use or other. + +So there it lay, through wet and dry, +As empty as the last new sonnet, +Till by and by came Mercury, +And, having mused upon it, +"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things +In shape, material, and dimension! +Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, +A wonderful invention!" + +So said, so done; the chords he strained, +And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, +The shell disdained a soul had gained, +The lyre had been discovered. +O empty world that round us lies, +Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, +Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, +In thee what songs should waken! + + _James Russel Lowell._ + + + + +The High Tide (1571) + +(_Or "The Brides of Enderby"_) + + +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers rang by two, by three; +"Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. +"Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells! +Play all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + +Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; +But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: +And there was naught of strange, beside +The flight of mews ans peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. + +I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; +The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies, +And dark against day's golden death +She moved where Lindis wandereth, +My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; +Ere the early dews were falling, +Farre away I heard her song. +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; +Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, +From the meads where melick groweth +Faintly came her milking song: + +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, +"For the dews will soone be falling; +Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, +Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, +From the clovers lift your head; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, +Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, +Jetty, to the milking shed." + +If it be long, ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, +Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; +And all the aire, it seemeth mee, +Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), +That ring the tune of Enderby. + +Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, +Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; +And lo! the great bell farre and wide +Was heard in all the country side +That Saturday at eventide. + +The swanherds where there sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath, +The shepherde lads I heard affare, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; +Till floating o'er the grassy sea +Came down that kindly message free, +The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + +Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows +To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows, +They sayde, "And why should this thing be? +What danger lowers by land or sea? +They ring the tune of Enderby! + +"For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping downe; +For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne; +But while the west bin red to see, +And storms be none, and pyrates flee, +Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + +I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding down with might and main: +He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, +"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" +(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + +"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, +And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." +He shook as one that looks on death: +"God save you, mother!" straight he saith, +"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + +"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; +And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." +He looked across the grassy lea, +To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" +They rang "The Brides of Enderby"! + +With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed +A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. +It swept with thunderous noises loud; +Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, +Or like a demon in a shroud. + +And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, +Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. +Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- +Then beaten foam flew round about-- +Then all the mighty floods were out. + +So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, +Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. +The feet had hardly time to flee +Before it brake against the knee, +And all the world was in the sea. + +Upon the roofe we sat that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; +I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high,-- +A lurid mark and dread to see; +And awesome bells they were to mee, +That in the dark rang "Enderby." + +They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; +And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; +And yet he moaned beneath his breath, +"Oh, come in life, or come in death! +Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth." + +And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; +The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear; +Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, +The lifted sun shone on thy face, +Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + +That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; +A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: +But each will mourn his own (she saith), +And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + +I shall never hear her more +By the reedy Lindis shore, +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling +Ere the early dews be falling; +I shall never hear her song, +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along, +Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; +From the meads where melick groweth, +When the water winding down, +Onward floweth to the town. + +I shall never see her more +Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; +Stand beside the sobbing river, +Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling +To the sandy lonesome shore; +I shall never hear her calling, +"Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; +Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, +From your clovers lift the head; +Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, +Jetty, to the milking-shed." + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +September Days + + +O month of fairer, rarer days +Than Summer's best have been; +When skies at noon are burnished blue, +And winds at evening keen; +When tangled, tardy-blooming things +From wild waste places peer, +And drooping golden grain-heads tell +That harvest-time is near. + +Though Autumn tints amid the green +Are gleaming, here and there, +And spicy Autumn odors float +Like incense on the air, +And sounds we mark as Autumn's own +Her nearing steps betray, +In gracious mood she seems to stand +And bid the Summer stay. + +Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves +The sward be lightly strown, +And nests deserted tell the tale +Of summer bird-folk flown; +Though white with frost the lowlands lie +When lifts the morning haze, +Still there's a charm in every hour +Of sweet September days. + + _Helen L. Smith_ + + + + +The New Year + + +Who comes dancing over the snow, + His soft little feet all bare and rosy? +Open the door, though the wild wind blow, + Take the child in and make him cozy, +Take him in and hold him dear, +Here is the wonderful glad New Year. + + _Dinah M. Craik_ + + + + +An "If" For Girls + +(_With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling_.) + + +If you can dress to make yourself attractive, + Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight; +If you can swim and row, be strong and active, + But of the gentler graces lose not sight; +If you can dance without a craze for dancing, + Play without giving play too strong a hold, +Enjoy the love of friends without romancing, + Care for the weak, the friendless and the old; + +If you can master French and Greek and Latin, + And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien, +If you can feel the touch of silk and satin + Without despising calico and jean; +If you can ply a saw and use a hammer, + Can do a man's work when the need occurs, +Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer, + Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs; + +If you can make good bread as well as fudges, + Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, +If you can be a friend and hold no grudges, + A girl whom all will love because they must; + +If sometime you should meet and love another + And make a home with faith and peace enshrined, +And you its soul--a loyal wife and mother-- + You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind +The plan that's been developed through the ages, + And win the best that life can have in store, +You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages-- + A woman whom the world will bow before. + + _Elizabeth Lincoln Otis._ + + + + +Boy and Girl of Plymouth + + +Little lass of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet; +Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; +Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; +Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; +Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; +Modest little maiden,--Plymouth's Pilgrim girl! + +Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; +Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; +Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; +Every garment fashioned as a man's might be; +Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; +Manly little Pilgrim,--boy of Plymouth town! + +Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; +Finer task than yours was, children never knew; +Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; +Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; +Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; +Yours to make it brighter,--Pilgrim girl and boy! + + _Helen L. Smith_. + + + + +Work: A Song of Triumph + + +Work! + Thank God for the might of it, + The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, + Work that springs from the heart's desire, + Setting the brain and the soul on fire-- + Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, + And what is so glad as the beat of it, + And what is so kind as the stern command, + Challenging brain and heart and hand? + +Work! + Thank God for the pride of it, + For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, + Sweeping the life in its furious flood, + Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, + Mastering stupor and dull despair, + Moving the dreamer to do and dare-- + Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, + And what is so glad as the surge of it, + And what is so strong as the summons deep, + Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? + +Work! + Thank God for the pace of it, + For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, + Fiery steeds in full control, + Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. + Work, the power that drives behind, + Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, + Holding the runaway wishes back, + Reining the will to one steady track, + Speeding the energies, faster, faster, + Triumphing ever over disaster; + Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, + And what is so great as the gain of it, + And what is so kind as the cruel goad, + Forcing us on through the rugged road? + +Work! + Thank God for the swing of it, + For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, + Passion of labor daily hurled + On the mighty anvils of the world. + Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? + And what is so huge as the aim of it? + Thundering on through dearth and doubt, + Calling the plan of the Maker out, + Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, + Shaping the earth to a glorious end, + Draining the swamps and blasting hills, + Doing whatever the Spirit wills-- + Rending a continent apart, + To answer the dream of the Master heart. + Thank God for a world where none may shirk-- + Thank God for the splendor of Work! + + _Angela Morgan._ + + + + +Reply to "A Woman's Question" + +(_"A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers +Ask For_.") + + +You say I have asked for the costliest thing + Ever made by the Hand above-- +A woman's heart and a woman's life, + And a woman's wonderful love. + +That I have written your duty out, + And, man-like, have questioned free-- +You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, + While you in turn question me. + +And when I ask you to be my wife, + The head of my house and home, +Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life, + Thy shield when sorrow shall come-- + +You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, + And point to my coat's missing button, +And haughtily ask if I want a _cook_, + To serve up my _beef_ and my _mutton_. + +'Tis a _king_ that you look for. Well, I am not he, + But only a plain, earnest man, +Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, + Often shrink from the gulf they should span. + +'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade + From the cheek so full, so fair; +'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold + Was ever reflected there. + +True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, + And the Autumn of life will come; +But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, + Should I make it thy shelter, thy home. + +Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; + All things that a man should be"; +Ah! lady, my _truth_, in return, doubt not, + For the rest, I leave it to thee. + + _Nettie H. Pelham._ + + + + +The Romance of Nick Van Stann + + +I cannot vouch my tale is true, +Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; +But true or false, or new or old, +I think you'll find it fairly told. +A Frenchman, who had ne'er before +Set foot upon a foreign shore, +Weary of home, resolved to go +And see what Holland had to show. +He didn't know a word of Dutch, +But that could hardly grieve him much; +He thought, as Frenchmen always do, +That all the world could "parley-voo." +At length our eager tourist stands +Within the famous Netherlands, +And, strolling gaily here and there, +In search of something rich or rare, +A lordly mansion greets his eyes; +"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, +And, bowing to the man who sate +In livery at the garden gate, +"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, +Whose very charming grounds are these? +And, pardon me, be pleased to tell +Who in this splendid house may dwell." +To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man +Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"[*] + +"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste +Is equally superb and chaste; +So fine a house, upon my word, +Not even Paris can afford. +With statues, too, in every niche; +Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, +And lives, I warrant, like a king,-- +Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" +In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets +A thousand wonders in the streets, +But most he marvels to behold +A lady dressed in silk and gold; +Gazing with rapture on the dame, +He begs to know the lady's name, +And hears, to raise his wonders more, +The very words he heard before! +"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, +Milord has got a charming wife; +'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann +Must be a very happy man." + +Next day our tourist chanced to pop +His head within a lottery shop, +And there he saw, with staring eyes, +The drawing of the mammoth prize. +"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; +I wish I had as much at home: +I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, +What lucky fellow is the winner?" +Conceive our traveler's amaze +To hear again the hackneyed phrase. +"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? +Faith! he's the luckiest of men. +You may be sure we don't advance +So rapidly as that in France: +A house, the finest in the land; +A lovely garden, nicely planned; +A perfect angel of a wife, +And gold enough to last a life; +There never yet was mortal man +So blest--as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!" + +Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet +A pompous funeral in the street; +And, asking one who stood close by +What nobleman had pleased to die, +Was stunned to hear the old reply. +The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, +"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; +With such a house, and such a wife, +It must be hard to part with life; +And then, to lose that mammoth prize,-- +He wins, and, pop,--the winner dies! +Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, +I greatly feared they could not last: +And thus, we see, the sword of Fate +Cuts down alike the small and great." + +[Footnote *: Nicht verstehen:--"I don't understand."] + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Armageddon + + +Marching down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, stout and strong! +Let us cheer the way we tread on, + With a soldier's song! +Faint we by the weary road, + Or fall we in the rout, +Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!-- + Let the song ring out! + +We are they who scorn the scorners-- + Love the lovers--hate +None within the world's four corners-- + All must share one fate; +We are they whose common banner + Bears no badge nor sign, +Save the Light which dyes it white-- +The Hope that makes it shine. + +We are they whose bugle rings, + That all the wars may cease; +We are they will pay the Kings + Their cruel price for Peace; +We are they whose steadfast watchword + Is what Christ did teach-- +"Each man for his Brother first-- + And Heaven, then, for each." + +We are they who will not falter-- + Many swords or few-- +Till we make this Earth the altar + Of a worship new; +We are they who will not take + From palace, priest or code, +A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"-- + A lower Lord than God. + +Marching down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, stout and strong! +Ask not why the way we tread on + Is so rough and long! +God will tell us when our spirits + Grow to grasp His plan! +Let us do our part to-day-- + And help Him, helping Man! + +Shall we even curse the madness + Which for "ends of State" +Dooms us to the long, long sadness + Of this human hate? +Let us slay in perfect pity + Those that must not live; +Vanquish, and forgive our foes-- + Or fall--and still forgive! + +We are those whose unpaid legions, + In free ranks arrayed, +Massacred in many regions-- + Never once were stayed: +We are they whose torn battalions, + Trained to bleed, not fly, +Make our agonies a triumph,-- + Conquer, while we die! + +Therefore, down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, bold and strong; +Cheer the glorious way we tread on, + With this soldier song! +Let the armies of the old Flags + March in silent dread! +Death and Life are one to us, + Who fight for Quick and Dead! + + _Edwin Arnold._ + + + + +Picciola + + +It was a sergeant old and gray, + Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage. +Went tramping in an army's wake + Along the turnpike of the village. + +For days and nights the winding host + Had through the little place been marching, +And ever loud the rustics cheered, + Till every throat was hoarse and parching. + +The squire and farmer, maid and dame, + All took the sight's electric stirring, +And hats were waved and staves were sung, + And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. + +They only saw a gallant show + Of heroes stalwart under banners, +And, in the fierce heroic glow, + 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas. + +The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, + Where he behind in step was keeping; +But, glancing down beside the road, + He saw a little maid sit weeping. + +"And how is this?" he gruffly said, + A moment pausing to regard her;-- +"Why weepest thou, my little chit?" + And then she only cried the harder. + +"And how is this, my little chit?" + The sturdy trooper straight repeated, +"When all the village cheers us on, + That you, in tears, apart are seated? + +"We march two hundred thousand strong, + And that's a sight, my baby beauty, +To quicken silence into song + And glorify the soldier's duty." + +"It's very, very grand, I know," + The little maid gave soft replying; +"And father, mother, brother too, + All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying; + +"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think, + How many little sisters' brothers +Are going all away to fight, + And may be killed, as well as others!" + +"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, + His brawny hand her curls caressing, +"'Tis left for little ones like thee + To find that war's not all a blessing." + +And "Bless thee!" once again he cried, + Then cleared his throat and looked indignant +And marched away with wrinkled brow + To stop the struggling tear benignant. + +And still the ringing shouts went up + From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; +The pall behind the standard seen + By one alone of all the village. + +The oak and cedar bend and writhe + When roars the wind through gap and braken; +But 'tis the tenderest reed of all + That trembles first when Earth is shaken. + + _Robert Henry Newell._ + + + + +The King's Ring + + +Once in Persia reigned a king +Who upon his signet ring +Graved a maxim true and wise +Which, if held before his eyes, +Gave him counsel at a glance +Fit for every change and chance. +Solemn words; and these are they: +"Even this shall pass away." + +Trains of camels through the sand +Brought him gems from Samarcand, +Fleets of galleys through the seas +Brought him pearls to match with these; +But he counted not his gain-- +Treasurer of the mine and main, +"What is wealth?" the king would say; +"Even this shall pass away." + +In the revels of his court +At the zenith of the sport, +When the palms of all his guests +Burned with clapping at his jests, +He, amid his figs and wine, +Cried: "O loving friends of mine! +Pleasures come, but not to stay, +Even this shall pass away." + +Fighting on a furious field +Once a javelin pierced his shield; +Soldiers with loud lament +Bore him bleeding to his tent, +Groaning with his tortured side. +"Pain is hard to bear," he cried; +"But with patience day by day, +Even this shall pass away." + +Struck with palsy, sere and old, +Waiting at the gates of gold, +Spake he with his dying breath: +"Life is done, but what is death?" +Then, in answer to the king, +Fell a sunbeam on his ring, +Showing by a heavenly ray: +"Even this shall pass away." + + _Theodore Tilton._ + + + + +Leaving the Homestead + + +You're going to leave the homestead, John, + You're twenty-one to-day: +And very sorry am I, John, + To see you go away. +You've labored late and early, John, + And done the best you could; +I ain't going to stop you, John, + I wouldn't if I could. + +Yet something of your feelings, John, + I s'pose I'd ought to know, +Though many a day has passed away-- + 'Twas forty years ago-- +When hope was high within me, John, + And life lay all before, +That I, with strong and measured stroke, + "Cut loose" and pulled from shore. + +The years they come and go, my boy, + The years they come and go; +And raven locks and tresses brown + Grow white as driven snow. +My life has known its sorrows, John, + Its trials and troubles sore; +Yet God withal has blessed me, John, + "In basket and in store." + +But one thing let me tell you, John, + Before you make a start, +There's more in being honest, John, + Twice o'er than being smart. +Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, + And sterling worth to fail, +Oh! keep in view the good and true; + 'Twill in the end prevail. + +Don't think too much of money, John, + And dig and delve and plan, +And rake and scrape in every shape, + To hoard up all you can. +Though fools may count their riches, John, + In dollars and in cents, +The best of wealth is youth and health, + And good sound common sense. + +And don't be mean and stingy, John, + But lay a little by +Of what you earn; you soon will learn + How fast 'twill multiply. +So when old age comes creeping on, + You'll have a goodly store +Of wealth to furnish all your needs-- + And maybe something more. + +There's shorter cuts to fortune, John, + We see them every day; +But those who save their self-respect + Climb up the good old way. +"All is not gold that glitters," John, + And makes the vulgar stare, +And those we deem the richest, John, + Have oft the least to spare. + +Don't meddle with your neighbors, John, + Their sorrows or their cares; +You'll find enough to do, my boy, + To mind your own affairs. +The world is full of idle tongues-- + You can afford to shirk! +There's lots of people ready, John, + To do such dirty work. + +And if amid the race for fame + You win a shining prize, +The humbler work of honest men + You never should despise; +For each one has his mission, John, + In life's unchanging plan-- +Though lowly be his station, John, + He is no less a man. + +Be good, be pure, be noble, John; + Be honest, brave, be true; +And do to others as you would + That they should do to you; +And put your trust in God, my boy, + Though fiery darts be hurled; +Then you can smile at Satan's rage, + And face a frowning world. + +Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless + Your footsteps day by day; +The old house will be lonesome, John, + When you are gone away. +The cricket's song upon the hearth + Will have a sadder tone; +The old familiar spots will be + So lonely when you're gone. + + + + +Bernardo Del Carpio + +King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the +time of the birth of the Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure +his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. Finally +the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange +for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. +The cruel trick played by the King on Bernardo is here described. + + +The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, +And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; +"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, +I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh break my father's chain!" +"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; +Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." + +Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, +And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. +And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, +With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: +"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, +The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." + +His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and + went; +He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; +A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-- +What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? +That hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead! +He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! +A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white, +He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight! + +Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? +They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. +They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, +For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. +"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; +Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! + +He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; +He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. +Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: +"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; +My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father--oh, the worth, +The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! +I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! +I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! +Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;--for thee my fields were won; +And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" + +Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, +Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; +And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, +And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: +"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? +Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? +The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they? +If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! +Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; +Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. +Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed! +Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head." + +He loosed the steed--his slack hand fell; upon the silent face +He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. +His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; +His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + + + +Mizpah + + +Go thou thy way, and I go mine, + Apart--but not afar. +Only a thin veil hangs between + The pathways where we are, +And God keep watch 'tween thee and me + This is my prayer. +He looks thy way--He looketh mine + And keeps us near. + +I know not where thy road may lie + Nor which way mine will be, +If thine will lead through parching sands + And mine beside the sea. +Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me, + So never fear. +He holds thy hand--He claspeth mine + And keeps us near. + +Should wealth and fame perchance be thine + And my lot lowly be, +Or you be sad and sorrowful + And glory be for me, +Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me, + Both are his care. +One arm round me and one round thee + Will keep us near. + +I sigh sometimes to see thy face + But since this may not be +I leave thee to the love of Him + Who cares for thee and me. +"I'll keep ye both beneath My wings," + This comforts--dear. +One wing o'er thee--and one o'er me, + So we are near. + +And though our paths be separate + And thy way be not mine-- +Yet coming to the mercy seat + My soul shall meet with thine. +And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me" + I'll whisper there. +He blesses me--He blesses thee + And we are near. + + + + +God + + +O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright +All space doth occupy, all motion guide-- +Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! +Thou only God--there is no God beside! +Being above all beings! Mighty One, +Whom none can comprehend and none explore, +Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone-- +Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,-- +Being whom we call God, and know no more! + +In its sublime research, philosophy +May measure out the ocean-deep--may count +The sands or the sun's rays--but, God! for Thee +There is no weight nor measure; none can mount +Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark, +Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try +To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: +And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, +Even like past moments in eternity. + +Thou from primeval nothingness didst call +First chaos, then existence--Lord! in Thee +Eternity had its foundation; all +Sprung forth from Thee--of light, joy, harmony, +Sole Origin--all life, all beauty Thine; +Thy word created all, and doth create; +Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; +Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great! +Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! + +Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround-- +Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! +Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, +And beautifully mingled life and death! +As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, +So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; +And as the spangles in the sunny rays +Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry +Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. + +A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, +Wander unwearied through the blue abyss-- +They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, +All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. +What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-- +A glorious company of golden streams-- +Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- +Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? +But Thou to these art as the noon to night. + +Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, +All this magnificence in Thee is lost:-- +What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? +And what am I then?--Heaven's unnumbered host, +Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed +In all the glory of sublimest thought, +Is but an atom in the balance, weighed +Against Thy greatness--is a cipher brought +Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! + +Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, +Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; +Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine +As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. +Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly +Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee +I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, +Even to the throne of Thy divinity. +I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! + +Thou art!--directing, guiding all--Thou art! +Direct my understanding then to Thee; +Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; +Though but an atom midst immensity, +Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! +I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth-- +On the last verge of mortal being stand. +Close to the realm where angels have their birth, +Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! + +The chain of being is complete in me-- +In me is matter's last gradation lost, +And the next step is spirit--Deity! +I can command the lightning, and am dust! +A monarch and a slave--a worm, a god! +Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously +Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod +Lives surely through some higher energy; +For from itself alone it could not be! + +Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word +Created me! Thou source of life and good! +Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! +Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude +Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring +Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear +The garments of eternal day, and wing +Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, +Even to its source--to Thee--its Author there. + +O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! +Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, +Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. +And waft its homage to Thy Deity. +God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, +Thus seek thy presence--Being wise and good! +Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; +And when the tongue is eloquent no more +The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. + + _Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin._ + + + + +Casabianca + + +The boy stood on the burning deck, + Whence all but him had fled; +The flame that lit the battle's wreck + Shone round him o'er the dead. + +Yet beautiful and bright he stood, + As born to rule the storm; +A creature of heroic blood, + A proud, though childlike form. + +The flames roll'd on--he would not go + Without his father's word; +That father, faint in death below, + His voice no longer heard. + +He called aloud: "Say, father, say + If yet my task is done?" +He knew not that the chieftain lay + Unconscious of his son. + +"Speak, father!" once again he cried, + "If I may yet be gone!" +And but the booming shots replied, + And fast the flames roll'd on. + +Upon his brow he felt their breath, + And in his waving hair; +And looked from that lone post of death + In still, yet brave despair. + +And shouted but once more aloud, + "My father! must I stay?" +While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, + The wreathing fires made way. + +They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, + They caught the flag on high, +And streamed above the gallant child, + Like banners in the sky. + +There came a burst of thunder sound-- + The boy--oh! where was he? +Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strewed the sea! + +With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, + That well had borne their part-- +But the noblest thing that perished there + Was that young, faithful heart. + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + + + +Monterey + + +We were not many,--we who stood + Before the iron sleet that day; +Yet many a gallant spirit would +Give half his years if he but could + Have been with us at Monterey. + +Now here, now there, the shot it hailed + In deadly drifts of fiery spray, +Yet not a single soldier quailed +When wounded comrades round them wailed + Their dying shout at Monterey. + +And on, still on our column kept, + Through walls of flame, its withering way; +Where fell the dead, the living stept, +Still charging on the guns which swept + The slippery streets of Monterey. + +The foe himself recoiled aghast, + When, striking where he strongest lay, +We swooped his flanking batteries past, +And braving full their murderous blast, + Stormed home the towers of Monterey. + +Our banners on those turrets wave, + And there our evening bugles play; +Where orange boughs above their grave +Keep green the memory of the brave + Who fought and fell at Monterey. + +We are not many, we who pressed + Beside the brave who fell that day; +But who of us has not confessed +He'd rather share their warrior rest, + Than not have been at Monterey? + + _Charles Fenno Hoffman._ + + + + +The Teacher's "If" + + +If you can take your dreams into the classroom, + And always make them part of each day's work-- +If you can face the countless petty problems + Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk-- +If you can live so that the child you work with + Deep in his heart knows you to be a man-- +If you can take "I can't" from out his language + And put in place a vigorous "I can"-- + +If you can take Love with you to the classroom, + And yet on Firmness never shut the door-- +If you can teach a child the love of Nature + So that he helps himself to all her store-- +If you can teach him life is what we make it, + That he himself can be his only bar-- +If you can tell him something of the heavens, + Or something of the wonder of a star-- + +If you, with simple bits of truth and honor, + His better self occasionally reach-- +And yet not overdo nor have him dub you + As one who is inclined to ever preach-- +If you impart to him a bit of liking + For all the wondrous things we find in print-- +Yet have him understand that to be happy, + Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint-- + +If you can give of all the best that's in you, + And in the giving always happy be-- +If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere + Deep in the heart of every child you see-- +If you can do these things and all the others + That teachers everywhere do every day-- +You're in the work that you were surely meant for; + Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay! + + _R.J. Gale._ + + + + +The Good Shepherd + + +There were ninety and nine +Of a flock, sleek and fine + In a sheltering cote in the vale; +But a lamb was away, +On the mountain astray, + Unprotected within the safe pale. + +Then the sleet and the rain +On the mountain and plain, + And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, +And the night's growing dark, +And the wolf's hungry bark + Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale. + +And he says, "Hireling, go; +For a lamb's in the snow + And exposed to the wild hungry beast; +'Tis no time to keep seat, +Nor to rest weary feet, + Nor to sit at a bounteous feast." + +Then the hireling replied, +"Here you have at your side + All your flock save this one little sheep. +Are the ninety and nine, +All so safe and so fine, + Not enough for the shepherd to keep?" + +Then the shepherd replied, +"Ah! this lamb from my side + Presses near, very near, to my heart. +Not its value in pay +Makes me urge in this way, + But the longings and achings of heart." + +"Let me wait till the day, +O good shepherd, I pray; + For I shudder to go in the dark +On the mountain so high +And its precipice nigh + 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark." + +Then the shepherd said, "No; +Surely some one must go + Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, +From the wolf's hungry maw +And the lion's fierce paw + And restore it again to the fold." + +Then the shepherd goes out +With his cloak girt about + And his rod and his staff in his hand. +What cares he for the cold +If his sheep to the fold + He can bring from the dark mountain land? + +You can hear his clear voice +As the mountains rejoice, + "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" +Up the hillside so steep, +Into caverns so deep, + "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" + +Now he hears its weak "baa," +And he answers it, "Ah! + Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" +Then its answering bleat +Hurries on his glad feet, + And his arms gather up his lost sheep. + +Wet and cold on his breast +The lost lamb found its rest + As he bore it adown to the fold. +And the ninety and nine +Bleat for joy down the line, + That it's safe from the wolf and the cold. + +Then he said to his friends, +"Now let joy make amends + For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed-- +For the pelting of sleet +And my sore, weary feet, + For I've found the dear lamb that was lost." + +Let the hirelings upbraid +For the nights that He stayed + On the mountains so rugged and high. +Surely never a jeer +From my lips shall one hear, + For--that poor lonely lambkin--was--I. + +While the eons shall roll +O'er my glad ransomed soul + I will praise the Good Shepherd above, +For a place on His breast, +For its comfort and rest, + For His wonderful, wonderful love. + + _D. N. Howe._ + + + + +A Sermon in Rhyme + + +If you have a friend worth loving, + Love him. Yes, and let him know +That you love him ere life's evening + Tinge his brow with sunset glow; +Why should good words ne'er be said +Of a friend--till he is dead? + +If you hear a song that thrills you, + Sung by any child of song, +Praise it. Do not let the singer + Wait deserved praises long; +Why should one that thrills your heart +Lack that joy it may impart? + +If you hear a prayer that moves you + By its humble pleading tone, +Join it. Do not let the seeker + Bow before his God alone; +Why should not your brother share +The strength of "two or three" in prayer? + +If you see the hot tears falling + From a loving brother's eyes, +Share them, and by sharing, + Own your kinship with the skies; +Why should anyone be glad, +When his brother's heart is sad? + +If a silver laugh goes rippling + Through the sunshine on his face, +Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, + For both grief and joy a place; +There's health and goodness in the mirth +In which an honest laugh has birth. + +If your work is made more easy + By a friendly helping hand, +Say so. Speak out brave and truly, + Ere the darkness veil the land. +Should a brother workman dear +Falter for a word of cheer? + +Scatter thus your seed of kindness, + All enriching as you go-- +Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; + He will make each seed to grow. +So, until its happy end, +Your life shall never lack a friend. + + + + +The Fortunate Isles + + +You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, + The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song? +Then steer right on through the watery miles, + Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. +Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; +But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, +The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing +And life lies girt with a golden ring. + +These Fortunate Isles, they are not far; + They lie within reach of the lowliest door; +You can see them gleam by the twilight star; + You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore, +Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones, +They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones +Of glory for souls that have sailed before +And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. + +And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? + Why, Duty and Love and a large content. +Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles + That God let down from the firmament; +Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust; +Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust; +Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles, +And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles. + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet + + +A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, +With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; +And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, +She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it. + +But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, +The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; +So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, +And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing. + +So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; +And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. +"Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. +"Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. + +This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, +That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; +For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, +With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. + +And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, +But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, +Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, +Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet. + +Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find +In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; +And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, +Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers. + + _M. T. Morrison._ + + + + +Work Thou for Pleasure + + +Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve +The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. +Who works for glory misses oft the goal; +Who works for money coins his very soul. +Work for work's sake then, and it well may be +That these things shall be added unto thee. + + _Kenyon Cox._ + + + + +The Tin Gee Gee + + +I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade, +That place for children's toys, +Where you can purchase a dolly or spade +For your good little girls and boys. +And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: +O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee; +O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee. + +Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw, +In his little cocked hat so fine. +He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light +As he led a glittering line of tin hussars, +Whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military. +And that little tin soldier he rode at their head, +So proud on his tin Gee Gee. + +Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, +So I patted his little tin head. +What vexes your little tin soul? said I, +And this is what he said: +I've been on this stall a very long time, +And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; +Whilst just on the shelf above my head, +There's a fellow marked sixty-three. + +Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, +And I'm quite as good as he. +So why mark me at twenty-nine, +And him at sixty-three? +There's a pretty little dolly girl over there, +And I'm madly in love with she. +But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, +She turns up her nose at me, +She turns up her little wax nose at me, +And carries on with sixty-three. + +And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; +It's a dress I do admire, +She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut +When worked inside by a wire, +And once on a time when the folks had gone, +She used to ogle at me. +But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, +She turns up her nose at me. +She turns up her little snub nose at me, +And carries on with sixty-three. + +Cheer up, my little tin man, said I, +I'll see what I can do. +You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame +That she should so treat you. +So I took down the label from the shelf above, +And I labeled him sixty-three, +And I marked the other one twenty-nine, +Which was _very, very_ wrong of me, +But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul, +As he rode on his tin Gee Gee. + +Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, +At being marked sixty-three, +And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, +For he'd risen in life, do you see? +And it's so in this world; for I'm in love +With a maiden of high degree; +But I am only marked twenty-nine, +And the other chap's sixty-three-- +And a girl never looks at twenty-nine +With a possible sixty-three! + + _Fred Cape._ + + + + +"Tommy" + + +I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, +The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." +The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, +I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I: +O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"; +But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play, +The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, +O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. + +I went into a theater as sober as could be, +They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; +They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, +But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls. +For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside"; +But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, +The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc. + +O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep +Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; +An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit +Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. +Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" +But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, +The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc. + +We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, +But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; +An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, +Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints. +While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind"; +But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. +There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc. + +You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: +We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. +Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, +The Widow's uniform[1] is not the soldierman's disgrace. +For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" +But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; +An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; +An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +[Footnote 1: "Widow's uniform"--i. e., uniform of a soldier of Queen +Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."] + + + + +The Mystic Weaver + + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; + Foot and treadle, + Hand and pedal, +Upward, downward, hither, thither, +How the weaver makes them go: +As the weaver wills they go. +Up and down the web is plying, +And across the woof is flying; + What a rattling! + What a battling! + What a shuffling! + What a scuffling! +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. +Threads in single, threads in double; +How they mingle, what a trouble! +Every color, what profusion! +Every motion, what confusion! +While the web and woof are mingling, +Signal bells above are jingling,-- +Telling how each figure ranges, +Telling when the color changes, +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; +'Mid the noise and wild confusion, +Well the weaver seems to know, +As he makes his shuttle go, + What each motion + And commotion, + What each fusion + And confusion, +In the grand result will show. + Weaving daily, + Singing gaily, +As he makes his busy shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; +See you not how shape and order +From the wild confusion grow, +As he makes his shuttle go?-- +As the web and woof diminish, +Grows beyond the beauteous finish,-- + Tufted plaidings, + Shapes, and shadings; + All the mystery + Now is history;-- +And we see the reason subtle, +Why the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +See the Mystic Weaver sitting +High in heaven--His loom below; +Up and down the treadles go; +Takes for web the world's long ages, +Takes for woof its kings and sages, +Takes the nobles and their pages, +Takes all stations and all stages,-- +Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle; +Armies make them scud and scuttle; +Web into the woof must flow, +Up and down the nations go, +As the weaver wills they go; + Men are sparring, + Powers are jarring, +Upward, downward, hither, thither +Just like puppets in a show. +Up and down the web is plying, +And across the woof is flying, + What a battling! + What a rattling! + What a shuffling! + What a scuffling! +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +Calmly see the Mystic Weaver + Throw His shuttle to and fro; +'Mid the noise and wild confusion. + Well the Weaver seems to know + What each motion + And commotion, + What each fusion + And confusion, + In the grand result will show, + As the nations, + Kings and stations, +Upward, downward, hither, thither, +As in mystic dances, go. +In the present all is mystery; +In the past, 'tis beauteous history. +O'er the mixing and the mingling, +How the signal bells are jingling! +See you not the Weaver leaving +Finished work behind, in weaving? +See you not the reason subtle, +As the web and woof diminish, +Changing into beauteous finish, +_Why_ the Weaver makes his shuttle, +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle? + +Glorious wonder! what a weaving! +To the dull beyond believing! +Such, no fabled ages know. +Only _Faith_ can see the mystery, +How, along the aisle of history +Where the feet of sages go, +Loveliest to the purest eyes, +Grand the mystic tapet lies,-- +Soft and smooth, and even spreading +Every figure has its plaidings, +As if made for angels' treading; +Tufted circles touching ever, +Inwrought figures fading never; +Brighter form and softer shadings; +Each illumined,--what a riddle +From a cross that gems the middle. + +'Tis a saying--some reject it-- +That its light is all reflected; +That the tapet's hues are given +By a sun that shines in heaven! +'Tis believed, by all believing, +That great God himself is weaving,-- +Bringing out the world's dark mystery, +In the light of truth and history; +And as web and woof diminish, +Comes the grand and glorious finish; +When begin the golden ages +Long foretold by seers and sages. + + + + +The Mortgage on the Farm + + +'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while, +And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile; +It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; +No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm. + +I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know +How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; +I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm +Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm. + +The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim. +To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim; +And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed +He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read. + +The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, +They said the house was out of style and far behind the times; +They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm-- +Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm. + +We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day, +While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; +The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years +Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears. + +We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it, +It was a most tremendous thing--I really didn't mean it; +Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town +And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down. + +I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, +But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; +No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, +For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!" + +I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave +To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave, +And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, +The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.-- + +But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, +The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; +And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow, +I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow. + +He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, +But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; +And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, +We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs. + +To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, +And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down; +And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, +The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!" + +I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, +The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. +The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, +And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm! + + + + +The Legend Beautiful + + +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" +That is what the vision said. + +In his chamber all alone, +Kneeling on the floor of stone, +Prayed the Monk in deep contrition +For his sins of indecision, +Prayed for greater self-denial +In temptation and in trial; +It was noonday by the dial, +And the Monk was all alone. + +Suddenly, as if it lightened, +An unwonted splendor brightened +All within him and without him +In that narrow cell of stone; +And he saw the blessed vision +Of our Lord, with light Elysian +Like a vesture wrapped about Him, +Like a garment round Him thrown. + +Not as crucified and slain +Not in agonies of pain, +Not with bleeding hands and feet, +Did the Monk his Master see; +But as in the village street, +In the house or harvest field, +Halt and lame and blind He healed, +When He walked in Galilee. + +In as attitude imploring, +Hands upon his bosom crossed, +Wondering, worshiping, adoring, +Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost, +Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, +Who am I that thus Thou deignest +To reveal Thyself to me? +Who am I, that from the center +Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter +This poor cell, my guest to be? + +Then amid his exaltation, +Loud the convent bell appalling, +From its belfrey calling, calling, +Rang through court and corridor +With persistent iteration, +He had never heard before. +It was now the appointed hour +When alike in shine or shower, +Winter's cold or summer's heat, +To the convent portals came +All the blind and halt and lame, +All the beggars of the street, +For their daily dole of food +Dealt them by the brotherhood; + +And their almoner was he +Who upon his bended knees +Rapt in silent ecstasy +Of divinest self-surrender, +Saw the vision and the splendor. + +Deep distress and hesitation +Mingled with his adoration; +Should he go, or should he stay? +Should he leave the poor to wait +Hungry at the convent gate, +Till the vision passed away? +Should he slight his radiant guest, +Slight this visitant celestial +For a crowd of ragged, bestial +Beggars at the convent gate? +Would the vision there remain? +Would the vision come again? +Then a voice within his breast +Whispered audible and clear, +As if to the outward ear: +"Do thy duty; that is best; +Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + +Straightway to his feet he started, +And with longing look intent +On the blessed vision bent, +Slowly from his cell departed, +Slowly on his errand went. + +At the gate the poor were waiting, +Looking through the iron grating, +With that terror in the eye +That is only seen in those +Who amid their wants and woes +Hear the sound of doors that close. +And of feet that pass them by: +Grown familiar with disfavor, +Grown familiar with the savor +Of the bread by which men die; +But to-day, they knew not why, +Like the gate of Paradise +Seemed the convent gate to rise, +Like a sacrament divine +Seemed to them the bread and wine. +In his heart the Monk was praying, +Thinking of the homeless poor, +What they suffer and endure; +What we see not, what we see; +And the inward voice was saying: +"Whatsoever thing thou doest +To the least of mine and lowest, +That thou doest unto me." + +Unto me! but had the vision +Come to him in beggar's clothing, +Come a mendicant imploring, +Would he then have knelt adoring, +Or have listened with derision, +And have turned away with loathing? + +Thus his conscience put the question, +Full of troublesome suggestion, +As at length, with hurried pace, +Toward his cell he turned his face, +And beheld the convent bright +With a supernatural light, +Like a luminous cloud expanding +Over floor and wall and ceiling. + +But he paused with awe-struck feeling +At the threshold of his door, +For the vision still was standing +As he left it there before, +When the convent bell appalling, +From its belfry calling, calling, +Summoned him to feed the poor. +Through the long hour intervening +It had waited his return, +And he felt his bosom burn, +Comprehending all the meaning, +When the blessed vision said: +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled." + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Somebody's Darling + + +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, + Where the dead and dying lay, +Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, + Somebody's Darling was borne one day-- + +Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, + Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, +Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, + The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. + +Matted and damp are the curls of gold, + Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, +Pale are the lips of delicate mold-- + Somebody's Darling is dying now. + +Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow + Brush all the wandering waves of gold, +Cross his hands on his bosom now-- + Somebody's Darling is still and cold. + +Kiss him once for somebody's sake, + Murmur a prayer both soft and low; +One bright curl from its fair mates take-- + They were somebody's pride, you know. + +Somebody's hand hath rested there-- + Was it a mother's, soft and white? +And have the lips of a sister fair + Been baptized in their waves of light? + +God knows best! he was somebody's love; + Somebody's heart enshrined him there; +Somebody wafted his name above, + Night and morn on the wings of prayer. + +Somebody wept when he marched away, + Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; +Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, + Somebody clung to his parting hand. + +Somebody's waiting and watching for him-- + Yearning to hold him again to her heart; +And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, + And the smiling, child-like lips apart. + +Tenderly bury the fair young dead, + Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; +Carve in the wooden slab at his head, + "Somebody's Darling slumbers here." + + _Maria La Coste._ + + + + +The Pride of Battery B + + +South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, +And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. +At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; +At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began. +When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood +Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. +A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, +(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) +And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head +In grave salute. "And who are _you_?" at length the sergeant said. +"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me? +Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B. +My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead; +And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned. +And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too; +And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review. +But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, +And so they're cross--why, even Ned won't play with me and joke. +And the big colonel said to-day--I hate to hear him swear-- +He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there. +And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still, +I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill +And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.' +Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back. +Indeed I will, for Ned--says he,--if I do what I say, +I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." + +We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh +As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half. +To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, +Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then +We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, +And watched her toddle out of sight--or else 'twas tears that hid +Her tiny form--nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, +Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard! +We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; +A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound. + +That's all--save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, +And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, +Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see +Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B. + + _Frank H. Gassaway._ + + + + +The Wood-Box + + +It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, +And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, +And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, +Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near. +Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, +And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, +And it hadn't any bottom--or, at least, it seemed that way +When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play. + +When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, +And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, +And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, +And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"-- +Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, +You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!" +And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, +Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!" + +In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, +And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, +And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam-- +Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, +Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, +"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!" +Land! how plain it is this minute--shed and barn and drifted snow, +And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row. + +Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, +But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; +You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, +But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away. +Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit +All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit: +And when I look back at boyhood--shakin' off the cares of men-- +Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!" + + _Joseph C. Lincoln._ + + + + +Inasmuch + + +Good Deacon Roland--"may his tribe increase!"-- +Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace +With God and all mankind. His wants supplied, +He read his Bible and then knelt beside +The family altar, and uplifted there +His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer; +In praise for blessings past, so rich and free, +And prayer for benedictions yet to be. +Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, +He sat him down complacently, and thence +Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, +His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; +His meadows waving like the billowy seas, +And orchards filled with over-laden trees, +Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands; +Abundance crowns the labor of my hands, +Great is my substance; God indeed is good, +Who doth in love provide my daily food." + +While thus he sat in calm soliloquy, +A voice aroused him from his reverie,-- +A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet +Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; +"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day; +If I had money I would gladly pay +For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy +My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I +Should ask for something, just for what you call +Cold pieces from your table, that is all?" +The deacon listened to the child's request, +The while his penetrating eye did rest +On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed +The agitation of the heart concealed +Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, +Who asked not alms like one demanding dues. +Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined +To give encouragement to those who find +It easier to beg for bread betimes, +Than to expend their strength in earning dimes +Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought +To furnish food for those whom he has brought +Into this world, where each one has his share +Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care. +I sympathize with you, my little lad, +Your destitution makes me feel so sad; +But, for the sake of those who should supply +Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny; +And inasmuch as giving food to you +Would be providing for your parents, too, +Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, +I cannot think such charity would bless +Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat, +I cannot give you anything to eat." +Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood +The child nor found it satisfying food. +Nor did he tell the tale he might have told +Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, +But quickly shrank away to find relief +In giving vent to his rekindled grief, +While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal +In meditating on his better weal. + +Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out +To summon worshippers, with hearts devout, +To wait on God and listen to His word; +And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; +And in the house of God he soon was found +Engaged in acts of worship most profound. +Wearied, however, with his week-day care, +He fell asleep before the parson's prayer +Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came +To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: +"I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar, +To join the saints; please set the gates ajar, +That I may 'join the everlasting song,' +And mingle ever with the ransomed throng." +Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came +Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: +"Depart from me! you cannot enter here! +I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er +You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact +Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act--" +The deacon woke to find it all a dream +Just as the minister announced his theme: +"My text," said he, "doth comfort only such +As practice charity; for 'inasmuch +As ye have done it to the least of these +My little ones' saith He who holds the keys +Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,' +And I will give you immortality." + +Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, +And from the church in sudden haste withdrew, +And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet +To overtake the child of woe, and greet +Him as the worthy representative +Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give +All needful good, that thus he might atone +For the neglect which he before had shown. +Thus journeying, God directed all his way, +O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay +Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate. +And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late; +Make haste and journey with me to my home; +To guide you thither, I myself have come; +And you shall have the food you asked in vain, +For God himself hath made my duty plain; +If he demand it, all I have is thine; +Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine." +And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, +The child related how he came to roam, +Until the listening deacon understood +The touching story of his orphanhood. +Then, finding in the little waif a gem +Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem, +He drew him to his loving breast, and said, +"My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; +Nor shall you go from hence again to roam +While God in love provides for us a home." +And as the weeks and months roll on apace, +The deacon held the lad in love's embrace; +And being childless did on him confer +The boon of sonship. + + Thus the almoner +Of God's great bounty to the destitute +The deacon came to be; and as the fruit +Of having learned to keep the golden rule +His charity became all-bountiful; +And from thenceforth he lived to benefit +Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ +Their names who heeded charity's request, +Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest." + + _S.V.R. Ford._ + + + + +No Sects in Heaven + + +Talking of sects quite late one eve, +What one and another of saints believe, +That night I stood in a troubled dream +By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. + +And a "churchman" down to the river came, +When I heard a strange voice call his name, +"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide +You must leave your robes on the other side." + +But the aged father did not mind, +And his long gown floated out behind +As down to the stream his way he took, +His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book. + +"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there +I shall want my book of Common Prayer, +And though I put on a starry crown, +I should feel quite lost without my gown." + +Then he fixed his eye on the shining track, +But his gown was heavy and held him back, +And the poor old father tried in vain, +A single step in the flood to gain. + +I saw him again on the other side, +But his silk gown floated on the tide, +And no one asked, in that blissful spot, +If he belonged to "the church" or not. + +Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; +His dress of a sober hue was made, +"My hat and coat must be all of gray, +I cannot go any other way." + +Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin +And staidly, solemnly, waded in, +And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight +Over his forehead, so cold and white. + +But a strong wind carried away his hat, +And he sighed a few moments over that, +And then, as he gazed to the farther shore +The coat slipped off and was seen no more. + +Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray +Is quietly sailing--away--away, +But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, +Whether thy brim be broad or narrow. + +Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms +Tied nicely up in his aged arms, +And hymns as many, a very wise thing, +That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing. + +But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, +As he saw that the river ran broad and high, +And looked rather surprised, as one by one, +The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. + +And after him, with his MSS., +Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness, +But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do? +The water has soaked them through and through." + +And there, on the river, far and wide, +Away they went on the swollen tide, +And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, +Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. + +Then gravely walking, two saints by name, +Down to the stream together came, +But as they stopped at the river's brink, +I saw one saint from the other shrink. + +"Sprinkled or plunged--may I ask you, friend, +How you attained to life's great end?" +"_Thus_, with a few drops on my brow"; +"But I have been _dipped_, as you'll see me now. + +"And I really think it will hardly do, +As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. +You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, +But you must go that way, and I'll go this." + +And straightway plunging with all his might, +Away to the left--his friend at the right, +Apart they went from this world of sin, +But how did the brethren "enter in"? + +And now where the river was rolling on, +A Presbyterian church went down; +Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, +But the men I could count as they passed along. + +And concerning the road they could never agree, +The _old_ or the _new_ way, which it could be; +Nor ever a moment paused to think +That both would lead to the river's brink. + +And a sound of murmuring long and loud +Came ever up from the moving crowd, +"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, +That is the false, and this is the true": +Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, +_That_ is the false, and _this_ is the true." + +But the brethren only seemed to speak, +Modest the sisters walked, and meek, +And if ever one of them chanced to say +What troubles she met with on the way, +How she longed to pass to the other side, +Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, +A voice arose from the brethren then, +"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,' +For have ye not heard the words of Paul? +'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'" + +I watched them long in my curious dream. +Till they stood by the border of the stream, +Then, just as I thought, the two ways met. +But all the brethren were talking yet, +And would talk on, till the heaving tide +Carried them over, side by side; +Side by side, for the way was one, +The toilsome journey of life was done, +And priest and Quaker, and all who died, +Came out alike on the other side; +No forms or crosses, or books had they, +No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, +No creeds to guide them, or MSS., +For all had put on "Christ's righteousness." + + _Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland._ + + + + +The Railroad Crossing + + +I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick; +But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick: +It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out. +But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about. + +You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine, +A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline, +And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before, +The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore. + +You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole: +Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole; +I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said, +And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read. + +I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell, +I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L; +And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road." +I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed. + +C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot, +Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't. +"Railroad crossing"--good enough!--L double-O-K, "look"; +And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book. + +O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out," +I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about; +F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the--" +And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G. + +I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack; +A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track; +The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash, +And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. + +I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two; +But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through; +It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine; +But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign! + + _Hezekiah Strong._ + + + + +The Sunset City + + +I + +Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore +A world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more. +'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco lay +Effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day +That bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely height +And kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay. + +It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes, +And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes; +It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow, +Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below, +Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen +Of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow. + +The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air +All odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare. +The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball +Ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall. +Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew +As shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all. + + +II + +That night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay, +Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array, +That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent, +And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went. +'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed; +The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content. + + +III + +Unconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleeps +While from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps. +See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky, +And hazy clouds of gray unfold--but, hark! What means that cry? +The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan + and rock. +Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die. + +A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes; +The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes, +And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast; +Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast. +Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and + shout, +To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past. + +A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves; +And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves. +Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air. +Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere. + + +IV + +"_Fire! Fire!_" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped + to their hearts +Are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair. + +A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst. +No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst? +The shocks have broken all the mains! "_Use wine!_" the people cry. +The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die, +Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling; +From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky. + +Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden Gate +Come Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate. +The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side +To check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide. +With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at + last. +The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide; + +Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance, +And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance. +Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee. +"Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee. +Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel. +With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea. + +Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven; +Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven. +All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host +They strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,-- +On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim; +Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed. + +Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone! +And westward now--toward Van Ness--the roaring flames roll on. +"Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command, +And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand. +The fight is now for life--sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless + wife-- +The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand. + +On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given. +The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven. +The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom; +That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb. +Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think, +Behold the red waves rise and--sink into the smoldering gloom. + + +V + +The fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down, +The business section--swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown-- +Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies, +And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise. +A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bare +Waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies. + +To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute, +Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute! +Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch--the wrecks of Pomp and Pride; +Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side. +And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants + wail, +While' nations read the tragic tale--how San Francisco died. + + +VI + +PROPHECY--1906 + +Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives--indomitable will-- +The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill. +To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise, +And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise-- +A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate-- +The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies! + + +VII + +FULFILLMENT--1915 + +Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse-- +A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance! +A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore, +Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore; +Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world! +Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore. + + _Isabel Ambler Gilman._ + + + + +Autumn + +A DIRGE + + +The autumn is old; +The sere leaves are flying; +He hath gathered up gold, +And now he is dying: +Old age, begin sighing! + +The vintage is ripe; +The harvest is heaping; +But some that have sowed +Have no riches for reaping:-- +Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! + +The year's in the wane; +There is nothing adorning; +The night has no eve, +And the day has no morning; +Cold winter gives warning. + +The rivers run chill; +The red sun is sinking; +And I am grown old, +And life is fast shrinking; +Here's enow for sad thinking! + + _Thomas Hood_. + + + + +Grandmother's Quilt + + +Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place +On top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace, +You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet, +But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat; +I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think? +Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink, +Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block, +Pieced out of odds and ends; but still--now that's your papa's frock +Before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit. +I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute! +That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name, +Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came. +Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike. +And this was baby Winnie's sack--the precious little tyke! +Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then). +And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again. +This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's--poor dear! +Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here. +Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that scrap of army blue; +Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too. +They sent him home on furlough once--our soldier brother Ned; +But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead. +That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest! +Why, dearie--yes, it's satin ribbed--that's grandpa's wedding vest! +Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far, +Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star. +But, somehow--What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat, +But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet. + + + + +The Two Angels + + +Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, + Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; +The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, + The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. + +Their attitude and aspect were the same, + Alike their features and their robes of white; +But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, + And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. + +I saw them pause on their celestial way; + Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, +"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray + The place where thy beloved are at rest!" + +And he who wore the crown of asphodels, + Descending, at my door began to knock, +And my soul sank within me, as in wells + The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. + +I recognized the nameless agony, + The terror and the tremor and the pain, +That oft before had filled or haunted me, + And now returned with threefold strength again. + +The door I opened to my heavenly guest, + And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; +And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, + Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. + +Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, + "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; +And ere I answered, passing out of sight, + On his celestial embassy he sped. + +'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, + The angel with the amaranthine wreath, +Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, + Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. + +Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, + A shadow on those features fair and thin; +And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, + Two angels issued, where but one went in. + +All is of God! If he but waves his hand, + The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, +Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, + Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. + +Angels of Life and Death alike are his; + Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; +Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, + Against his messengers to shut the door? + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Witch's Daughter + + +It was the pleasant harvest-time, + When cellar-bins are closely stowed, + And garrets bend beneath their load, +And the old swallow-haunted barns-- + Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams + Through which the moted sunlight streams-- + +And winds blow freshly in, to shake + The red plumes of the roosted cocks, + And the loose hay-mow's scented locks-- +Are filled with summer's ripened stores, + Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, + From their low scaffolds to their eaves. + +On Esek Harden's oaken floor, + With many an autumn threshing worn, + Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. +And thither came young men and maids, + Beneath a moon that, large and low, + Lit that sweet eve of long ago, +They took their places; some by chance, + And others by a merry voice + Or sweet smile guided to their choice. + +How pleasantly the rising moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!-- +On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, + On girlhood with its solid curves + Of healthful strength and painless nerves! +And jests went round, and laughs that made + The house-dog answer with his howl, + And kept astir the barn-yard fowl. + +And quaint old songs their fathers sung, + In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, + Ere Norman William trod their shores; +And tales, whose merry license shook + The fat sides of the Saxon thane, + Forgetful of the hovering Dane! + +But still the sweetest voice was mute + That river-valley ever heard + From lip of maid or throat of bird; +For Mabel Martin sat apart, + And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall + Upon the loveliest face of all. +She sat apart, as one forbid, + Who knew that none would condescend + To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. + +The seasons scarce had gone their round, + Since curious thousands thronged to see + Her mother on the gallows-tree; +And mocked the palsied limbs of age, + That faltered on the fatal stairs, + And wan lip trembling with its prayers! + +Few questioned of the sorrowing child, + Or, when they saw the mother die, + Dreamed of the daughter's agony. +They went up to their homes that day, + As men and Christians justified: + God willed it, and the wretch had died! + +Dear God and Father of us all, + Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- + Forgive the blindness that denies! +Forgive Thy creature when he takes, + For the all-perfect love Thou art, + Some grim creation of his heart. +Cast down our idols, overturn + Our bloody altars; let us see + Thyself in Thy humanity! + +Poor Mabel from her mother's grave + Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, + And wrestled with her fate alone; +With love, and anger, and despair, + The phantoms of disordered sense, + The awful doubts of Providence! +The school-boys jeered her as they passed, + And, when she sought the house of prayer, + Her mother's curse pursued her there. +And still o'er many a neighboring door + She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, + To guard against her mother's harm;-- + +That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, + Who daily, by the old arm-chair, + Folded her withered hands in prayer;-- +Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, + Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, + When her dim eyes could read no more! + +Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept + Her faith, and trusted that her way, + So dark, would somewhere meet the day. +And still her weary wheel went round, + Day after day, with no relief: + Small leisure have the poor for grief. + +So in the shadow Mabel sits; + Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, + Her smile is sadder than her tears. +But cruel eyes have found her out, + And cruel lips repeat her name, + And taunt her with her mother's shame. + +She answered not with railing words, + But drew her apron o'er her face, + And, sobbing, glided from the place. +And only pausing at the door, + Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze + Of one who, in her better days, +Had been her warm and steady friend, + Ere yet her mother's doom had made + Even Esek Harden half afraid. + +He felt that mute appeal of tears, + And, starting, with an angry frown + Hushed all the wicked murmurs down, +"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, + "This passes harmless mirth or jest; + I brook no insult to my guest. + +"She is indeed her mother's child; + But God's sweet pity ministers + Unto no whiter soul than hers. +Let Goody Martin rest in peace; + I never knew her harm a fly, + And witch or not, God knows,--not I. +I know who swore her life away; + And, as God lives, I'd not condemn + An Indian dog on word of them." + +Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, + Sat by the window's narrow pane, + White in the moonlight's silver rain. +The river, on its pebbled rim, + Made music such as childhood knew; + The door-yard tree was whispered through +By voices such as childhood's ear + Had heard in moonlights long ago; + And through the willow boughs below +She saw the rippled waters shine; + Beyond, in waves of shade and light + The hills rolled off into the night. + +Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so + The sadness of her human lot, + She saw and heard, but heeded not. +She strove to drown her sense of wrong, + And, in her old and simple way, + To teach, her bitter heart to pray. + +Poor child! the prayer, began in faith, + Grew to a low, despairing cry + Of utter misery: "Let me die! +Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, + And hide me where the cruel speech + And mocking finger may not reach! + +"I dare not breathe my mother's name; + A daughter's right I dare not crave + To weep above her unblest grave! +Let me not live until my heart, + With few to pity, and with none + To love me, hardens into stone. +O God! have mercy on thy child, + Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, + And take me ere I lose it all." + +The broadest lands in all the town, + The skill to guide, the power to awe, + Were Harden's; and his word was law. +None dared withstand him to his face, + But one sly maiden spake aside: + "The little witch is evil-eyed! +Her mother only killed a cow, + Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; + But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" + +A shadow on the moonlight fell, + And murmuring wind and wave became + A voice whose burden was her name. +Had then God heard her? Had he sent + His angel down? In flesh and blood, + Before her Esek Harden stood! + +He laid his hand upon her arm: + "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; + Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. +You know rough Esek Harden well; + And if he seems no suitor gay, + And if his hair is mixed with gray, +The maiden grown shall never find + His heart less warm than when she smiled + Upon his knees, a little child!" + +Her tears of grief were tears of joy, + As folded in his strong embrace, + She looked in Esek Harden's face. +"O truest friend of all!" she said, + "God bless you for your kindly thought, + And make me worthy of my lot!" + +He led her through his dewy fields, + To where the swinging lanterns glowed, + And through the doors the huskers showed. +"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, + "I'm weary of this lonely life; + In Mabel see my chosen wife! + +"She greets you kindly, one and all: + The past is past, and all offence + Falls harmless from her innocence. +Henceforth she stands no more alone; + You know what Esek Harden is;-- + He brooks no wrong to him or his." + +Now let the merriest tales be told, + And let the sweetest songs be sung, + That ever made the old heart young! +For now the lost has found a home; + And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, + As all the household joys return! + +Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! +On Mabel's curls of golden hair, + On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; + And the wind whispered, "It is well!" + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +David's Lament for Absalom + + +King David's limbs were weary. He had fled +From far Jerusalem; and now he stood +With his faint people for a little rest +Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind +Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow +To its refreshing breath; for he had worn +The mourner's covering, and he had not felt +That he could see his people until now. + +They gathered round him on the fresh green bank +And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun +Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, +And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. +Oh! when the heart is full--where bitter thoughts +Come crowding thickly up for utterance, +And the poor common words of courtesy,-- +Are such a mockery--how much +The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! +He prayed for Israel--and his voice went up +Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those +Whose love had been his shield--and his deep tones +Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, +For his estranged, misguided Absalom-- +The proud, bright being who had burst away +In all his princely beauty to defy +The heart that cherished him--for him he prayed, +In agony that would not be controll'd, +Strong supplication, and forgave him there +Before his God for his deep sinfulness. + +The pall was settled. He who slept beneath +Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds +Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed +The matchless symmetry of Absalom, +The mighty Joab stood beside the bier +And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, +As if he feared the slumberer might stir. +A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade +As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form +Of David entered; and he gave command +In a low tone to his few followers, +And left him with the dead. + + The King stood still +Till the last echo died; then, throwing off +The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back +The pall from the still features of his child. +He bowed his head upon him and broke forth +In the resistless eloquence of woe: + +"Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! + Thou who were made so beautifully fair! +That death should settle in thy glorious eye, + And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! +How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, + My proud boy, Absalom! + +"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill + As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! +How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill + Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, +And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb + And cold lips, Absalom! + +"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush + Of music, and the voices of the young; +And life will pass me in the mantling blush, + And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- +But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come + To meet me, Absalom! + +"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, + Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, +How will its love for thee, as I depart, + Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! +It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, + To see thee, Absalom! + +"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, + With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- +And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup, + If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. +May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, + My lost boy, Absalom!" + +He covered up his face, and bowed himself +A moment on his child; then, giving him +A look of melting tenderness, he clasped +His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, +And, as if strength were given him of God, +He rose up calmly, and composed the pall +Firmly and decently--and left him there, +As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. + + _N.P. Willis_. + + + + +Christmas Day in the Workhouse + + +It is Christmas day in the workhouse, + And the cold bare walls are bright +With garlands of green and holly, + And the place is a pleasant sight: +For with clean-washed hands and faces, + In a long and hungry line +The paupers sit at the tables, + For this is the hour they dine. + +And the guardians and their ladies, + Although the wind is east, +Have come in their furs and wrappers + To watch their charges feast; +To smile and be condescending, + Put pudding on pauper plates, +To be hosts at the workhouse banquet + They've paid for--with the rates. + +Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly + With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"; +So long as they fill their stomachs, + What matter whence it comes? +But one of the old men mutters, + And pushes his plate aside: +"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me; + For this is the day _she_ died." + +The guardians gazed in horror, + The master's face went white: +"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" + "Could their ears believe aright?" +Then the ladies clutched their husbands + Thinking the man would die, +Struck by a bolt, or something, + By the outraged One on high. + +But the pauper sat for a moment, + Then rose 'mid a silence grim, +For the others had ceased to chatter, + And trembled in every limb. +He looked at the guardians' ladies, + Then, eyeing their lords, he said: +"I eat not the food of villains + Whose hands are foul and red, + +"Whose victims cry for vengeance + From their dark unhallowed graves." +"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, + "Or else he's mad, and raves." +"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, + "But only a hunted beast, +Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, + Declines the vulture's feast. + +"I care not a curse for the guardians, + And I won't be dragged away. +Just let me have the fit out, + It's only on Christmas day +That the black past comes to goad me, + And prey on my burning brain, +I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,-- + I swear I won't shout again, + +"Keep your hands off me, curse you! + Hear me right out to the end, +You come here to see how paupers + The season of Christmas spend. +You come here to watch us feeding, + As they watch the captured beast, +Hear why a penniless pauper + Spits on your palfry feast. + +"Do you think I will take your bounty, + And let you smile and think +You're doing a noble action + With the parish's meat and drink? +Where is my wife, you traitors-- + The poor old wife you slew? +Yes, by the God above us, + My Nance was killed by you! + +"Last winter my wife lay dying, + Starved in a filthy den; +I had never been to the parish,-- + I came to the parish then. +I swallowed my pride in coming, + For, ere the ruin came. +I held up my head as a trader, + And I bore a spotless name. + +"I came to the parish, craving + Bread for a starving wife, +Bread for the woman who'd loved me + Through fifty years of life; +And what do you think they told me, + Mocking my awful grief? +That 'the House' was open to us, + But they wouldn't give 'out relief.' + +"I slunk to the filthy alley-- + 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve-- +And the bakers' shops were open, + Tempting a man to thieve: +But I clenched my fists together, + Holding my head awry, +So I came to her empty-handed + And mournfully told her why. + +"Then I told her 'the House' was open; + She had heard of the ways of _that_, +For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, + And up in her rags she sat, +Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, + We've never had one apart; +I think I can bear the hunger,-- + The other would break my heart.' + +"All through that eve I watched her, + Holding her hand in mine, +Praying the Lord, and weeping + Till my lips were salt as brine. +I asked her once if she hungered, + And as she answered 'No,' +The moon shone in at the window + Set in a wreath of snow. + +"Then the room was bathed in glory, + And I saw in my darling's eyes +The far-away look of wonder + That comes when the spirit flies; +And her lips were parched and parted, + And her reason came and went, +For she raved of our home in Devon + Where our happiest years were spent. + +"And the accents, long forgotten, + Came back to the tongue once more, +For she talked like the country lassie + I woo'd by the Devon shore. +Then she rose to her feet and trembled, + And fell on the rags and moaned, +And, 'Give me a crust--I'm famished-- + For the love of God!' she groaned. + +"I rushed from the room like a madman, + And flew to the workhouse gate, +Crying 'Food for a dying woman?' + And the answer came, 'Too late.' +They drove me away with curses; + Then I fought with a dog in the street, +And tore from the mongrel's clutches + A crust he was trying to eat. + +"Back, through the filthy by-lanes! + Back, through the trampled slush! +Up to the crazy garret, + Wrapped in an awful hush. +My heart sank down at the threshold, + And I paused with a sudden thrill, +For there in the silv'ry moonlight + My Nance lay, cold and still. + +"Up to the blackened ceiling + The sunken eyes were cast-- +I knew on those lips all bloodless + My name had been the last: +She'd called for her absent husband-- + O God! had I but known!-- +Had called in vain, and in anguish + Had died in that den--_alone_. + +"Yes, there, in a land of plenty, + Lay a loving woman dead, +Cruelly starved and murdered + For a loaf of the parish bread. +At yonder gate, last Christmas, + I craved for a human life. +You, who would feast us paupers, + _What of my murdered wife!_ + + * * * * * + +"There, get ye gone to you dinners; + Don't mind me in the least; +Think of the happy paupers + Eating your Christmas feast; +And when you recount their blessings + In your snug, parochial way, +Say what you did for _me_, too, + Only last Christmas Day." + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +Our Presidents--A Memory Rhyme + + +First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name; +John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came; +Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go-- +'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe. + +Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q., +And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true. +Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see, +And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee. + +Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore; +New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'er +The keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realm +Abe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm. + +Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen; +And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men. +Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came; +Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again. + +McKinley--shot at Buffalo--the nation plunged in grief, +And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief. +Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came-- +New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame; + +And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run, +The country went Republican and Warren Harding won. +No duty would he shirk,--he died while on a western trip; +Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership. + + _Isabel Ambler Gilman._ + + + + +Annie and Willie's Prayer + + +'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said, +And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; +There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, +And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, +For to-night their stern father's command had been given +That they should retire precisely at seven +Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more +With questions unheard of than ever before; +He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, +No such being as Santa Claus ever had been, +And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear +How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year, +And this was the reason that two little heads +So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. + +Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; +Not a word had been spoken by either till then; +When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, +And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?" +"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, +"I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; +For somehow, it makes me so sorry because +Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus; +Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, +For he came every year before mamma died; +But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, +And God would hear everything mamma would say; +And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here +With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." +"Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then, +And ask Him to send him with presents aden?" +"I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more, +Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, +And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, +And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. +"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe +That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; +You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,' +And by that you will know that your turn has come then. +Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me. +And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee! +I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, +And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. +Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see +That Santa Claus loves us far better than he; +Don't let him get fretful and angry again +At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!" +"Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, +And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight; +I want he should div me a nice ittle sed, +With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed; +A box full of tandy, a book and a toy-- +Amen--and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." +Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, +And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds; +They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, +And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. + +Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten +Ere the father had thought of his children again; +He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, +And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. +"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, +"And should not have sent them so early to bed; +But then I was troubled,--my feelings found vent, +For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. +But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, +And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss; +But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door, +For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." +So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, +And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. +His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, +And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. +"Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, +"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. +I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, +"By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." + +Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, +Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; +Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, +A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet, +Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, +From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. +Indeed he kept adding so much to his store +That the various presents outnumbered a score; +Then homeward he turned with his holiday load +And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. +Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, +By the side of a table spread out for a tea; +A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, +And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed; +A soldier in uniform stood by a sled +With bright shining runners, and all painted red; +There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, +And birds of all colors--were perched in the tree, +While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, +As if getting ready more presents to drop. +And as the fond father the picture surveyed, +He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid; +And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, +"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, +I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before-- +What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more. +Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, +To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." +So thinking he gently extinguished the light, +And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. + +As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun +Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one, +Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, +And at the same moment the presents espied; +Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, +And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found; +They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, +And shouted for papa to come quick and see +What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night +(Just the things that they wanted) and left before light; +"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, +"You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know"; +While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, +Determined no secret between them should be, +And told in soft whispers how Annie had said +That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, +Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, +And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer! +"Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, +And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?" + +"I should say that he was if he sent you all these, +And knew just what presents my children would please. +Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, +'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself." + +Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent, +And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? +'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs, +And made you His agent to answer their prayers. + + _Sophia P. Snow._ + + + + +Trailing Arbutus + + +I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made +Against the bitter East their barricade, + And, guided by its sweet +Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, +The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell + Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. + +From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines +Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines + Lifted their glad surprise, +While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees +His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, + And snow-drifts lingered under April skies. + +As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, +I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent, + Which yet find room, +Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, +To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day + And make the sad earth happier for their bloom. + + _J.G. Whittier._ + + + + +When the Light Goes Out + + +Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light, +An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright; +Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days-- +Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze. +So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do +Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through; +Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise, +Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days; +She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you, +And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due. +Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low, +Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago-- +Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead-- +To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead; +Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more-- +Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core. +Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still +Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will-- +Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say +That I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way; +No words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen +Would hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men." +So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor, +Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more; +Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about-- +Yer record keeps on burnin' + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + + _Harry S. Chester._ + + + + +Prayer and Potatoes + + +An old lady sat in her old arm-chair, +With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, + And pale and hunger-worn features; +For days and for weeks her only fare, +As she sat there in her old arm-chair, + Had been potatoes. + +But now they were gone; of bad or good. +Not one was left for the old lady's food + Of those potatoes; +And she sighed and said, "What shall I do? +Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go + For more potatoes?" + +And she thought of the deacon over the way, +The deacon so ready to worship and pray, + Whose cellar was full of potatoes; +And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come; +He'll not mind much to give me some + Of such a store of potatoes." + +And the deacon came over as fast as he could, +Thinking to do the old lady some good, + But never thought of potatoes; +He asked her at once what was her chief want, +And she, simple soul, expecting a grant, + Immediately answered, "Potatoes." + +But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; +He was more accustomed to preach and pray + Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; +So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said, +He rose to pray with uncovered head, + But _she_ only thought of potatoes. + +He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, +But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace," + She audibly sighed "Give potatoes"; +And at the end of each prayer which he said, +He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead, + The same request for potatoes. + +The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; +'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so + About "those carnal potatoes." +So, ending his prayer, he started for home; +As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, + "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" + +And that groan followed him all the way home; +In the midst of the night it haunted his room-- + "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" +He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed; +From his well-filled cellar taking in haste + A bag of his best potatoes. + +Again he went to the widow's lone hut; +Her sleepless eyes she had not shut; +But there she sat in that old arm-chair, +With the same wan features, the same sad air, +And, entering in, he poured on the floor +A bushel or more from his goodly store + Of choicest potatoes. + +The widow's cup was running o'er, +Her face was haggard and wan no more. +"Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" +"Yes," said the widow, "_now_ you may." +And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, +Where he had poured his goodly store, +And such a prayer the deacon prayed +As never before his lips essayed; +No longer embarrassed, but free and full, +He poured out the voice of a liberal soul, +And the widow responded aloud "Amen!" + But spake no more of potatoes. + +And would you, who hear this simple tale, +Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"? +Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; +Search out the poor, their wants and their needs; +Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food, +For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,-- + _But don't forget the potatoes_. + + _J.T. Pettee._ + + + + +The Parts of Speech + + +Three little words you often see +Are articles _a_, _an_, and _the_. +A noun's the name of anything, +As _house_ or _garden_, _hoop_ or _swing_. +Instead of nouns the pronouns stand-- +_Her_ head, _your_ face, _his_ arm, _my_ hand. +Adjectives tell the kind of noun, +As _great_, _small_, _pretty_, _white_ or _brown_. +Verbs tell something to be done-- +To _read_, _count_, _sing_, _laugh_ or _run_. +How things are done the adverbs tell, +As _slowly_, _quickly_, _ill_ or _well_. +Conjunctions join the words together, +As men _and_ women, wind _or_ weather. +The preposition stands before +A noun, as _in_ or _through_ a door. +The interjection shows surprise, +As _oh!_ how pretty, _ah!_ how wise. +The whole are called nine parts of speech, +Which reading, writing, speaking teach. + + + + +A New Leaf + + +He came to my desk with, quivering lip-- + The lesson was done. +"Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said, + "I have spoiled this one." +I took the old leaf, stained and blotted, +And gave him a new one all unspotted, + And into his sad eyes smiled, + "Do better, now, my child." + +I went to the throne with a quivering soul-- + The old year was done. +"Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me? + I have spoiled this one." +He took the old leaf, stained and blotted, +And gave me a new one all unspotted, + And into my sad heart smiled, + "Do better, now, my child." + + _Carrie Shaw Rice._ + + + + +The Boy With the Hoe + + +How are you hoeing your row, my boy? + Say, how are you hoeing your row? + Do you hoe it fair? + Do you hoe it square? + Do you hoe it the best that you know? +Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do? + Do you plant what is beautiful there? + For the harvest, you know, + Will be just what you sow; + Are you working it on the square? + +Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy? + Are you hoeing your row neat and clean? + Are you going straight + At a hustling gait? + Are you cutting out all that is mean? +Do you whistle and sing as you toil along? + Are you finding your work a delight? + If you do it this way + You will gladden the day, + And your row will be tended right. + +Hoeing your row with a will, my boy, + And giving it thought and care, + Will insure success + And your efforts bless, + As the crop to the garner you bear; +For the world will look on as you hoe your row, + And will judge you by that which you do; + Therefore, try for first prize, + Though your utmost it tries, + For the harvest depends on you. + + _T.B. Weaver._ + + + + +Our Flag + + +Fling it from mast and steeple, + Symbol o'er land and sea +Of the life of a happy people, + Gallant and strong and free. +Proudly we view its colors, + Flag of the brave and true, +With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + +Flag of the fearless-hearted, + Flag of the broken chain, +Flag in a day-dawn started, + Never to pale or wane. +Dearly we prize its colors, + With the heaven light breaking through, +The clustered stars and the steadfast bars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + +Flag of the sturdy fathers, + Flag of the loyal sons, +Beneath its folds it gathers + Earth's best and noblest ones. +Boldly we wave its colors, + Our veins are thrilled anew +By the steadfast bars, the clustered stars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +The Little Fir-Trees + + +Hey! little evergreens, + Sturdy and strong, +Summer and autumn-time + Hasten along. +Harvest the sunbeams, then, + Bind them in sheaves, +Range them and change them + To tufts of green leaves. +Delve in the mellow-mold, + Far, far below. + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +Up, up so airily, + To the blue sky, +Lift up your leafy tips + Stately and high; +Clasp tight your tiny cones, + Tawny and brown, +By and by buffeting + Rains will pelt down. +By and by bitterly + Chill winds will blow, + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +Gather all uttermost + Beauty, because,-- +Hark, till I tell it now! + How Santa Claus, +Out of the northern land, + Over the seas, +Soon shall come seeking you, + Evergreen trees! +Seek you with reindeer soon, + Over the snow: + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +What if the maple flare + Flaunting and red, +You shall wear waxen white + Taper instead. +What if now, otherwhere, + Birds are beguiled, +You shall yet nestle + The little Christ-Child. +Ah! the strange splendor + The fir-trees shall know! + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + + _Evaleen Stein._ + + + + +He Worried About It + + +The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more-- + And he worried about it. +It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-- + And he worried about it. + It will surely give out, so the scientists said + In all scientifical books he had read, + And the whole boundless universe then will be dead-- + And he worried about it. + +And some day the earth will fall into the sun-- + And he worried about it-- +Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-- + And he worried about it. + When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, + "Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse! + It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-- + And he worried about it. + +And the earth will become much too small for the race-- + And he worried about it-- +When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space-- + And he worried about it. + The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, + That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out, + Nor room for one's thought to wander about-- + And he worried about it. + +And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider-- + And he worried about it-- +Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida-- + And he worried about it. + Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, + And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, + And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-- + And he worried about it. + +And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt-- + And he worried about it-- +Our supply of lumber and coal will give out-- + And he worried about it. + Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, + Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe, + As if vainly beseeching a general thaw-- + And he worried about it. + +His wife took in washing--half a dollar a day-- + He didn't worry about it-- +His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay-- + He didn't worry about it. + While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub + On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, + He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub-- + He didn't worry about it. + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The President + + +No gilt or tinsel taints the dress +Of him who holds the natal power, +No weighty helmet's fastenings press +On brow that shares Columbia's dower, +No blaring trumpets mark the step +Of him with mind on peace intent, +And so--HATS OFF! Here comes the State, +A modest King: + THE PRESIDENT. + +No cavalcade with galloping squads +Surrounds this man, whose mind controls +The actions of the million minds +Whose hearts the starry banner folds; +Instead, in simple garb he rides, +The King to whom grim Fate has lent +Her dower of righteousness and faith +To guide his will: + THE PRESIDENT. + +The ancient lands are struck with awe, +Here stands a power at which they scoffed, +Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states. +Are dazed,--at Columbia they mocked; +Yet human wills have forged new states, +Their wills on justice full intent, +And fashioned here a lowly King, +The People's choice: + THE PRESIDENT. + +War-ravaged, spent, and torn--old worlds +With hatred rent, turn to the West, +"Give help!" they cry--"our souls are wracked, +On every side our kingdom's pressed." +And see! Columbia hastens forth, +Her healing hand to peace is lent, +Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, +Her sons sent by + THE PRESIDENT. + +Full many a storm has tossed the barque +Since first it had its maiden trip, +Full many a conflagration's spark +Has scorched and seared the laboring ship; +And yet it ploughs a straightway course, +Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, +On sails the troubled Ship of State, +Steered forward by + THE PRESIDENT. + +STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by, +No roll of drums peals at his course, +NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you, +Your will with his: the nation's force. +And--as he passes--breathe a prayer, +May justice to his mind be lent, +And may the grace of Heaven be with +The man who rules: + OUR PRESIDENT. + + _Charles H.L. Johnston._ + + + + +Lullaby + + +Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming, + With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, +Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming, + Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go. +Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing + In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + +Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter + Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune; +Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, + As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon. +Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming + To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies. + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + +Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver + In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs, +Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river, + In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs. +Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming + Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise, + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +Chums + + +If we should be shipwrecked together +And only had water for one, +And it was the hottest of weather +Right out in the boiling sun, +He'd tell me--no matter how bad he +Might want it--to take a drink first; +And then he would smile--oh, so glad he +Had saved me!--and perish from thirst! + +Or, if we were lost on the prairie +And only had food for a day, +He'd come and would give me the share he +Had wrapped up and hidden away; +And after I ate it with sadness +He'd smile with his very last breath, +And lay himself down full of gladness +To save me--and starve right to death. + +And if I was wounded in battle +And out where great danger might be, +He'd come through the roar and the rattle +Of guns and of bullets to me, +He'd carry me out, full of glory, +No matter what trouble he had, +And then he would fall down, all gory +With wounds, and would die--but be glad! + +We're chums--that's the reason he'd do it; +And that's what a chum ought to be. +And if it was fire he'd go through it, +If I should call him to me. +You see other fellows may know you, +And friends that you have go and come; +But a boy has one boy he can go to, +For help all the time--that's his chum. + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +Jim Brady's Big Brother + + +Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad, +And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had; +He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree +And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three +Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound +Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground +Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do, +So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true. + +Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ball +From center to home just like nothing at all; +And often while playing a game he would stand +And take a high fly with just only one hand; +Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run +And won the big game when it stood three to one +Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed +The place where it lit in the old wagon road! + +Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a fly +That you hardly could see, for it went up so high; +He'd bring up his muscle and break any string +That you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing! +He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he +Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be, +And circuses often would want him to go +And be in the ring, but his mother said no. + +Jim Brady's big brother would often make bets +With boys that he'd turn two complete summersets +From off of the spring-board before he would dive, +And you'd hardly think he would come up alive; +And nobody else who went there to swim +Could do it, but it was just easy for him; +And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stay +In under and come up a half mile away. + +Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could run +Five miles in a race just as easy as one. +Right often he walked on his hands half a block +And could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk! +And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school, +Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool, +He'll get him to prove everything to be true +That Jimmy told us his big brother could do! + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +The Gray Swan + + +"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, +Is my little lad, my Elihu, + A-sailing with your ship?" +The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,-- +"Your little lad, your Elihu?" + He said with trembling lip,-- + "What little lad? what ship?" + +"What little lad! as if there could be +Another such a one as he! + What little lad, do you say? +Why, Elihu, that took to the sea +The moment I put him off my knee! + It was just the other day + The _Gray Swan_ sailed away." + +"The other day?" the sailor's eyes +Stood open with a great surprise,-- + "The other day? the _Swan?_" +His heart began in his throat to rise. +"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies + The jacket he had on." + "And so your lad is gone?" + +"Gone with the _Swan_." "And did she stand +With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, + For a month, and never stir?" +"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, +Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, + The wild sea kissing her,-- + A sight to remember, sir." + +"But, my good mother, do you know +All this was twenty years ago? + I stood on the _Gray Swan's_ deck, +And to that lad I saw you throw, +Taking it off, as it might be, so, + The kerchief from your neck." + "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" + +"And did the little lawless lad +That has made you sick and made you sad, + Sail with the _Gray Swan's_ crew?" +"Lawless! the man is going mad! +The best boy ever mother had,-- + Be sure he sailed with the crew! + What would you have him do?" + +"And he has never written line, +Nor sent you word, nor made you sign + To say he was alive?" +"Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; +Besides, he may be in the brine, + And could he write from the grave? + Tut, man, what would you have?" + +"Gone twenty years,--a long, long cruise, +'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; + But if the lad still live, +And come back home, think you you can +Forgive him?"--"Miserable man, + You're mad as the sea,--you rave,-- + What have I to forgive?" + +The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, +And from within his bosom drew + The kerchief. She was wild. +"My God! my Father! is it true +My little lad, My Elihu? + My blessed boy, my child! + My dead,--my living child!" + + _Alice Cary._ + + + + +The Circling Year + + +SPRING + +The joys of living wreathe my face, +My heart keeps time to freshet's race; +Of balmy airs I drink my fill-- +Why, there's a yellow daffodil! +Along the stream a soft green tinge +Gives hint of feathery willow fringe; +Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"-- + I'm glad Spring's here! + + +SUMMER + +An afternoon of buzzing flies. +Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise; +The long white road, the plodding team, +The deep, cool grass in which to dream; +The distant cawing of the crows, +Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows; +The peaceful cattle in the stream-- + Midsummer's dream! + + +AUTUMN + +A cold, gray day, a lowering sky, +A lonesome pigeon wheeling by; +The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades, +The shivering crane that flaps and wades; +Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree, +The peace the river sings to me; +The chill aloofness of the Fall-- + I love it all! + + +WINTER + +A sheet of ice, the ring of steel, +The crunch of snow beneath the heel; +Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh, +A restless pair that prance and neigh; +The early coming of the night, +Red glowing logs, a shaded light; +The firelit realm of books is mine-- + Oh, Winter's fine! + + _Ramona Graham._ + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + +A fellow near Kentucky's clime 34 +A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet 168 +'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct 125 +A harbor in a sunny, southern city 137 +Alone in the dreary, pitiless street 46 +Among the legends sung or said 63 +An old lady sat in her old arm-chair 200 +An old man going a lone highway 54 +April! April! are you here? 59 +A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace 108 +At Paris it was, at the opera there 72 +A traveler on the dusty road 97 +Away, away in the Northland 131 + +Beneath the hot midsummer sun 39 +Between broad fields of wheat and corn 147 +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell 104 +Break, break, break 52 +Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! 123 +By Nebo's lonely mountain 45 + +Chained in the market-place he stood 145 +Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen 128 +Cleon hath ten thousand acres 37 +Closed eyes can't see the white roses 84 +Come to me, O ye children! 16 +"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried 86 +Could we but draw back the curtains 29 + +Dear little flag in the window there 127 +Did you tackle the trouble that came your way 132 +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds 53 + +Every coin of earthly treasure 12 + +Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast 75 +Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 94 +First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name 195 +Fling it from mast and steeple 202 + +Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love 117 +God makes sech nights, all white an' still 59 +God said: I am tired of kings 62 +God send us a little home 87 +Good Deacon Roland--"May his tribe increase!" 178 +Go thou thy way, and I go mine 162 +Grandma told me all about it 48 +Great were the hearts and strong the minds 37 + +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" 174 +Han'some, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart as she kin be 96 +Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 111 +Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 27 +He came to my desk with quivering lip 202 +He who has the vision sees more than you or I 146 +Hey! little evergreens 203 +Home they brought her warrior dead 74 +How are you hoeing your row, my boy? 202 +Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber 35 + +I asked of Echo, t'other day 65 +I cannot vouch my tale is true 156 +I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick 182 +I come, I come! ye have called me long 26 +I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! 121 +If all the skies were sunshine 36 +If I had known in the morning 119 +If I were hanged on the highest hill 70 +If we should be shipwrecked together 206 +If you can dress to make yourself attractive 153 +If you can take your dreams into the classroom 165 +If you have a friend worth loving 167 +I have a rendezvous with Death 142 +I love my prairies, they are mine 74 +I'm not a chicken; I have seen 137 +In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came 112 +In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay 52 +In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say 130 +In a valley, centuries ago 36 +In Gettysburg at break of day 122 +In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 90 +In the hush and the lonely silence 65 +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls 175 +I sat alone with my conscience 81 +I saw him once before 20 +It is Christmas day in the workhouse 193 +It isn't the thing you do, dear 116 +It may be that the words I spoke 103 +It's easy to talk of the patience of Job 82 +It takes a heap o' livin' in a houst t' make it home 7 +It was a bright and lovely summer's morn 114 +It was an old, old, old, old lady 30 +It was a sergeant old and gray 158 +It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still 102 +It was in the days when Claverhouse 9 +It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide 177 +It was many and many a year ago 25 +It was the pleasant harvest-time 188 +It was the twilight hour 61 +I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West 53 +I walked through the woodland meadows 9 +I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made 199 +I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young 44 +I was sitting in my study 40 +I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade 169 +I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint of beer 170 +I, who was always counted, they say 42 +I wish there were some wonderful place 32 +I wrote some lines once on a time 14 + +Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad 206 + +King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 191 + +Laugh, and the world laughs with you 139 +Let us be kind 143 +Life! I know not what thou art 65 +Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells 47 +Like liquid gold the wheat field lies 8 +Little lamb, who made thee? 86 +Little lass of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet 154 +Little one, come to my knee! 89 + +Marching down to Armageddon 157 +Mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard 106 +My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf 35 + +Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes 131 +Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast 11 +Never yet was a springtime 93 +No, comrades, I thank you--not any for me 87 +No gilt or tinsel taints the dress 204 +No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end 140 +Not far advanced was morning day 95 +Not who you are, but what you are 66 + +O for one hour of youthful joy! 58 +O'Grady lived in Shanty row 44 +Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time 51 +Oh, East is East, and West is West 23 +Oh! listen to the water mill through all the livelong day 143 +Oh, such a commotion under the ground 59 +"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true" 207 +O Liberty, thou child of Law 39 +O month of fairer, rarer days 153 +Once in Persia reigned a king 159 +One sweetly solemn thought 48 +On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 91 +O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright 162 +Our band is few, but true and tried 54 +Our old brown homestead reared its walls 55 +Out of the hills of Habersham 66 + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you 80 +Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey 32 + +Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 63 + +Saint Augustine! well hast thou said 33 +She sat on the sliding cushion 29 +She's up there--Old Glory--where lightnings are sped 21 +She was a Phantom of delight 89 +Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog 122 +Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming 205 +Slow the Kansas sun was setting 37 +Some die too late and some too soon 84 +Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows 127 +Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing 138 +South mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay 176 +Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 99 +Sweet is the voice that called 75 + +Talking of sects quite late one eve 180 +The autumn is old 186 +The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day 58 +The boy stood on the burning deck 164 +The bravest battle that ever was fought 64 +The children kept coming one by one 146 +The coppenter man said a wicked word 139 +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary 28 +The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden + desk 68 +The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine 57 +The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone 120 +The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloath an' of silk 149 +The harp that once through Tara's halls 71 +The joys of living wreathe my face 208 +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 21 +The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone 55 +The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 15 +The night was dark when Sam set out 76 +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 150 +There are two kinds of people on earth to-day 116 +There fell an April shower, one night 26 +There lay upon the ocean's shore 150 +There's a dandy little fellow 82 +There was a Boy; you knew him well, ye cliffs 90 +There was a sound of revelry by night 17 +There were ninety and nine 166 +The rich man's son inherits lands 22 +The rosy clouds float overhead 62 +These are the things I hold divine 64 +The shades of night were falling fast 15 +The snow and the silence came down together 83 +The sunlight shone on walls of stone 134 +The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more 203 +The sweetest lives are those to duty wed 20 +The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire 160 +The weaver at this loom is sitting 171 +They grew in beauty, side by side 130 +They said, "The Master is coming" 30 +This is the land where hate should die 18 +Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light 199 +Three little words you often see 201 +'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar 77 +'Tis a lesson you should heed 135 +'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while 173 +'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung 28 +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!" 41 +Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore 183 +'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown 18 +'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse 78 +'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good-night" had been said 196 +Two angels, one of Life and one of Death 187 +Two little stockings hung side by side 141 + +Want any papers, Mister? 94 +We all look on with anxious eyes 40 +We are two travellers, Roger and I 49 +Well, wife, I found the _model_ church! I worshipped there to-day 148 +W'en you see a man in woe 123 +We squander health in search of wealth 103 +We were crowded in the cabin 56 +We were not many,--we who stood 165 +"What fairings will ye that I bring?" 92 +What flower is this that greets the morn 85 +What makes the dog's nose always cold? 144 +Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill 12 +Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 56 +Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track 8 +When I compare 34 +When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay 67 +When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find 100 +When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres 97 +When the lessons and tasks are all ended 133 +When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 118 +Whichever way the wind doth blow 67 +"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" 101 +Who comes dancing over the snow 153 +Who dat knockin' at de do'? 71 +Why dost thou wildly rush and roar 100 +Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place 186 +With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread 140 +Work! Thank God for the might of it 154 +Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve 169 + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 88 +Ye say that all have passed away--that noble race and brave 135 +Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough 109 +You bad leetle boy, not moche you care 80 +You may talk o' gin an' beer 98 +You're going to leave the homestead, John 159 +Your letter, lady, came too late 136 +You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles 168 +You say I have asked for the costliest thing 155 + + + + +Transcriber's note: + + The poem "Try Try Again" is not credited with an author in + the table of contents. The author of this poem is _William E. + Hickerson_. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR, BOOK TWO*** + + +******* This file should be named 19469-8.txt or 19469-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/4/6/19469 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/old/19469-8.zip b/old/19469-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..17942d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/19469-8.zip diff --git a/old/19469.txt b/old/19469.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8cb939 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/19469.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16310 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two, by Various + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two + + +Author: Various + + + +Release Date: October 4, 2006 [eBook #19469] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR, BOOK TWO*** + + +E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + +BOOK TWO + +Selected by +Readers of "Normal Instructor-Primary Plans" +Containing More Than Two Hundred Poems Requested for Publication in That +Magazine on the Page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For" + + + + + + + +INDEX OF TITLES + + +African Chief, The _Bryant_ 145 +Annabel Lee _Poe_ 25 +Annie and Willie's Prayer _Snow_ 196 +April! April! Are You Here? _Goodale_ 59 +April Showers _Wilkins_ 26 +Armageddon _E. Arnold_ 157 +Autumn _Hood_ 186 +Autumn Leaves _Wray_ 65 +Aux Italiens _Lytton_ 72 +Awakening _Sangster_ 93 + +Babie, The _Miller_ 131 +Ballad of East and West, The _Kipling_ 23 +Ballad of the Tempest, The _Fields_ 56 +Battle of Bunker's Hill, The _Cozzens_ 102 +Bells of Ostend, The _Bowles_ 140 +Bernardo Del Carpio _Hemans_ 160 +Betty and the Bear 130 +Bible My Mother Gave Me, The 117 +Bill's in the Legislature 53 +Billy's Rose _Sims_ 104 +Bivouac of the Dead, The _O'Hara_ 15 +Boy and Girl of Plymouth _Smith_ 154 +Boys, The _O.W. Holmes_ 27 +Boy Who Didn't Pass, The 108 +Boy with the Hoe, The _Weaver_ 202 +Break, Break, Break _Tennyson_ 52 +"Brides of Enderby, The." + See "High Tide, The" 150 +Bridge Builder, The 54 +Broken Pinion, The _Butterworth_ 9 +Burial of Moses, The _Alexander_ 45 + +Casabianca _Hemans_ 164 +Charge of Pickett's Brigade, The 122 +Children _Longfellow_ 16 +Children, The _Dickinson_ 133 +Children We Keep, The _Wilson_ 146 +Christmas Day in the Workhouse _Sims_ 193 +Christmas Long Ago, A 47 +Chums _Foley_ 206 +Circling Year, The _Graham_ 208 +Cleon and I _Mackay_ 37 +Color in the Wheat _Garland_ 8 +Columbus _Smith_ 137 +Conscience and Future Judgment 81 +Courting in Kentucky 67 +Courtin', The _Lowell_ 59 +Cradle Hymn _Watts_ 35 + +Dandelion _Garabrant_ 82 +David's Lament for Absalom _Willis_ 191 +Death of the Flowers, The _Bryant_ 21 +Don't Kill the Birds _Colesworthy_ 53 +Duty _Browning_ 20 +Dying Newsboy, The _Thornton_ 52 + +Echo _Saxe_ 65 +Encouragement _Dunbar_ 71 +Engineer's Story, The _Hall_ 96 +Ensign Bearer, The 11 +Eve of Waterloo, The _Byron_ 17 +Excelsior _Longfellow_ 15 + +Finding of the Lyre, The _Lowell_ 150 +Fireman's Story, The 125 +Flower of Liberty, The _O.W. Holmes_ 85 +Flying Jim's Last Leap _Banks_ 128 +Fortunate Isles, The _Miller_ 168 + +Give Them the Flowers Now _Hodges_ 84 +God _Derzhavin_ 162 +God's Message to Men _Emerson_ 62 +God's Will Is Best _Mason_ 67 +Good Shepherd, The _Howe_ 166 +Grandfather's Clock _Work_ 35 +Grandmother's Quilt 186 +Graves of a Household, The _Hemans_ 130 +Gray Swan, The _A. Cary_ 207 +Gunga Din _Kipling_ 98 + +Hark, Hark! the Lark _Shakespeare_ 111 +Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls, The _Moore_ 71 +Health and Wealth 103 +Heartening, The _Webb_ 103 +Height of the Ridiculous, The _O.W. Holmes_ 14 +Heritage, The _Lowell_ 22 +He Who Has Vision _McKenzie_ 146 +He Worried About It _Foss_ 203 +Highland Mary _Burns_ 88 +High Tide, The _Ingelow_ 150 +His Mother's Song 39 +Home _Guest_ 7 +Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead _Tennyson_ 74 +House with Nobody in It, The _Kilmer_ 8 +How Did You Die? _Cooke_ 132 +How Salvator Won _Wilcox_ 120 +Hullo _Foss_ 123 + +If All the Skies _Van Dyke_ 36 +"If" for Girls, An _Otis_ 153 +If We Understood 29 +I Got to Go to School _Waterman_ 121 +I Have a Rendezvous with Death _Seeger_ 142 +I Have Drank My Last Glass 87 +Inasmuch _Ford_ 178 +Indian Names _Sigourney_ 135 +Inventor's Wife, The _Corbett_ 82 +Isle of Long Ago, The _B.F. Taylor_ 51 + +Jamie Douglas 9 +Jim Brady's Big Brother _Foley_ 206 +John Maynard _Alger_ 78 +John Thompson's Daughter _P. Cary_ 34 + +King and the Child, The _Hall_ 134 +King's Ring, The _Tilton_ 159 +Knight's Toast, The _W. Scott_ 57 + +Ladder of St. Augustine, The _Longfellow_ 33 +Lamb, The _Blake_ 86 +Land of Beginning Again, The _Tarkington_ 32 +Land Where Hate Should Die, The _McCarthy_ 18 +Last Leaf, The _O.W. Holmes_ 20 +Laugh in Church, A 29 +Laughing Chorus, A 59 +Law and Liberty _Cutler_ 39 +Leaving the Homestead 159 +Legend Beautiful, The _Longfellow_ 174 +Legend of the Northland, A _P. Cary_ 131 +Let Me Walk with the Men in the Road _Gresham_ 28 +Let Us Be Kind _Childress_ 143 +Life, I Know Not What Thou Art _Barbauld_ 65 +Lincoln, the Man of the People _Markham_ 118 +Little Bateese _Drummond_ 80 +Little Fir-Trees, The _Stein_ 203 +Little Willie's Hearing 127 +Loss and Gain _Longfellow_ 34 +Lost Occasion, The _Whittier_ 84 +Lullaby _Foley_ 205 + +Mad River _Longfellow_ 100 +Message for the Year, A _Hardy_ 66 +Minstrel-Boy, The _Moore_ 55 +Minuet, The _Dodge_ 48 +Mizpah 162 +Monterey _Hoffman_ 165 +More Cruel Than War _Hawkins_ 136 +Mortgage on the Farm, The 173 +Mother o' Mine _Kipling_ 70 +Mothers of Men _Miller_ 64 +My Prairies _Garland_ 74 +Mystic Weaver, The 171 + +Nearer Home _P. Cary_ 48 +New Leaf, A _Rice_ 202 +Newsboy, The _Corbett_ 94 +New Year, The _Craik_ 153 +Night with a Wolf, A _Bayard Taylor_ 89 +Nobody's Child _Case_ 46 +No Sects in Heaven _Cleaveland_ 180 + +O'Grady's Goat _Hays_ 44 +Old Actor's Story, The _Sims_ 106 +Old Flag Forever _Stanton_ 21 +Old Kitchen Floor, The 75 +Old Man Dreams, The _O.W. Holmes_ 58 +Old Man in the Model Church, The _Yates_ 148 +Old Man's Dreams, An _Sherman_ 61 +"One, Two, Three!" _Bunner_ 30 +Our Flag _Sangster_ 202 +Our Homestead _P. Cary_ 55 +Our Own _Sangster_ 119 +Our Presidents _Gilman_ 195 +Out in the Snow _Moulton_ 83 +Over the Hill from the Poor-House _Carleton_ 42 + +Papa's Letter 40 +Parting of Marmion and Douglas _W. Scott_ 95 +Parts of Speech, The 201 +Petrified Fern, The _Branch_ 36 +Picciola _Newell_ 158 +Piller Fights _Ellsworth_ 80 +Polish Boy, The _Stephens_ 12 +Poor Little Joe _Proudfit_ 32 +Prayer and Potatoes _Pettee_ 200 +Prayer for a Little Home, A 87 +President, The _Johnston_ 204 +Pride of Battery B _Gassaway_ 176 + +Quangle Wangle's Hat, The _Lear_ 91 + +Railroad Crossing, The _Strong_ 182 +Rain on the Roof _Kinney_ 97 +Rainy Day, The _Longfellow_ 28 +Real Riches, The _Saxe_ 12 +Red Jacket, The _Baker_ 77 +Reply to "A Woman's Question" _Pelham_ 155 +Rhodora, The _Emerson_ 90 +Ring Out, Wild Bells _Tennyson_ 63 +Roll Call, The _Shepherd_ 86 +Romance of Nick Van Stann _Saxe_ 156 +Rustic Courtship 76 + +Sandman, The _Vandegrift_ 62 +Santa Filomena _Longfellow_ 56 +School-Master's Guest, The _Carleton_ 68 +September _G. Arnold_ 75 +September Days _Smith_ 153 +September Gale, The _O.W. Holmes_ 137 +Sermon in Rhyme, A 167 +Service Flag, The _Herschell_ 127 +She Was a Phantom of Delight _Wordsworth_ 89 +Singing Leaves, The _Lowell_ 92 +Sin of Omission, The _Sangster_ 116 +Sin of the Coppenter Man _Cooke_ 139 +Small Beginnings _Mackay_ 97 +Solitude _Wilcox_ 139 +Somebody's Darling _La Coste_ 175 +Song of Marion's Men _Bryant_ 54 +Song of the Chattahoochee _Lanier_ 66 +"'Specially Jim" 44 +Station-Master's Story, The _Sims_ 109 +Stranger on the Sill, The _Read_ 147 +Sunset City, The _Gilman_ 183 + +Teacher's "If", The _Gale_ 165 +There Was a Boy _Wordsworth_ 90 +Things Divine, The _Burt_ 64 +Tin Gee Gee, The _Cape_ 169 +"Tommy" _Kipling_ 170 +Tommy's Prayer _Nicholls_ 112 +Towser Shall Be Tied To-night 37 +Trailing Arbutus _Whittier_ 199 +Trouble in the Amen Corner _Harbaugh_ 18 +Try, Try Again 135 +Two Angels, The _Longfellow_ 187 +Two Kinds of People, The _Wilcox_ 116 +Two Little Stockings, The _Hunt_ 141 +Two Pictures, The 114 + +Unawares _Lent_ 30 + +Vagabonds, The _Trowbridge_ 49 +Voice of Spring, The _Hemans_ 26 +Volunteer Organist, The _Foss_ 149 + +Warren's Address to the American Soldiers _Pierpont_ 99 +Washington _Bryant_ 37 +Washington's' Birthday _Butterworth_ 58 +Water Mill, The _Doudney_ 143 +What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet _Morrison_ 168 +When Father Carves the Duck _Wright_ 40 +When My Ship Comes In _Burdette_ 138 +When Papa Was a Boy _Brininstool_ 100 +When the Light Goes Out _Chester_ 199 +Which Shall It Be? _Beers_ 101 +Who Stole the Bird's Nest? _Child_ 41 +Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold 144 +Wishing Bridge, The _Whittier_ 63 +Witch's Daughter, The _Whittier_ 188 +With Little Boy Blue _Kennedy_ 122 +Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness _Shakespeare_ 94 +Women of Mumbles Head, The _C. Scott_ 123 +Wood-Box, The _Lincoln_ 177 +Work: A Song of Triumph _Morgan_ 154 +Work Thou for Pleasure _Cox_ 169 + +You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave _C.E.L. Holmes_ 140 + + + (An Index of First Lines is given on pages 209-213) + + + + +PREFACE + + +In homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has +pleased the taste of thousands. Our first collection of _Poems Teachers +Ask For_ was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present +volume is the response to a demand for "more." In Book One it was +impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the +basis of their being desired. We are constantly in receipt of requests +that certain selections be printed in NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS on +the page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." More than two hundred of +these were chosen for Book One, and more than two hundred others, as +much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in Book Two. + +Because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, +in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. By special arrangement, +a number of such poems were included in Book One of _Poems Teachers Ask +For_, and many more are given in the pages that follow. Acknowledgment +is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to +reprint in this volume material which they control: + +THE CENTURY COMPANY--_The Minuet_, from "Poems and Verses," by Mary +Mapes Dodge. + +W.B. CONKEY COMPANY--_Solitude_, from "Poems of Passion," and _How +Salvator Won_, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. + +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.--_Encouragement_, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, +copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company; _Work_, by Angela Morgan, from "The +Hour Has Struck," copyright 1914 by Angela Morgan. + +DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY--_How Did You Die?_ from "Impertinent Poems," +and _The Sin of the Coppenter Man_, from "I Rule the House," both by +Edmund Vance Cooke. + +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY--_The House with Nobody in It_, from "Trees and +Other Poems," by Joyce Kilmer, copyright 1914 by George H. Doran +Company, publishers. + +HAMLIN GARLAND--_My Prairies and Color in the Wheat_. + +ISABEL AMBLER GILMAN--_The Sunset City_. + +HARPER & BROTHERS--_Over the Hill from the Poor-House_ and _The +School-Master's Guests_, from "Farm Legends," by Will Carleton. + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--_The Sandman_, by Margaret Vandegrift; _The +Sin of Omission_ and _Our Own_, by Margaret E. Sangster; _The Ballad of +the Tempest_, by James T. Fields; also the poems by Henry W. Longfellow, +John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Oliver +Wendell Holmes, and J.T. Trowbridge, of whose works they are the +authorized publishers. + +CHARLES H.L. JOHNSTON--_The President_. + +RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, +England)--_Mother o' Mine_. + +LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY--_Hullo_ and _The Volunteer Organist_, +both from "Back Country Poems," by Sam Walter Foss, and _He Worried +About It_, from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," by Sam Walter Foss. + +EDWIN MARKHAM--_Lincoln, the Man of the People_. + +REILLY & LEE CO.--_Home_, from "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest. + +FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY--_Our Flag_, by Margaret E. Sangster. + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--_I Have a Rendezvous with Death_, by Alan +Seeger; _Song of the Chattahoochee_, by Sidney Lanier; _If All the +Skies_, by Henry van Dyke. + +HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING COMPANY--_Mothers of Men_ and _The Fortunate +Isles_, by Joaquin Miller. + + +THE PUBLISHERS. + + + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + +BOOK TWO + + * * * * * + + +Home + + +It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, +A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam +Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind, +An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. +It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, +How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; +It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, +Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything. + +Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; +Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it: +Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then +Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; +And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part +With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart; +The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore +Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door. + +Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh +An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; +An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, +An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. +Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, +Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; +An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories +O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these. + +Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, +An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; +Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year +Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear +Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run +The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; +Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: +It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home. + + _Edgar A. Guest._ + + + + +The House with Nobody In It + + +Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track +I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black; +I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute +And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. + +I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; +That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. +I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do, +For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. + +This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, +And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. +It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied, +But what it needs most of all is some people living inside. + +If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid, +I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. +I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be, +And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. + +Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door +Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store, +But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone +For the lack of something within it that it has never known. + +But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has + sheltered life, +That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, +A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet, +Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. + +So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track +I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, +Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen + apart, +For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken + heart. + + _Joyce Kilmer._ + + + + +Color in the Wheat + + +Like liquid gold the wheat field lies, + A marvel of yellow and russet and green, +That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, + With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen, + That play in the golden hair of a girl,-- + A ripple of amber--a flare + Of light sweeping after--a curl + In the hollows like swirling feet + Of fairy waltzers, the colors run + To the western sun + Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. + +Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, + Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, +The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye + Under the fierce sun's alchemy. + The slow hawk stoops + To his prey in the deeps; + The sunflower droops + To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps-- + Then swirling in dazzling links and loops, + A riot of shadow and shine, + A glory of olive and amber and wine, + To the westering sun the colors run + Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. + +O glorious land! My western land, + Outspread beneath the setting sun! +Once more amid your swells, I stand, + And cross your sod-lands dry and dun. +I hear the jocund calls of men + Who sweep amid the ripened grain +With swift, stern reapers; once again + The evening splendor floods the plain, + The crickets' chime + Makes pauseless rhyme, + And toward the sun, + The colors run + Before the wind's feet + In the wheat! + + _Hamlin Garland._ + + + + +The Broken Pinion + + +I walked through the woodland meadows, + Where sweet the thrushes sing; +And I found on a bed of mosses + A bird with a broken wing. +I healed its wound, and each morning + It sang its old sweet strain, +But the bird with a broken pinion + Never soared as high again. + +I found a young life broken + By sin's seductive art; +And touched with a Christlike pity, + I took him to my heart. +He lived with a noble purpose + And struggled not in vain; +But the life that sin had stricken + Never soared as high again. + +But the bird with a broken pinion + Kept another from the snare; +And the life that sin had stricken + Raised another from despair. +Each loss has its compensation, + There is healing for every pain; +But the bird with a broken pinion + Never soars as high again. + + _Hezekiah Butterworth._ + + + + +Jamie Douglas + + +It was in the days when Claverhouse + Was scouring moor and glen, +To change, with fire and bloody sword, + The faith of Scottish men. + +They had made a covenant with the Lord + Firm in their faith to bide, +Nor break to Him their plighted word, + Whatever might betide. + +The sun was well-nigh setting, + When o'er the heather wild, +And up the narrow mountain-path, + Alone there walked a child. + +He was a bonny, blithesome lad, + Sturdy and strong of limb-- +A father's pride, a mother's love, + Were fast bound up in him. + +His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, + His step was firm and light; +What was it underneath his plaid + His little hands grasped tight? + +It was bannocks which, that very morn, + His mother made with care. +From out her scanty store of meal; + And now, with many a prayer, + +Had sent by Jamie her ane boy, + A trusty lad and brave, +To good old Pastor Tammons Roy, + Now hid in yonder cave, + +And for whom the bloody Claverhouse + Had hunted long in vain, +And swore they would not leave that glen + Till old Tam Roy was slain. + +So Jamie Douglas went his way + With heart that knew no fear; +He turned the great curve in the rock, + Nor dreamed that death was near. + +And there were bloody Claverhouse men, + Who laughed aloud with glee, +When trembling now within their power, + The frightened child they see. + +He turns to flee, but all in vain, + They drag him back apace +To where their cruel leader stands, + And set them face to face. + +The cakes concealed beneath his plaid + Soon tell the story plain-- +"It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for," + Exclaimed the angry man. + +"Now guide me to his hiding place + And I will let you go." +But Jamie shook his yellow curls, + And stoutly answered--"No!" + +"I'll drop you down the mountain-side, + And there upon the stones +The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow + Shall battle for your bones." + +And in his brawny, strong right hand + He lifted up the child, +And held him where the clefted rocks + Formed a chasm deep and wild + +So deep it was, the trees below + Like stunted bushes seemed. +Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze, + It seemed some horrid dream. + +He looked up at the blue sky above + Then at the men near by; +Had _they_ no little boys at home, + That they could let him die? + +But no one spoke and no one stirred, + Or lifted hand to save +From such a fearful, frightful death, + The little lad so brave. + +"It is woeful deep," he shuddering cried, + "But oh! I canna tell, +So drop me down then, if you will-- + It is nae so deep as hell!" + +A childish scream, a faint, dull sound, + Oh! Jamie Douglas true, +Long, long within that lonely cave + Shall Tam Roy wait for you. + +Long for your welcome coming + Waits the mother on the moor, +And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad," + Through the half-open door. + +No more adown the rocky path + You come with fearless tread, +Or, on moor or mountain, take + The good man's daily bread. + +But up in heaven the shining ones + A wondrous story tell, +Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf + That is nae so deep as hell. + +And there before the great white throne, + Forever blessed and glad, +His mother dear and old Tam Roy + Shall meet their bonny lad. + + + + +The Ensign Bearer + + +Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast! +They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest. +All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall, +You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call; +And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, +Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight. + +All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down +Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown. +Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breast +To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? +See! the bayonets flash and falter--look! the foe begins to win; +See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are closing in. + +Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air, +Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair. +There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll-- +Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul! +Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale, +And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale! + +Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand! +I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band; +Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath-- +Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!-- +See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze-- +Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees. + +Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise! +I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. +Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe-- +Face to face with deadly meaning--shot and shell and trusty blow. +See the thinned ranks wildly breaking--see them scatter to the sun-- +I can die, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won! + +But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart, +And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart. +Oh I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all +That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call! +Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back +Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track. + +Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth, +What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth, +Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame, +Sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name; +Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his +In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is. + +And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will-- +That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still. +And--this touch of pride forgive me--where death sought our gallant host-- +Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most. +Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, +'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star. + +But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell, +When her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how I fell; +Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest, +Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; +But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, +'Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air. + +Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared, my enlistment endeth here; +Death, the Conqueror, has drafted--I can no more volunteer,-- +But I hear the roll call yonder and I go with willing feet-- +Through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet, +Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall-- +Strength and Union for my country--and God's banner over all. + + + + +The Real Riches + + +Every coin of earthly treasure + We have lavished upon earth +For our simple worldly pleasure + May be reckoned something worth; +For the spending was not losing, + Tho' the purchase were but small; +It has perished with the using. + We have had it,--that is all! + +All the gold we leave behind us, + When we turn to dust again, +Tho' our avarice may blind us, + We have gathered quite in vain; +Since we neither can direct it, + By the winds of fortune tost, +Nor in other worlds expect it; + What we hoarded we have lost. + +But each merciful oblation-- + Seed of pity wisely sown, +What we gave in self-negation, + We may safely call our own; +For the treasure freely given + Is the treasure that we hoard, +Since the angels keep in heaven, + What is lent unto the Lord. + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +The Polish Boy + + +Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, + That cut, like blades of steel, the air, +Causing the creeping blood to chill + With the sharp cadence of despair? + +Again they come, as if a heart + Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, +And every string had voice apart + To utter its peculiar woe. + +Whence came they? From yon temple, where +An altar, raised for private prayer, +Now forms the warrior's marble bed +Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. + +The dim funereal tapers throw +A holy luster o'er his brow, +And burnish with their rays of light +The mass of curls that gather bright +Above the haughty brow and eye +Of a young boy that's kneeling by. + +What hand is that, whose icy press + Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, +But meets no answering caress? + No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. +It is the hand of her whose cry + Rang wildly, late, upon the air, +When the dead warrior met her eye + Outstretched upon the altar there. + +With pallid lip and stony brow +She murmurs forth her anguish now. +But hark! the tramp of heavy feet +Is heard along the bloody street; +Nearer and nearer yet they come, +With clanking arms and noiseless drum. +Now whispered curses, low and deep, +Around the holy temple creep; +The gate is burst; a ruffian band +Rush in, and savagely demand, +With brutal voice and oath profane, +The startled boy for exile's chain. + +The mother sprang with gesture wild, +And to her bosom clasped her child; +Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, +Shouted with fearful energy, +"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread +Too near the body of my dead; +Nor touch the living boy; I stand +Between him and your lawless band. +Take _me_, and bind these arms--these hands,-- +With Russia's heaviest iron bands, +And drag me to Siberia's wild +To perish, if 'twill save my child!" + +"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, +Tearing the pale boy from her side, +And in his ruffian grasp he bore +His victim to the temple door. +"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! +Will land or gold redeem my son? +Take heritage, take name, take all, +But leave him free from Russian thrall! +Take these!" and her white arms and hands +She stripped of rings and diamond bands, +And tore from braids of long black hair +The gems that gleamed like starlight there; +Her cross of blazing rubies, last, +Down at the Russian's feet she cast. +He stooped to seize the glittering store;-- +Up springing from the marble floor, +The mother, with a cry of joy, +Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. +But no! the Russian's iron grasp +Again undid the mother's clasp. +Forward she fell, with one long cry +Of more than mortal agony. + +But the brave child is roused at length, + And, breaking from the Russian's hold, +He stands, a giant in the strength + Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. +Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, + So blue, and yet so bright, +Seems kindled from the eternal sky, + So brilliant is its light. + +His curling lips and crimson cheeks +Foretell the thought before he speaks; +With a full voice of proud command +He turned upon the wondering band. + +"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; +This hour has made the boy a man. +I knelt before my slaughtered sire, +Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. +I wept upon his marble brow, +Yes, wept! I was a child; but now +My noble mother, on her knee, +Hath done the work of years for me!" + +He drew aside his broidered vest, +And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, +The jeweled haft of poniard bright +Glittered a moment on the sight. +"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! +Think ye my noble father's glaive +Would drink the life-blood of a slave? +The pearls that on the handle flame +Would blush to rubies in their shame; +The blade would quiver in thy breast +Ashamed of such ignoble rest. +No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, +And fling him back a boy's disdain!" + +A moment, and the funeral light +Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; +Another, and his young heart's blood +Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. +Quick to his mother's side he sprang, +And on the air his clear voice rang: +"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! +The choice was death or slavery. +Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! +His freedom is forever won; +And now he waits one holy kiss +To bear his father home in bliss; +One last embrace, one blessing,--one! +To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. +What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel +My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? +Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! +What! silent still? Then art thou dead: +--Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I +Rejoice with thee,--and thus--to die." +One long, deep breath, and his pale head +Lay on his mother's bosom,--dead. + + _Ann S. Stephens._ + + + + +The Height of the Ridiculous + + +I wrote some lines once on a time + In wondrous merry mood, +And thought, as usual, men would say + They were exceeding good. + +They were so queer, so very queer, + I laughed as I would die; +Albeit, in the general way, + A sober man am I. + +I called my servant, and he came; + How kind it was of him +To mind a slender man like me, + He of the mighty limb! + +"These to the printer," I exclaimed, + And, in my humorous way, +I added (as a trifling jest), + "There'll be the devil to pay." + +He took the paper, and I watched, + And saw him peep within; +At the first line he read, his face + Was all upon the grin. + +He read the next; the grin grew broad, + And shot from ear to ear; +He read the third; a chuckling noise + I now began to hear. + +The fourth; he broke into a roar; + The fifth; his waistband split; +The sixth; he burst five buttons off, + And tumbled in a fit. + +Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, + I watched that wretched man, +And since, I never dare to write + As funny as I can. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Excelsior + + +The shades of night were falling fast, +As through an Alpine village passed +A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, +A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +His brow was sad his eye beneath +Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, +And like a silver clarion rung +The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + +In happy homes he saw the light +Of household fires gleam warm and bright; +Above, the spectral glaciers shone, +And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + +"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; +"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, +The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" +And loud the clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + +"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest +Thy weary head upon this breast!" +A tear stood in his bright blue eye, +But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + +"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! +Beware the awful avalanche!" +This was the peasant's last Good-night, +A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + +At break of day, as heavenward +The pious monks of Saint Bernard +Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, +A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + +A traveller, by the faithful hound, +Half-buried in the snow was found, +Still grasping in his hand of ice +That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +There in the twilight cold and gray, +Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, +And from the sky, serene and far, +A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Bivouac of the Dead + + +The muffled drum's sad roll has beat + The soldier's last tattoo; +No more on life's parade shall meet + That brave and fallen few. +On fame's eternal camping ground + Their silent tents are spread, +And Glory guards with solemn round + The bivouac of the dead. + +No rumor of the foe's advance + Now swells upon the wind; +No troubled thought at midnight haunts + Of loved ones left behind; +No vision of the morrow's strife + The warrior's dream alarms; +No braying horn or screaming fife + At dawn shall call to arms. + +Their shivered swords are red with rust; + Their plumed heads are bowed; +Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, + Is now their martial shroud; +And plenteous funeral tears have washed + The red stains from each brow; +And the proud forms, by battle gashed, + Are free from anguish now. + +The neighing troop, the flashing blade, + The bugle's stirring blast, +The charge, the dreadful cannonade, + The din and shout are passed. +Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, + Shall thrill with fierce delight +Those breasts that nevermore shall feel + The rapture of the fight. + +Like a fierce northern hurricane + That sweeps his great plateau, +Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, + Came down the serried foe, +Who heard the thunder of the fray + Break o'er the field beneath, +Knew well the watchword of that day + Was "Victory or Death!" + +Full many a mother's breath hath swept + O'er Angostura's plain, +And long the pitying sky hath wept + Above its moulder'd slain. +The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, + Or shepherd's pensive lay, +Alone now wake each solemn height + That frowned o'er that dread fray. + +Sons of the "dark and bloody ground," + Ye must not slumber there, +Where stranger steps and tongues resound + Along the heedless air! +Your own proud land's heroic soil + Shall be your fitter grave; +She claims from war its richest spoil,-- + The ashes of her brave. + +Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, + Far from the gory field, +Borne to a Spartan mother's breast + On many a bloody shield. +The sunshine of their native sky + Smiles sadly on them here, +And kindred eyes and hearts watch by + The heroes' sepulcher. + +Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! + Dear as the blood ye gave; +No impious footsteps here shall tread + The herbage of your grave; +Nor shall your glory be forgot + While fame her record keeps, +Or honor points the hallowed spot + Where Valor proudly sleeps. + +Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone + In deathless song shall tell, +When many a vanished year hath flown, + The story how ye fell. +Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, + Nor time's remorseless doom, +Can dim one ray of holy light + That gilds your glorious tomb. + + _Theodore O'Hara._ + + + + +Children + + +Come to me, O ye children! + For I hear you at your play, +And the questions that perplexed me + Have vanished quite away. + +Ye open the eastern windows, + That look towards the sun, +Where thoughts are singing swallows + And the brooks of morning run. + +In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, + In your thoughts the brooklet's flow +But in mine is the wind of Autumn + And the first fall of the snow. + +Ah! what would the world be to us + If the children were no more? +We should dread the desert behind us + Worse than the dark before. + +What the leaves are to the forest, + With light and air for food, +Ere their sweet and tender juices + Have been hardened into wood,-- + +That to the world are children; + Through them it feels the glow +Of a brighter and sunnier climate + Than reaches the trunks below. + +Come to me, O ye children! + And whisper in my ear +What the birds and the winds are singing + In your sunny atmosphere. + +For what are all our contrivings, + And the wisdom of our books, +When compared with your caresses, + And the gladness of your looks? + +Ye are better than all the ballads + That ever were sung or said; +For ye are living poems, + And all the rest are dead. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Eve of Waterloo + +(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815) + + +There was a sound of revelry by night, + And Belgium's capital had gathered then +Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when +Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, +And all went merry as a marriage bell; +But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. + +Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: +On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; + No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet + To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- +But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat +And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! +Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar. + +Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, +And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago + Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press +The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess +If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, +Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! + +And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, + The mustering squadron, and the clattering car +Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, + And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; + And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; +And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; +While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, +Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!" + +Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, +The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, + The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day + Battle's magnificently stern array! +The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent + The earth is covered thick with other clay, +Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, +Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent. + + _Lord Byron._ + + + + +The Land Where Hate Should Die + + +This is the land where hate should die-- + No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, +No darkly brooding fear should try + Beneath our flag to find a place. +Lo! every people here has sent + Its sons to answer freedom's call, +Their lifeblood is the strong cement + That builds and binds the nation's wall. + +This is the land where hate should die-- + Though dear to me my faith and shrine, +I serve my country when I + Respect the creeds that are not mine. +He little loves his land who'd cast + Upon his neighbor's word a doubt, +Or cite the wrongs of ages past + From present rights to bar him out. + +This is the land where hate should die-- + This is the land where strife should cease, +Where foul, suspicious fear should fly + Before the light of love and peace. +Then let us purge from poisoned thought + That service to the state we give, +And so be worthy as we ought + Of this great land in which we live. + + _Denis A. McCarthy._ + + + + +Trouble In the "Amen Corner" + + +'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, +And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, +And the chorus--all the papers favorably commented on it, +For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet. + +Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, +Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; +He was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, +And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. + +His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, +And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words +Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, +And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. + +The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, +And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; +At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, +That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. + +Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day +Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, +And having asked God's guidance in a printed pray'r or two, +They put their heads together to determine what to do. + +They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York," +Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, +Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, +And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir." + +Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, +And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; +Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing +Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing. + +"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, +We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown; +But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old-- +If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold." + +Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, +With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; +And the sleek, well-dress'd committee, Brothers Sharkey, York and Lamb, +As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. + +They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair, +And the Summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; +He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a cracked voice and low +But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. + +Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation +To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation"; +"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, +"And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge. + +"It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus +That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; +If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, +It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. + +"We don't want any singing except that what we've bought! +The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught; +And so we have decided--are you list'ning, Brother Eyer?-- +That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir." + +The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, +And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; +His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, +As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low: + +"I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he; +"They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way; +I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; +But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. + +"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, +In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet-- +Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up high'r, +If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir." + +A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; +The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead! +Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, +And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. + +The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, +A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. +Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires, +Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs! + + _T.C. Harbaugh._ + + + + +Duty + + +The sweetest lives are those to duty wed, +Whose deeds, both great and small, +Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, +Whose love ennobles all. +The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells; +The book of life, the shining record tells. +Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes, +After its own life-working. A child's kiss +Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad; +A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; +A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; +Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense +Of service thou renderest. + + _Robert Browning._ + + + + +The Last Leaf + + +I saw him once before, +As he passed by the door, + And again +The pavement stones resound, +As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + +They say that in his prime, +Ere the pruning-knife of Time + Cut him down, +Not a better man was found +By the Crier on his round + Through the town. + +But now he walks the streets, +And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan, +And he shakes his feeble head, +That it seems as if he said + "They are gone." + +The mossy marbles rest +On the lips that he has prest + In their bloom, +And the names he loved to hear +Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + +My grandmamma has said,-- +Poor old lady, she is dead + Long ago,-- +That he had a Roman nose, +And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + +But now his nose is thin, +And it rests upon his chin. + Like a staff, +And a crook is in his back, +And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + +I know it is a sin +For me to sit and grin + At him here; +But the old three-cornered hat, +And the breeches, and all that, + Are so queer! + +And if I should live to be +The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, +Let them smile, as I do now, +At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Old Flag Forever + + +She's up there--Old Glory--where lightnings are sped; +She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; +And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,-- +The flag of our country forever! + +She's up there--Old Glory--how bright the stars stream! +And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam! +And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream, +'Neath the flag of our country forever! + +She's up there--Old Glory--no tyrant-dealt scars, +No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars! +The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars. +She's the flag of our country forever! + + _Frank L. Stanton._ + + + + +The Death of the Flowers + + +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, +Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. +Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; +They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. +The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, +And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. + +Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood +In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? +Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers +Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. +The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain +Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + +The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, +And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; +But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, +And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, +Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, +And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. + +And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, +To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, +When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, +And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, +The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, +And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. + +And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, +The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, +In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, +And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; +Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, +So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. + + _W.C. Bryant._ + + + + +The Heritage + + +The rich man's son inherits lands, + And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, +And he inherits soft white hands, + And tender flesh that fears the cold, + Nor dares to wear a garment old; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +The rich man's son inherits cares; + The bank may break, the factory burn, +A breath may burst his bubble shares, + And soft white hands could hardly earn + A living that would serve his turn; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +The rich man's son inherits wants, + His stomach craves for dainty fare; +With sated heart, he hears the pants + Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, + And wearies in his easy-chair; +A heritage, it seems to me, +One scarce would wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, +A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; + King of two hands, he does his part + In every useful toil and art; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, +A rank, adjudged by toil-won merit, + Content that from employment springs, + A heart that in his labor sings; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +What doth the poor man's son inherit? + A patience learned of being poor, +Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, + A fellow-feeling that is sure + To make the outcast bless his door; +A heritage, it seems to me, +A king might wish to hold in fee. + +O rich man's son! there is a toil + That with all others level stands; +Large charity doth never soil, +But only whiten, soft white hands,-- + This is the best crop from thy lands; +A heritage it seems to me, +Worth being rich to hold in fee. + +O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; + There is worse weariness than thine, +In merely being rich and great; + Toil only gives the soul to shine + And makes rest fragrant and benign; +A heritage, it seems to me, +Worth being poor to hold in fee. + +Both heirs to some six feet of sod, + Are equal in the earth at last; +Both, children of the same dear God, + Prove title to your heirship vast + By record of a well-filled past; +A heritage, it seems to me, +Well worth a life to hold in fee. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +The Ballad of East and West + + +Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, +Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; +But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, +When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends + of the earth! + +Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, +And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: +He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, +And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. +Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: +"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" +Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, +"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. +At dust he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is into Bonair, +But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, +So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, +By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, +But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, +For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's + men. +There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn + between, +And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." +The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, +With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the + gallows-tree. +The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- +Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. +He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, +Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, +Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, +And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. +He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. +"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." +It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, +The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. +The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, +But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a + glove. +There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn + between, +And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. +They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, +The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. +The dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, +And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. +He has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive, +"'Twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: +There was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, +But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. +If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, +The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: +If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, +The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." +Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, +But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. +If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, +Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. +They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered + grain, +The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are + slain. +But if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup. +The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! +And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, +Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" +Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. +"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. +May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; +What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" +Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: +Take up the mare of my father's gift--by God, she has carried a man!" +The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, +"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. +So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, +My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." +The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, +"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from + a friend?" +"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. +Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" +With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- +He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. +"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, +And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. +Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, +Thy life is his--thy fate is to guard him with thy head. +So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, +And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, +And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- +Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." +They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no + fault, +They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and + salt: +They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut + sod, +On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous Names of + God. +The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, +And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. +And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- +There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. +"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your + sides! +Last night ye had struck at a Border thief--to-night 'tis a man of the + Guides!" + +Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, +Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; +But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, +When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends + of the earth. + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Annabel Lee + + +It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, +That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of Annabel Lee; +And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + +I was a child, and she was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea, +But we loved with a love that was more than love, + I and my Annabel Lee; +With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + +And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, +A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful Annabel Lee; +So that her highborn kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, +To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + +The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me; +Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) +That the wind came out of the cloud by night, + Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. + +But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we, + Of many far wiser than we; +And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, +Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: + +For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; +And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: +And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side +Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, + In her sepulchre there by the sea, + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + + _Edgar Allan Poe._ + + + + +April Showers + + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, in the garden-bed, +The crocuses stood straight and gold: + "And they have come," the children said. + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, thro' the woodland spread +The Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth: + "And they are come," the children said. + +There fell an April shower, one night: + Next morning, sweetly, overhead, +The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung: + "And they have come," the children said. + + _Mary E. Wilkins._ + + + + +The Voice of Spring + + +I come, I come! ye have called me long; +I come o'er the mountains, with light and song; +Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth +By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, +By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, +By the green leaves opening as I pass. + +I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers +By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, +And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes +Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains; +But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, +To speak of the ruin or the tomb! + +I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, +And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; +The fisher is out on the sunny sea, +And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, +And the pine has a fringe of softer green, +And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. + +I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, +And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, +From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, +In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, +To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, +When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. + +From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; +They are sweeping on to the silvery main, +They are flashing down from the mountain brows, +They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, +They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, +And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. + + _Felicia D. Hemans._ + + + + +The Boys + + +Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? +If there has take him out, without making a noise. +Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! +Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight! + +We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? +He's tipsy--young jackanapes!--show him the door! +"Gray temples at twenty?"--Yes! _white_ if we please; +Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! + +Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! +Look close--you will see not a sign of a flake! +We want some new garlands for those we have shed, +And these are white roses in place of the red. + +We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told. +Of talking (in public) as if we were old; +That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; +It's a neat little fiction--of course it's all fudge. + +That fellow's the "Speaker"--the one on the right; +"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? +That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; +There's the "Reverend" What's-his-name?--don't make me laugh. + +That boy with the grave mathematical look +Made believe he had written a wonderful book, +And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true_! +So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! + +There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, +That could harness a team with a logical chain; +When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, +We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." + +And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: +Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; +But he shouted a song for the brave and the free-- +Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" + +You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; +But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. +The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, +And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! + +Yes, we're boys--always playing with tongue or with pen; +And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? +Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, +Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? + +Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! +The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! +And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, +Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +The Rainy Day + + +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, +But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + +My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + +Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; +Thy fate is the common fate of all, +Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Let Me Walk With the Men in the Road + + +'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung + Of the "house by the side of the way"; +Our Master had neither a house nor a home, + But He walked with the crowd day by day. +And I think, when I read of the poet's desire, + That a house by the road would be good; +But service is found in its tenderest form + When we walk with the crowd in the road. + +So I say, let me walk with the men in the road, + Let me seek out the burdens that crush, +Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak + Who are falling behind in the rush. +There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend, + There's a cup of cold water to give; +And the man in the road by the side of his friend + Is the man who has learned to live. + +Then tell me no more of the house by the road. + There is only one place I can live-- +It's there with the men who are toiling along, + Who are needing the cheer I can give. +It is pleasant to live in the house by the way + And be a friend, as the poet has said; +But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load, + For your rest waiteth yonder ahead." + +I could not remain in the house by the road + And watch as the toilers go on, +Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin, + So burdened, their strength nearly gone. +I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer, + I'll help them to carry their load; +And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way, + As I walk with the crowd in the road. + +Out there in the road that goes by the house, + Where the poet is singing his song, +I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day, + And I'll help falling brothers along-- +Too busy to live in the house by the way, + Too happy for such an abode. +And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all, + Who is helping me serve in the road. + + _Walter J. Gresham._ + + + + +If We Understood + + +Could we but draw back the curtains +That surround each other's lives, +See the naked heart and spirit, +Know what spur the action gives, +Often we should find it better, +Purer than we judged we should, +We should love each other better, +If we only understood. + +Could we judge all deeds by motives, +See the good and bad within, +Often we should love the sinner +All the while we loathe the sin; +Could we know the powers working +To o'erthrow integrity, +We should judge each other's errors +With more patient charity. + +If we knew the cares and trials, +Knew the effort all in vain, +And the bitter disappointment, +Understood the loss and gain-- +Would the grim, eternal roughness +Seem--I wonder--just the same? +Should we help where now we hinder, +Should we pity where we blame? + +Ah! we judge each other harshly, +Knowing not life's hidden force; +Knowing not the fount of action +Is less turbid at its source; +Seeing not amid the evil +All the golden grains of good; +Oh! we'd love each other better, +If we only understood. + + + + +A Laugh in Church + + +She sat on the sliding cushion, + The dear, wee woman of four; +Her feet, in their shiny slippers, + Hung dangling over the floor. +She meant to be good; she had promised, + And so, with her big, brown eyes, +She stared at the meeting-house windows + And counted the crawling flies. + +She looked far up at the preacher, + But she thought of the honey bees +Droning away at the blossoms + That whitened the cherry trees. +She thought of a broken basket, + Where, curled in a dusky heap, +_Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears + Lay snuggled and fast asleep._ + +Such soft warm bodies to cuddle, + Such queer little hearts to beat, +Such swift, round tongues to kiss, + Such sprawling, cushiony feet; +She could feel in her clasping fingers + The touch of a satiny skin +And a cold wet nose exploring + The dimples under her chin. + +Then a sudden ripple of laughter + Ran over the parted lips +So quick that she could not catch it + With her rosy finger-tips. +The people whispered, "Bless the child," + As each one waked from a nap, +But the dear, wee woman hid her face + For shame in her mother's lap. + + + + +"One, Two, Three!" + + +It was an old, old, old, old lady, + And a boy that was half past three; +And the way that they played together + Was beautiful to see. + +She couldn't go running and jumping, + And the boy, no more could he; +For he was a thin little fellow, + With a thin little twisted knee, + +They sat in the yellow sunlight, + Out under the maple-tree; +And the game that they played I'll tell you, + Just as it was told to me. + +It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, + Though you'd never have known it to be-- +With an old, old, old, old lady, + And a boy with a twisted knee. + +The boy would bend his face down + On his one little sound right knee, +And he'd guess where she was hiding, + In guesses One, Two, Three! + +"You are in the china-closet!" + He would cry, and laugh with glee-- +It wasn't the china-closet; + But he still had Two and Three. + +"You are up in Papa's big bedroom, + In the chest with the queer old key!" +And she said: "You are _warm_ and _warmer_; + But you're not quite right," said she. + +"It can't be the little cupboard + Where Mamma's things used to be-- +So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!" + And he found her with his Three. + +Then she covered her face with her fingers, + That were wrinkled and white and wee, +And she guessed where the boy was hiding, + With a One and a Two and a Three. + +And they never had stirred from their places, + Right under the maple-tree-- +This old, old, old, old lady, + And the boy with the lame little knee-- +This dear, dear, dear old lady, + And the boy who was half past three. + + _Henry Cuyler Bunner._ + + + + +Unawares + + +They said, "The Master is coming + To honor the town to-day, +And none can tell at what house or home + The Master will choose to stay." +And I thought while my heart beat wildly, + What if He should come to mine, +How would I strive to entertain + And honor the Guest Divine! + +And straight I turned to toiling + To make my house more neat; +I swept, and polished, and garnished. + And decked it with blossoms sweet. +I was troubled for fear the Master + Might come ere my work was done, +And I hasted and worked the faster, + And watched the hurrying sun. + +But right in the midst of my duties + A woman came to my door; +She had come to tell me her sorrows + And my comfort and aid to implore, +And I said, "I cannot listen + Nor help you any, to-day; +I have greater things to attend to." + And the pleader turned away. + +But soon there came another-- + A cripple, thin, pale and gray-- +And said, "Oh, let me stop and rest + A while in your house, I pray! +I have traveled far since morning, + I am hungry, and faint, and weak; +My heart is full of misery, + And comfort and help I seek." + +And I cried, "I am grieved and sorry, + But I cannot help you to-day. +I look for a great and noble Guest," + And the cripple went away; +And the day wore onward swiftly-- + And my task was nearly done, +And a prayer was ever in my heart + That the Master to me might come. + +And I thought I would spring to meet Him, + And serve him with utmost care, +When a little child stood by me + With a face so sweet and fair-- +Sweet, but with marks of teardrops-- + And his clothes were tattered and old; +A finger was bruised and bleeding, + And his little bare feet were cold. + +And I said, "I'm sorry for you-- + You are sorely in need of care; +But I cannot stop to give it, + You must hasten otherwhere." +And at the words, a shadow + Swept o'er his blue-veined brow,-- +"Someone will feed and clothe you, dear, + But I am too busy now." + +At last the day was ended, + And my toil was over and done; +My house was swept and garnished-- + And I watched in the dark--alone. +Watched--but no footfall sounded, + No one paused at my gate; +No one entered my cottage door; + I could only pray--and wait. + +I waited till night had deepened, + And the Master had not come. +"He has entered some other door," I said, + "And gladdened some other home!" +My labor had been for nothing, + And I bowed my head and I wept, +My heart was sore with longing-- + Yet--in spite of it all--I slept. + +Then the Master stood before me, + And his face was grave and fair; +"Three times to-day I came to your door, + And craved your pity and care; +Three times you sent me onward, + Unhelped and uncomforted; +And the blessing you might have had was lost, + And your chance to serve has fled." + +"O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me! + How could I know it was Thee?" +My very soul was shamed and bowed + In the depths of humility. +And He said, "The sin is pardoned, + But the blessing is lost to thee; +For comforting not the least of Mine + You have failed to comfort Me." + + _Emma A. Lent._ + + + + +The Land of Beginning Again + + +I wish there were some wonderful place +Called the Land of Beginning Again, +Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, +And all our poor, selfish griefs +Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door, +And never put on again. + +I wish we could come on it all unaware, +Like the hunter who finds a lost trail; +And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done +The greatest injustice of all +Could be at the gate like the old friend that waits +For the comrade he's gladdest to hail. + +We would find the things we intended to do, +But forgot and remembered too late-- +Little praises unspoken, little promises broken, +And all of the thousand and one +Little duties neglected that might have perfected +The days of one less fortunate. + +It wouldn't be possible not to be kind. +In the Land of Beginning Again; +And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged +Their moments of victory here, +Would find the grasp of our loving handclasp +More than penitent lips could explain. + +For what had been hardest we'd know had been best, +And what had seemed loss would be gain, +For there isn't a sting that will not take wing +When we've faced it and laughed it away; +And I think that the laughter is most what we're after, +In the Land of Beginning Again. + +So I wish that there were some wonderful place +Called the Land of Beginning Again, +Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, +And all our poor, selfish griefs +Could be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door, +And never put on again. + + _Louisa Fletcher Tarkington._ + + + + +Poor Little Joe + + +Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, + Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. +Apples? No, a derned sight better! + Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! +Flowers, Joe--I know'd you'd like 'em-- + Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? +Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? + There--poor little Joe--don't cry! + +I was skippin' past a winder + W'ere a bang-up lady sot, +All amongst a lot of bushes-- + Each one climbin' from a pot; +Every bush had flowers on it-- + Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no! +Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin', + It was such a stunnin' show. + +Well, I thought of you, poor feller, + Lyin' here so sick and weak, +Never knowin' any comfort, + And I puts on lots o' cheek. +"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, + Could I ax you for a rose? +For my little brother, missus-- + Never seed one, I suppose." + +Then I told her all about you-- + How I bringed you up--poor Joe! +(Lackin' women folks to do it) + Sich a imp you was, you know-- +Till you got that awful tumble, + Jist as I had broke yer in +(Hard work, too), to earn your livin' + Blackin' boots for honest tin. + +How that tumble crippled of you, + So's you couldn't hyper much-- +Joe, it hurted when I seen you + Fur the first time with yer crutch. +"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, + 'Pears to weaken every day"; +Joe, she up and went to cuttin'-- + That's the how of this bokay. + +Say! it seems to me, ole feller, + You is quite yourself to-night-- +Kind o' chirk--it's been a fortnit + Sense yer eyes has been so bright. +Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it! + Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. +Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? + Well, I thought it would, you know. + +Never see the country, did you? + Flowers growin' everywhere! +Some time when you're better, Joey, + Mebbe I kin take you there. +Flowers in heaven? 'M--I s'pose so; + Dunno much about it, though; +Ain't as fly as wot I might be + On them topics, little Joe. + +But I've heerd it hinted somewheres + That in heaven's golden gates +Things is everlastin' cheerful-- + B'lieve that's what the Bible states. +Likewise, there folks don't git hungry: + So good people, w'en they dies, +Finds themselves well fixed forever-- + Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes? + +Thought they looked a little sing'ler. + Oh, no! Don't you have no fear; +Heaven was made fur such as you is-- + Joe, wot makes you look so queer? +Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way! + Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head! +Here's yer flowers--you dropped em, Joey. + Oh, my God, can Joe be dead? + + _David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright)._ + + + + +The Ladder of St. Augustine + + +Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame +A ladder, if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame! + +All common things, each day's events, + That with the hour begin and end, +Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + +The low desire, the base design, + That makes another's virtues less; +The revel of the ruddy wine, + And all occasions of excess; + +The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; +The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + +All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their root in thoughts of ill; +Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will;-- + +All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain +In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + +We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb +By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + +The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, +When nearer seen, and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs, + +The distant mountains, that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, +Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + +The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight. +But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + +Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, +We may discern--unseen before-- + A path to higher destinies. + +Nor deem the irrevocable Past + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, +If, rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Loss and Gain + + + When I compare +What I have lost with what I have gained, +What I have missed with what attained, + Little room do I find for pride. + + I am aware +How many days have been idly spent; +How like an arrow the good intent + Has fallen short or been turned aside. + + But who shall dare +To measure loss and gain in this wise? +Defeat may be victory in disguise; + The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +John Thompson's Daughter + +(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter") + + +A fellow near Kentucky's clime + Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry, +And I'll give thee a silver dime + To row us o'er the ferry." + +"Now, who would cross the Ohio, + This dark and stormy water?" +"Oh, I am this young lady's beau, + And she John Thompson's daughter. + +"We've fled before her father's spite + With great precipitation, +And should he find us here to-night, + I'd lose my reputation. + +"They've missed the girl and purse beside, + His horsemen hard have pressed me. +And who will cheer my bonny bride, + If yet they shall arrest me?" + +Out spoke the boatman then in time, + "You shall not fail, don't fear it; +I'll go not for your silver dime, + But--for your manly spirit. + +"And by my word, the bonny bird + In danger shall not tarry; +For though a storm is coming on, + I'll row you o'er the ferry." + +By this the wind more fiercely rose, + The boat was at the landing, +And with the drenching rain their clothes + Grew wet where they were standing. + +But still, as wilder rose the wind, + And as the night grew drearer, +Just back a piece came the police, + Their tramping sounded nearer. + +"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, + "It's anything but funny; +I'll leave the light of loving eyes, + But not my father's money!" + +And still they hurried in the race + Of wind and rain unsparing; +John Thompson reached the landing-place, + His wrath was turned to swearing. + +For by the lightning's angry flash, + His child he did discover; +One lovely hand held all the cash, + And one was round her lover! + +"Come back, come back," he cried in woe, + Across the stormy water; +"But leave the purse, and you may go, + My daughter, oh, my daughter!" + +'Twas vain; they reached the other shore, + (Such dooms the Fates assign us), +The gold he piled went with his child, + And he was left there, minus. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +Grandfather's Clock + + +My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf, +So it stood ninety years on the floor; +It was taller by half than the old man himself, +Though it weighed not a pennyweight more. +It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, +And was always his treasure and pride, +But it stopped short ne'er to go again + When the old man died. + +In watching its pendulum swing to and fro, +Many hours had he spent while a boy; +And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know +And to share both his grief and his joy, +For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door, +With a blooming and beautiful bride, +But it stopped short never to go again + When the old man died. + +My grandfather said that of those he could hire, +Not a servant so faithful he found, +For it wasted no time and had but one desire, +At the close of each week to be wound. +And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face, +And its hands never hung by its side. +But it stopped short never to go again + When the old man died. + + _Henry C. Work._ + + + + +A Cradle Hymn + + +Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, + Holy angels guard thy bed! +Heavenly blessings without number + Gently falling on thy head. + +Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, + House and home, thy friends provide; +All without thy care or payment: + All thy wants are well supplied. + +How much better thou'rt attended + Than the Son of God could be, +When from heaven He descended + And became a child like thee! + +Soft and easy is thy cradle: + Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, +When His birthplace was a stable + And His softest bed was hay. + +Blessed babe! what glorious features-- + Spotless fair, divinely bright! +Must He dwell with brutal creatures? + How could angels bear the sight? + +Was there nothing but a manger + Cursed sinners could afford +To receive the heavenly stranger? + Did they thus affront their Lord? + +Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, + Though my song might sound too hard; +'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, + And her arm shall be thy guard. + + * * * * * + +See the kinder shepherds round Him, + Telling wonders from the sky! +Where they sought Him, there they found Him, + With His Virgin mother by. + +See the lovely babe a-dressing; + Lovely infant, how He smiled! +When He wept, His mother's blessing + Soothed and hush'd the holy Child, + +Lo, He slumbers in a manger, + Where the horned oxen fed:-- +Peace, my darling, here's no danger; + There's no ox anear thy bed. + + * * * * * + +May'st thou live to know and fear Him, + Trust and love Him all thy days; +Then go dwell forever near Him, + See His face, and sing His praise! + + _Isaac Watts._ + + + + +If All the Skies + + +If all the skies were sunshine, +Our faces would be fain +To feel once more upon them +The cooling splash of rain. + +If all the world were music, +Our hearts would often long +For one sweet strain of silence, +To break the endless song. + +If life were always merry, +Our souls would seek relief, +And rest from weary laughter +In the quiet arms of grief. + + _Henry van Dyke._ + + + + +The Petrified Fern + + +In a valley, centuries ago, + Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, + Veining delicate and fibers tender, +Waving when the wind crept down so low; +Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; +Playful sunbeams darted in and found it; +Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it; +But no foot of man e'er came that way; +Earth was young and keeping holiday. + +Monster fishes swam the silent main; + Stately forests waved their giant branches; + Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches; +Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, +Nature reveled in grand mysteries. +But the little fern was not like these, +Did not number with the hills and trees, +Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way; +No one came to note it day by day. + +Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, + Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion + Of the strong, dread currents of the ocean; +Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood; +Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, +Covered it, and hid it safe away. +Oh, the long, long centuries since that day; +Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost, +Since the little useless fern was lost! + +Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man + Searching Nature's secrets far and deep; + From a fissure in a rocky steep +He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran +Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, +Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine, +And the fern's life lay in every line. +So, I think, God hides some souls away, +Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day. + + _Mary L. Bolles Branch._ + + + + +Cleon and I + + +Cleon hath ten thousand acres, + Ne'er a one have I; +Cleon dwelleth in a palace, + In a cottage, I; +Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, + Not a penny, I, +Yet the poorer of the twain is + Cleon, and not I. + +Cleon, true, possesseth acres, + But the landscape, I; +Half the charms to me it yieldeth + Money cannot buy; +Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, + Freshening vigor, I; +He in velvet, I in fustian-- + Richer man am I. + +Cleon is a slave to grandeur, + Free as thought am I; +Cleon fees a score of doctors, + Need of none have I; +Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, + Cleon fears to die; +Death may come--he'll find me ready, + Happier man am I. + +Cleon sees no charms in nature, + In a daisy, I; +Cleon hears no anthems ringing + 'Twixt the sea and sky; +Nature sings to me forever, + Earnest listener, I; +State for state, with all attendants-- + Who would change?--Not I. + + _Charles Mackay._ + + + + +Washington + + +Great were the hearts and strong the minds + Of those who framed in high debate +The immortal league of love that binds + Our fair, broad empire, State with State. + +And deep the gladness of the hour + When, as the auspicious task was done, +In solemn trust the sword of power + Was given to Glory's Unspoiled Son. + +That noble race is gone--the suns + Of fifty years have risen and set;-- +But the bright links, those chosen ones, + So strongly forged, are brighter yet. + +Wide--as our own free race increase-- + Wide shall extend the elastic chain, +And bind in everlasting peace + State after State, a mighty train. + + _W.C. Bryant._ + + + + +Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night + +A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight." + + +Slow the Kansas sun was setting, + O'er the wheat fields far away, +Streaking all the air with cobwebs + At the close of one hot day; +And the last rays kissed the forehead + Of a man and maiden fair, +He with whiskers short and frowsy, + She with red and glistening hair, +He with shut jaws stern and silent; +She, with lips all cold and white, +Struggled to keep back the murmur, + "Towser shall be tied to-night." + +"Papa," slowly spoke the daughter, + "I am almost seventeen, +And I have a real lover, + Though he's rather young and green; +But he has a horse and buggy + And a cow and thirty hens,-- +Boys that start out poor, dear Papa, + Make the best of honest men, +But if Towser sees and bites him, +Fills his eyes with misty light, +He will never come again, Pa; + Towser must be tied to-night." + +"Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, + (Every word pierced her young heart +Like a carving knife through chicken + As it hunts the tender part)-- +"I've a patch of early melons, + Two of them are ripe to-day; +Towser must be loose to watch them + Or they'll all be stole away. +I have hoed them late and early + In dim morn and evening light; +Now they're grown I must not lose them; + Towser'll not be tied to-night." + +Then the old man ambled forward, + Opened wide the kennel-door, +Towser bounded forth to meet him + As he oft had done before. +And the farmer stooped and loosed him + From the dog-chain short and stout; +To himself he softly chuckled, + "Bessie's feller must look out." +But the maiden at the window + Saw the cruel teeth show white; +In an undertone she murmured,-- + "Towser must be tied to-night." + +Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful + And her breath came short and quick, +Till she spied the family clothesline, + And she whispered, "That's the trick." +From the kitchen door she glided + With a plate of meat and bread; +Towser wagged his tail in greeting, + Knowing well he would be fed. +In his well-worn leather collar, + Tied she then the clothesline tight, +All the time her white lips saying: + "Towser shall be tied to-night," + +"There, old doggie," spoke the maiden, + "You can watch the melon patch, +But the front gate's free and open, + When John Henry lifts the latch. +For the clothesline tight is fastened + To the harvest apple tree, +You can run and watch the melons, + But the front gate you can't see." +Then her glad ears hear a buggy, + And her eyes grow big and bright, +While her young heart says in gladness, + "Towser dog is tied to-night." + +Up the path the young man saunters + With his eye and cheek aglow; +For he loves the red-haired maiden + And he aims to tell her so. +Bessie's roguish little brother, + In a fit of boyish glee, +Had untied the slender clothesline, + From the harvest apple tree. +Then old Towser heard the footsteps, + Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,-- +"Bark away," the maiden whispers; + "Towser, you are tied to-night." + +Then old Towser bounded forward, + Passed the open kitchen door; +Bessie screamed and quickly followed, + But John Henry's gone before. +Down the path he speeds most quickly, + For old Towser sets the pace; +And the maiden close behind them + Shows them she is in the race. +Then the clothesline, can she get it? + And her eyes grow big and bright; +And she springs and grasps it firmly: + "Towser shall be tied to-night." + +Oftentimes a little minute + Forms the destiny of men. +You can change the fate of nations + By the stroke of one small pen. +Towser made one last long effort, + Caught John Henry by the pants, +But John Henry kept on running + For he thought that his last chance. +But the maiden held on firmly, + And the rope was drawn up tight. +But old Towser kept the garments, + For he was not tied that night. + +Then the father hears the racket; + With long strides he soon is there, +When John Henry and the maiden, + Crouching, for the worst prepare. +At his feet John tells his story, + Shows his clothing soiled and torn; +And his face so sad and pleading, + Yet so white and scared and worn, +Touched the old man's heart with pity, + Filled his eyes with misty light. +"Take her, boy, and make her happy,-- + Towser shall be tied to-night." + + + + +Law and Liberty + + +O Liberty, thou child of Law, + God's seal is on thy brow! +O Law, her Mother first and last, + God's very self art thou! +Two flowers alike, yet not alike, + On the same stem that grow, +Two friends who cannot live apart, + Yet seem each other's foe. +One, the smooth river's mirrored flow + Which decks the world with green; +And one, the bank of sturdy rock + Which hems the river in. +O Daughter of the timeless Past, + O Hope the Prophets saw, +God give us Law in Liberty + And Liberty in Law! + + _E.J. Cutler._ + + + + +His Mother's Song + + +Beneath the hot midsummer sun + The men had marched all day, +And now beside a rippling stream + Upon the grass they lay. +Tiring of games and idle jest + As swept the hours along, +They cried to one who mused apart, + "Come, friend, give us a song." + +"I fear I can not please," he said; + "The only songs I know +Are those my mother used to sing + For me long years ago." +"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried. +"There's none but true men here; +To every mother's son of us + A mother's songs are dear." + +Then sweetly rose the singer's voice + Amid unwonted calm: +"Am I a soldier of the Cross, + A follower of the Lamb? +And shall I fear to own His cause?" + The very stream was stilled, +And hearts that never throbbed with fear, + With tender thoughts were filled. + +Ended the song, the singer said, + As to his feet he rose, +"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight. + God grant us sweet repose." +"Sing us one more," the captain begged. + The soldier bent his head, +Then, glancing round, with smiling lips, + "You'll join with me?" he said. + +"We'll sing that old familiar air + Sweet as the bugle call, +'All hail the power of Jesus' name! + Let angels prostrate fall.'" +Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell. + As on the soldiers sang; +Man after man fell into line, + And loud the voices rang. + +The songs are done, the camp is still, + Naught but the stream is heard; +But, ah! the depths of every soul + By those old hymns are stirred, +And up from many a bearded lip, + In whispers soft and low, +Rises the prayer that mother taught + Her boy long years ago. + + + + +When Father Carves the Duck + + +We all look on with anxious eyes + When Father carves the duck, +And Mother almost always sighs + When Father carves the duck; +Then all of us prepare to rise +And hold our bibs before our eyes, +And be prepared for some surprise + When Father carves the duck. + +He braces up and grabs the fork, + Whene'er he carves the duck, +And won't allow a soul to talk + Until he carves the duck. +The fork is jabbed into the sides, +Across the breast the knife he slides, +While every careful person hides + From flying chips of duck. + +The platter's always sure to slip + When Father carves the duck, +And how it makes the dishes skip-- + Potatoes fly amuck. +The squash and cabbage leap in space, +We get some gravy in our face, +And Father mutters Hindoo grace + Whene'er he carves a duck. + +We then have learned to walk around + The dining room and pluck +From off the window-sills and walls + Our share of Father's duck. +While Father growls and blows and jaws, +And swears the knife was full of flaws, +And Mother laughs at him because + He couldn't carve a duck. + + _E.V. Wright._ + + + + +Papa's Letter + + +I was sitting in my study, + Writing letters when I heard, +"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me + Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. + +"But I'se tired of the kitty, + Want some ozzer fing to do. +Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? + Tan't I wite a letter too?" + +"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; + Run and play with kitty, now." +"No, no, mamma, me wite letter; + Tan if 'ou will show me how." + +I would paint my darling's portrait + As his sweet eyes searched my face-- +Hair of gold and eyes of azure, + Form of childish, witching grace. + +But the eager face was clouded, + As I slowly shook my head, +Till I said, "I'll make a letter + Of you, darling boy, instead." + +So I parted back the tresses + From his forehead high and white, +And a stamp in sport I pasted + 'Mid its waves of golden light. + +Then I said, "Now, little letter, + Go away and bear good news." +And I smiled as down the staircase + Clattered loud the little shoes. + +Leaving me, the darling hurried + Down to Mary in his glee, +"Mamma's witing lots of letters; + I'se a letter, Mary--see!" + +No one heard the little prattler, + As once more he climbed the stair, +Reached his little cap and tippet, + Standing on the entry stair. + +No one heard the front door open, + No one saw the golden hair, +As it floated o'er his shoulders + In the crisp October air. + +Down the street the baby hastened + Till he reached the office door. +"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman; + Is there room for any more? + +"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, + Papa lives with God, 'ou know, +Mamma sent me for a letter, + Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?" + +But the clerk in wonder answered, + "Not to-day, my little man." +"Den I'll find anozzer office, + 'Cause I must go if I tan." + +Fain the clerk would have detained him, + But the pleading face was gone, +And the little feet were hastening-- + By the busy crowd swept on. + +Suddenly the crowd was parted, + People fled to left and right, +As a pair of maddened horses + At the moment dashed in sight. + +No one saw the baby figure-- + No one saw the golden hair, +Till a voice of frightened sweetness + Rang out on the autumn air. + +'Twas too late--a moment only + Stood the beauteous vision there, +Then the little face lay lifeless, + Covered o'er with golden hair. + +Reverently they raised my darling, + Brushed away the curls of gold, +Saw the stamp upon the forehead, + Growing now so icy cold. + +Not a mark the face disfigured, + Showing where a hoof had trod; +But the little life was ended-- + "Papa's letter" was with God. + + + + +Who Stole the Bird's Nest? + + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! +Such a thing I'd never do; +I gave you a wisp of hay, +But didn't take your nest away. +Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! +Such a thing I'd never do." + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! +I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! +I gave the hairs the nest to make, +But the nest I did not take. +Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! +I'm not so mean, anyhow." + +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! +Will you listen to me? +Who stole four eggs I laid, +And the nice nest I made?" + +"Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no! +I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. +I gave the wool the nest to line, +But the nest was none of mine. +Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no! +I wouldn't treat a poor bird so." + +"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; +"I should like to know +What thief took away +A bird's nest to-day?" + +"I would not rob a bird," +Said little Mary Green; +"I think I never heard +Of anything so mean." + +"It is very cruel, too," +Said little Alice Neal; +"I wonder if he knew +How sad the bird would feel?" + +A little boy hung down his head, +And went and hid behind the bed, +For he stole that pretty nest +From poor little yellow-breast; +And he felt so full of shame, +He didn't like to tell his name. + + _Lydia Maria Child._ + + + + +Over the Hill from the Poor-House + + +I, who was always counted, they say, +Rather a bad stick anyway, +Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, +Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six"; +I, the truant, saucy and bold, +The one black sheep in my father's fold, +"Once on a time," as the stories say, +Went over the hill on a winter's day-- + _Over the hill to the poor-house._ + +Tom could save what twenty could earn; +But _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn; +Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak-- +Committed a hundred verses a week; +Never forgot, an' never slipped; +But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped; + _So over the hill to the poor-house!_ + +As for Susan, her heart was kind +An' good--what there was of it, mind; +Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, +Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice +For one she loved; an' that 'ere one +Was herself, when all was said an' done; +An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, +But anyone could pull 'em about; +An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, +Save one poor fellow, an' that was me; +An' when, one dark an' rainy night, +A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, +They hitched on me, as the guilty chap +That carried one end o' the halter-strap. +An' I think, myself, that view of the case +Wasn't altogether out o' place; +My mother denied it, as mothers do, +But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. +Though for me one thing might be said-- +That I, as well as the horse, was led; +And the worst of whisky spurred me on, +Or else the deed would have never been done. +But the keenest grief I ever felt +Was when my mother beside me knelt, +An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down, +As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. +I kissed her fondly, then an' there, +An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. + +I served my sentence--a bitter pill +Some fellows should take who never will; +And then I decided to go "out West," +Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; +Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, +But Fortune seemed to like me well; +An' somehow every vein I struck +Was always bubbling over with luck. +An', better than that, I was steady an' true, +An' put my good resolutions through. +But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, +"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, +An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, +Than if I had lived the same as before." + +But when this neighbor he wrote to me, +"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, +I had a resurrection straightway, +An' started for her that very day. +And when I arrived where I was grown, +I took good care that I shouldn't be known; +But I bought the old cottage, through and through, +Of someone Charley had sold it to; +And held back neither work nor gold +To fix it up as it was of old. +The same big fire-place, wide and high, +Flung up its cinders toward the sky; +The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-- +I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself; +An' if everything wasn't just the same, +Neither I nor money was to blame; + _Then--over the hill to the poor-house!_ + +One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, +With a team an' cutter I started away; +My fiery nags was as black as coal; +(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;) +I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door-- +A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; +She rose to her feet in great surprise, +And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; +I saw the whole of her trouble's trace +In the lines that marred her dear old face; +"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! +You're adopted along o' your horse thief son, + _Come over the hill from the poor-house!"_ + +She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, +An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. +An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, +An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; +An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, +An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, +To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, +An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; +An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, +In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, +Who often said, as I have heard, +That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; +(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, +For all of 'em owe me more or less;) +But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man +In always a-doin' the best he can; +That whether on the big book, a blot +Gets over a fellow's name or not, +Whenever he does a deed that's white, +It's credited to him fair and right. +An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, +An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats, +However they may settle my case, +Wherever they may fix my place, +My good old Christian mother, you'll see, +Will be sure to stand right up for me, + With _over the hill from the poor-house!_ + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +"'Specially Jim" + + +I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young, + Peart an' black-eyed an' slim, +With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, + 'Specially Jim. + +The likeliest one of 'em all was he, + Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, +But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds + 'Specially Jim! + +I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, + An' I wouldn't take stock in him! +But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, + 'Specially Jim! + +I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' + ('Specially Jim!) +I made up my mind I'd settle down + An' take up with him. + +So we was married one Sunday in church, + 'Twas crowded full to the brim; +'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, + 'Specially Jim. + + + + +O'Grady's Goat + + +O'Grady lived in Shanty row, + The neighbors often said +They wished that Tim would move away + Or that his goat was dead. +He kept the neighborhood in fear, + And the children always vexed; +They couldn't tell jist whin or where + The goat would pop up next. + +Ould Missis Casey stood wan day + The dirty clothes to rub +Upon the washboard, when she dived + Headforemosht o'er the tub; +She lit upon her back an' yelled, + As she was lying flat: +"Go git your goon an' kill the bashte." + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash + Upon the line to dry. +She wint to take it in at night, + But stopped to have a cry. +The sleeves av two red flannel shirts, + That once were worn by Pat, +Were chewed off almost to the neck. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +They had a party at McCune's, + An' they wor having foon, +Whin suddinly there was a crash + An' ivrybody roon. +The iseter soup fell on the floor + An' nearly drowned the cat; +The stove was knocked to smithereens. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea, + Both standin' at the gate, +An' they wor just about to kiss + Aich oother sly and shwate. +They coom togither loike two rams. + An' mashed their noses flat. +They niver shpake whin they goes by. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg + Av dannymite wan day +To blow a cistern in his yard + An' hid the stuff away. +But suddinly an airthquake coom, + O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat, +An' ivrything in sight wint up. + O'Grady's goat doon that. + +An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank, + That held the byes' sphare cash. +One day the news came doon the sthreet + The bank had gone to smash. +An' ivrybody 'round was dum + Wid anger and wid fear, +Fer on the dhoor they red the whords, + "O'Grady's goat sthruck here." + +The folks in Grady's naborhood + All live in fear and fright; +They think it's certain death to go + Around there after night. +An' in their shlape they see a ghost + Upon the air afloat, +An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: + "Luck out for Grady's goat." + + _Will S. Hays._ + + + + +The Burial of Moses + +"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against +Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." + + +By Nebo's lonely mountain, + On this side Jordan's wave, +In a vale in the land of Moab + There lies a lonely grave, +And no man knows that sepulchre, + And no man saw it e'er, +For the angels of God upturn'd the sod + And laid the dead man there. + +That was the grandest funeral + That ever pass'd on earth; +But no man heard the trampling, + Or saw the train go forth-- +Noiselessly as the daylight + Comes back when night is done, +And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek + Grows into the great sun. + +Noiselessly as the springtime + Her crown of verdure weaves, +And all the trees on all the hills + Open their thousand leaves; +So without sound of music, + Or voice of them that wept, +Silently down from the mountain's crown + The great procession swept. + +Perchance the bald old eagle + On gray Beth-peor's height, +Out of his lonely eyrie + Look'd on the wondrous sight; +Perchance the lion, stalking, + Still shuns that hallow'd spot, +For beast and bird have seen and heard + That which man knoweth not. + +But when the warrior dieth, + His comrades in the war, +With arms reversed and muffled drum, + Follow his funeral car; +They show the banners taken, + They tell his battles won, +And after him lead his masterless steed, + While peals the minute gun. + +Amid the noblest of the land + We lay the sage to rest, +And give the bard an honor'd place, + With costly marble drest, +In the great minster transept + Where lights like glories fall, +And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings + Along the emblazon'd wall. + +This was the truest warrior + That ever buckled sword, +This was the most gifted poet + That ever breathed a word; +And never earth's philosopher + Traced with his golden pen, +On the deathless page, truths half so sage + As he wrote down for men. + +And had he not high honor,-- + The hillside for a pall, +To lie in state while angels wait + With stars for tapers tall, +And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, + Over his bier to wave, +And God's own hand, in that lonely land, + To lay him in the grave? + +In that strange grave without a name, + Whence his uncoffin'd clay +Shall break again, O wondrous thought! + Before the judgment day, +And stand with glory wrapt around + On the hills he never trod, +And speak of the strife that won our life + With the Incarnate Son of God. + +O lonely grave in Moab's land + O dark Beth-peor's hill, +Speak to these curious hearts of ours, + And teach them to be still. +God hath His mysteries of grace, + Ways that we cannot tell; +He hides them deep like the hidden sleep + Of him He loved so well. + + _Cecil F. Alexander._ + + + + +Nobody's Child + + +Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, +With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, +All day have I wandered to and fro, +Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; +The night's coming on in darkness and dread, +And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. +Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? +Is it because I am nobody's child? + +Just over the way there's a flood of light, +And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; +Beautiful children, in robes so fair, +Are caroling songs in their rapture there. +I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, +Would pity a poor little beggar like me, +Wandering alone in the merciless street, +Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? + +Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down +In its terrible blackness all over the town? +Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, +On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, +When the beautiful children their prayers have said, +And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? +For no dear mother on me ever smiled. +Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child? + +No father, no mother, no sister, not one +In all the world loves me--e'en the little dogs run +When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see +How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! +Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie +Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, +Watching for hours some large bright star, +I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, + +And a host of white-robed, nameless things +Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; +A hand that is strangely soft and fair +Caresses gently my tangled hair, +And a voice like the carol of some wild bird-- +The sweetest voice that was ever heard-- +Calls me many a dear, pet name, +Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. + +They tell me of such unbounded love, +And bid me come to their home above; +And then with such pitiful, sad surprise +They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, +And it seems to me, out of the dreary night +I am going up to that world of light, +And away from the hunger and storm so wild; +I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. + + _Phila H. Case._ + + + + +A Christmas Long Ago + + +Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells; +Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells; +Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow, +To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago. + +And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene +Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between; +And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show, +As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago. + +I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about; +I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout; +I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill, +E'en the shadows on the ceiling--I can see them dancing still. + +I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet; +I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget. +Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might, +To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night. + +Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel +For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal. +But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow, +There will never come another like that Christmas long ago! + +For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain +In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again. +Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow; +Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago. + +Let the children have their Christmas--let them have it while they may; +Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day +When St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door, +Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore; + +When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room; +When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom; +When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow +Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago. + + + + +Nearer Home + + +One sweetly solemn thought + Comes to me o'er and o'er,-- +I am nearer home to-day + Than I've ever been before;-- + +Nearer my Father's house + Where the many mansions be, +Nearer the great white throne, + Nearer the jasper sea;-- + +Nearer the bound of life + Where we lay our burdens down; +Nearer leaving the cross, + Nearer gaining the crown. + +But lying darkly between, + Winding down through the night, +Is the dim and unknown stream + That leads at last to the light. + +Closer and closer my steps + Come to the dark abysm; +Closer death to my lips + Presses the awful chrism. + +Father, perfect my trust; + Strengthen the might of my faith; +Let me feel as I would when I stand + On the rock of the shore of death,-- + +Feel as I would when my feet + Are slipping o'er the brink; +For it may be I am nearer home, + Nearer now than I think. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +The Minuet + + +Grandma told me all about it, +Told me so I could not doubt it, +How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago! +How she held her pretty head, +How her dainty skirts she spread, +How she turned her little toes, +Smiling little human rose! + +Grandma's hair was bright and shining, +Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny! +Bless me, now she wears a cap, +My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; +Yet she danced the minuet long ago; +Now she sits there rocking, rocking, +Always knitting grandpa's stocking-- +Every girl was taught to knit long ago-- +But her figure is so neat, +And her ways so staid and sweet, +I can almost see her now, +Bending to her partner's bow, long ago. + +Grandma says our modern jumping, +Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, +Would have shocked the gentle people long ago. +No, they moved with stately grace, +Everything in proper place, +Gliding slowly forward, then +Slowly courtesying back again. + +Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, +But boys were charming-- +Girls and boys I mean, of course--long ago, +Sweetly modest, bravely shy! +What if all of us should try just to feel +Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago. +With the minuet in fashion, +Who could fly into a passion? +All would wear the calm they wore long ago, +And if in years to come, perchance, +I tell my grandchild of our dance, +I should really like to say, +We did it in some such way, long ago. + + _Mary Mapes Dodge._ + + + + +The Vagabonds + + +We are two travellers, Roger and I. + Roger's my dog--Come here, you scamp! +Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye! + Over the table--look out for the lamp!-- +The rogue is growing a little old; + Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, +And slept outdoors when nights were cold, + And ate, and drank--and starved together. + +We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: + A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, +A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, + The paw he holds up there has been frozen), +Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, + (This outdoor business is bad for strings), +Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, + And Roger and I set up for kings! + +No, thank you, Sir, I never drink. + Roger and I are exceedingly moral. +Aren't we, Roger? see him wink. + Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. +He's thirsty, too--see him nod his head? + What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk; +He understands every word that's said, + And he knows good milk from water and chalk. + +The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, + I've been so sadly given to grog, +I wonder I've not lost the respect + (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog. +But he sticks by through thick and thin; + And this old coat with its empty pockets +And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, + He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. + +There isn't another creature living + Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, +So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, + To such a miserable, thankless master. +No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- + By George! it makes my old eyes water-- +That is, there's something in this gin + That chokes a fellow, but no matter! + +We'll have some music, if you're willing. + And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) +Shall march a little.--Start, you villain! + Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! +'Bout face! attention! take your rifle! + (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold +Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle + To aid a poor old patriot soldier! + +March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes, + When he stands up to hear his sentence; +Now tell me how many drams it takes + To honor a jolly new acquaintance. +Five yelps--that's five; he's mighty knowing; + The night's before us, fill the glasses;-- +Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!-- + Some brandy,--thank you;--there,--it passes! + +Why not reform? That's easily said; + But I've gone through such wretched treatment, +Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, + And scarce remembering what meat meant, +That my poor stomach's past reform; + And there are times when, mad with thinking, +I'd sell out heaven for something warm + To prop a horrible inward sinking. + +Is there a way to forget to think? + At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, +A dear girl's love,--but I took to drink;-- + The same old story; you know how it ends. +If you could have seen these classic features,-- + You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then +Such a burning libel on God's creatures; + I was one of your handsome men-- + +If you had seen her, so fair, so young, + Whose head was happy on this breast; +If you could have heard the songs I sung + When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd +That ever I, Sir, should be straying + From door to door, with fiddle and dog, +Ragged and penniless, and playing + To you to-night for a glass of grog. + +She's married since,--a parson's wife, + 'Twas better for her that we should part; +Better the soberest, prosiest life + Than a blasted home and a broken heart. +I have seen her--once; I was weak and spent + On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, +But little she dreamed as on she went, + Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. + +You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry; + It makes me wild to think of the change! +What do you care for a beggar's story? + Is it amusing? you find it strange? +I had a mother so proud of me! + 'Twas well she died before--Do you know +If the happy spirits in heaven can see + The ruin and wretchedness here below? + +Another glass, and strong, to deaden + This pain; then Roger and I will start. +I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, + Aching thing, in place of a heart? +He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, + No doubt, remembering things that were,-- +A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, + And himself a sober, respectable cur. + +I'm better now; that glass was warming-- + You rascal! limber your lazy feet! +We must be fiddling and performing + For supper and bed, or starve in the street.-- +Not a very gay life to lead, you think. + But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, +And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;-- + The sooner, the better for Roger and me. + + _J.T. Trowbridge._ + + + + +The Isle of Long Ago + + +Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, + As it runs through the realm of tears, +With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, +And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, + As it blends with the ocean of Years. + +How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, + And the summers, like buds between; +And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go, +On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, + As it glides in the shadow and sheen. + +There's a magical isle up the river of Time, + Where the softest of airs are playing; +There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, +And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, + And the Junes with the roses are staying. + +And the name of that isle is the Long Ago, + And we bury our treasures there; +There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- +There are heaps of dust--but we love them so!-- + There are trinkets and tresses of hair; + +There are fragments of song that nobody sings, + And a part of an infant's prayer, +There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; +There are broken vows and pieces of rings, + And the garments that she used to wear. + +There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore + By the mirage is lifted in air; +And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, +Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, + When the wind down the river is fair. + +Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, + All the day of our life till night-- +When the evening comes with its beautiful smile. +And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, + May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight! + + _Benjamin Franklin Taylor_. + +NOTE: The last line of this poem needs explanation. "Greenwood" is the +name of a cemetery in Brooklyn, N.Y. "Greenwood of Soul" means the +soul's resting place, or heaven. + + + + +The Dying Newsboy + + +In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay +On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; +Scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room, +Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. +On a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page, +Where the mother had been reading lay a Bible stained by age, +Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept +With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept. + +Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, +Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away, +And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, +"'Ere's the morning _Sun_ and _'Erald_--latest news of steamship lost. +Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the cry fell to a moan, +Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: +"Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star. +It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!" + +Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; +Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head, +"Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day, +Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. +He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care +When Jim's gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there? +Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up! Papers! Read God's book instead, +Better'n papers that to die on! Jack--" one gasp, and Jim was dead! + +Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer, +And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there, +He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down his face, +Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace, +Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, +Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door; +For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere, +And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer. + + _Emily Thornton._ + + + + +Break, Break, Break + + +Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O sea! +And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + +O well for the fisherman's boy + That he shouts with his sister at play! +O well for the sailor lad + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + +And the stately ships go on + To their haven under the hill; +But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + +Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! +But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + + + +Don't Kill the Birds + + +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, + That sing about your door, +Soon as the joyous spring has come, + And chilling storms are o'er. +The little birds, how sweet they sing! + Oh! let them joyous live; +And never seek to take the life + That you can never give. + +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, + That play among the trees; +'Twould make the earth a cheerless place, + Should we dispense with these. +The little birds, how fond they play! + Do not disturb their sport; +But let them warble forth their songs, + Till winter cuts them short. + +Don't kill the birds, the happy birds, + That bless the fields and grove; +So innocent to look upon, + They claim our warmest love. +The happy birds, the tuneful birds, + How pleasant 'tis to see! +No spot can be a cheerless place + Where'er their presence be. + + _D.C. Colesworthy._ + + + + +Bill's in the Legislature + + +I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, +An' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, +To think the boy whose future I had once so nicely planned +Should wander from the right and come to such a bitter end. + +I told him when he left us, only three short years ago, +He'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row; +He'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too, +But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go. + +I know there's big temptations for a youngster in the West, +But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist; +An' when he left I warned him of the ever waitin' snares +That lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres. + +But Bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowed +That he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud. +But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, +And now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind! + +His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed +That Billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road; +But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, +And in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name. + +He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short-- +I jess can't tell his mother!--It'll crush her poor old heart! +An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her-- +Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what fur! + + + + +The Bridge Builder + + +An old man going a lone highway, +Came, at the evening cold and gray, +To a chasm vast and deep and wide, +The old man crossed in the twilight dim, +The sullen stream had no fear for him; +But he turned when safe on the other side +And built a bridge to span the tide. + +"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near, +"You are wasting your strength with building here; +Your journey will end with the ending day, +Yon never again will pass this way; +You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, +Why build this bridge at evening tide?" + +The builder lifted his old gray head; +"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, +"There followed after me to-day +A youth whose feet must pass this way. +This chasm that has been as naught to me +To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; +He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; +Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!" + + _Anonymous._ + + + + +Song of Marion's Men + + +Our band is few, but true and tried, + Our leader frank and bold; +The British soldier trembles + When Marion's name is told. +Our fortress is the good green wood, + Our tent the cypress tree; +We know the forest round us + As seamen know the sea; +We know its walls of thorny vines, + Its glades of reedy grass, +Its safe and silent islands + Within the dark morass. + +Woe to the English soldiery + That little dread us near! +On them shall light at midnight + A strange and sudden fear: +When, waking to their tents on fire, + They grasp their arms in vain, +And they who stand to face us + Are beat to earth again; +And they who fly in terror deem + A mighty host behind, +And hear the tramp of thousands + Upon the hollow wind. + +Then sweet the hour that brings release + From danger and from toil; +We talk the battle over + And share the battle's spoil. +The woodland rings with laugh and shout + As if a hunt were up, +And woodland flowers are gathered + To crown the soldier's cup. +With merry songs we mock the wind + That in the pine-top grieves, +And slumber long and sweetly + On beds of oaken leaves. + +Well knows the fair and friendly moon + The band that Marion leads-- +The glitter of their rifles, + The scampering of their steeds. +'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide + Across the moonlight plains; +'Tis life to feel the night wind + That lifts their tossing manes. +A moment in the British camp-- + A moment--and away-- +Back to the pathless forest + Before the peep of day. + +Grave men there are by broad Santee, + Grave men with hoary hairs; +Their hearts are all with Marion, + For Marion are their prayers. +And lovely ladies greet our band + With kindliest welcoming, +With smiles like those of summer, + And tears like those of spring. +For them we wear these trusty arms, + And lay them down no more +Till we have driven the Briton + Forever from our shore. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +The Minstrel-Boy + + +The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, + In the ranks of death you'll find him; +His father's sword he has girded on, + And his wild harp slung behind him.-- +"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, + "Though all the world betrays thee, +One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, + One faithful harp shall praise thee!" +The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain + Could not bring his proud soul under; +The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, + For he tore its chords asunder; +And said, "No chains shall sully thee, + Thou soul of love and bravery! +Thy songs were made for the pure and free, + They shall never sound in slavery!" + + _Thomas Moore._ + + + + +Our Homestead + + +Our old brown homestead reared its walls, + From the wayside dust aloof, +Where the apple-boughs could almost cast + Their fruitage on its roof: +And the cherry-tree so near it grew, + That when awake I've lain, +In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs, + As they creaked against the pane: +And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees! + I've seen my little brothers rocked +In their tops by the summer breeze. + +The sweet-brier under the window-sill, + Which the early birds made glad, +And the damask rose by the garden fence + Were all the flowers we had. +I've looked at many a flower since then, + Exotics rich and rare, +That to other eyes were lovelier, + But not to me so fair; +O those roses bright, O those roses bright! + I have twined them with my sister's locks, +That are hid in the dust from sight! + +We had a well, a deep old well, + Where the spring was never dry, +And the cool drops down from the mossy stones + Were falling constantly: +And there never was water half so sweet + As that in my little cup, +Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, + Which my father's hand set up; +And that deep old well, O that deep old well! + I remember yet the splashing sound +Of the bucket as it fell. + +Our homestead had an ample hearth, + Where at night we loved to meet; +There my mother's voice was always kind, + And her smile was always sweet; +And there I've sat on my father's knee, + And watched his thoughtful brow, +With my childish hand in his raven hair,-- + That hair is silver now! +But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light! + And my father's look, and my mother's smile,-- +They are in my heart to-night. + + _Phoebe Gary._ + + + + +The Ballad of the Tempest + + +We were crowded in the cabin, + Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- +It was midnight on the waters, + And a storm was on the deep. + +'Tis a fearful thing in winter + To be shattered by the blast, +And to hear the rattling trumpet + Thunder, "Cut away the mast!" + +So we shuddered there in silence,-- + For the stoutest held his breath, +While the hungry sea was roaring + And the breakers talked with Death. + +As thus we sat in darkness, + Each one busy with his prayers, +"We are lost!" the captain shouted, + As he staggered down the stairs. + +But his little daughter whispered, + As she took his icy hand, +"Isn't God upon the ocean, + Just the same as on the land?" + +Then we kissed the little maiden, + And we spoke in better cheer, +And we anchored safe in harbor, + When the morn was shining clear. + + _James T. Fields._ + + + + +Santa Filomena + + +Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, +Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, +Our hearts, in glad surprise, +To higher levels rise. + +The tidal wave of deeper souls +Into our inmost being rolls +And lifts us unawares +Out of all meaner cares. + +Honor to those whose words or deeds +Thus help us in our daily needs, +And by their overflow, +Raise us from what is low! + +Thus thought I, as by night I read +Of the great army of the dead, +The trenches cold and damp, +The starved and frozen camp,-- + +The wounded from the battle-plain, +In dreary hospitals of pain, +The cheerless corridors, +The cold and stony floors. + +Lo! in that house of misery +A lady with a lamp I see +Pass through the glimmering gloom, +And flit from room to room. + +And slow, as in a dream of bliss, +The speechless sufferer turns to kiss +Her shadow, as it falls +Upon the darkening walls. + +As if a door in heaven should be +Opened and then closed suddenly, +The vision came and went, +The light shone and was spent. + +On England's annals, through the long +Hereafter of her speech and song, +That light its rays shall cast +From portals of the past. + +A lady with a lamp shall stand +In the great history of the land +A noble type of good, +Heroic Womanhood. + +Nor even shall be wanting here +The palm, the lily, and the spear, +The symbols that of yore +Saint Filomena bore. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Knight's Toast + + +The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine +In lordly cup is seen to shine + Before each eager guest; +And silence fills the crowded hall, +As deep as when the herald's call + Thrills in the loyal breast. + +Then up arose the noble host, +And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast! + To all our ladies fair! +Here before all, I pledge the name +Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, + The Ladye Gundamere!" + +Then to his feet each gallant sprung, +And joyous was the shout that rung, + As Stanley gave the word; +And every cup was raised on high, +Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry + Till Stanley's voice was heard. + +"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, +And lowly bent his haughty head; + "That all may have their due, +Now each in turn must play his part, +And pledge the lady of his heart, + Like gallant knight and true!" + +Then one by one each guest sprang up, +And drained in turn the brimming cup, + And named the loved one's name; +And each, as hand on high he raised, +His lady's grace or beauty praised, + Her constancy and fame. + +'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; +On him are fixed those countless eyes;-- + A gallant knight is he; +Envied by some, admired by all, +Far famed in lady's bower and hall,-- + The flower of chivalry. + +St. Leon raised his kindling eye, +And lifts the sparkling cup on high: + "I drink to one," he said, +"Whose image never may depart, +Deep graven on this grateful heart, + Till memory be dead. + +"To one, whose love for me shall last +When lighter passions long have past,-- + So holy 'tis and true; +To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, +More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, + Than any pledged by you." + +Each guest upstarted at the word, +And laid a hand upon his sword, + With fury flashing eye; +And Stanley said: "We crave the name, +Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, + Whose love you count so high." + +St. Leon paused, as if he would +Not breathe her name in careless mood, + Thus lightly to another; +Then bent his noble head, as though +To give that word the reverence due, + And gently said: "My Mother!" + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + + + +The Old Man Dreams + + +O for one hour of youthful joy! + Give back my twentieth spring! +I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy + Than reign a gray-beard king; + +Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! + Away with learning's crown! +Tear out life's wisdom-written page, + And dash its trophies down! + +One moment let my life-blood stream + From boyhood's fount of flame! +Give me one giddy, reeling dream + Of life all love and fame! + +My listening angel heard the prayer, + And, calmly smiling, said, +"If I but touch thy silvered hair, + Thy hasty wish hath sped. + +"But is there nothing in thy track + To bid thee fondly stay, +While the swift seasons hurry back + To find the wished-for day?" + +Ah! truest soul of womankind! + Without thee what were life? +One bliss I cannot leave behind: + I'll take--my--precious--wife! + +The angel took a sapphire pen + And wrote in rainbow dew, +"The man would be a boy again, + And be a husband, too!" + +"And is there nothing yet unsaid + Before the change appears? +Remember, all their gifts have fled + With those dissolving years!" + +"Why, yes; for memory would recall + My fond paternal joys; +I could not bear to leave them all: + I'll take--my--girl--and--boys!" + +The smiling angel dropped his pen-- + "Why, this will never do; +The man would be a boy again, + And be a father too!" + +And so I laughed--my laughter woke + The household with its noise-- +And wrote my dream, when morning broke, + To please the gray-haired boys. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Washington's Birthday + + +The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day, + And what say their melodious numbers +To the flag blooming air? List, what do they say? + "The fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!" + +The world's monument stands the Potomac beside, + And what says the shaft to the river? +"When the hero has lived for his country, and died, + Death crowns him a hero forever." + +The bards crown the heroes and children rehearse + The songs that give heroes to story, +And what say the bards to the children? "No verse + Can yet measure Washington's glory. + +"For Freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth, + And Freedom shall triumph forever, +And Time must long wait the true song of his birth + Who sleeps by the beautiful river." + + _Hezekiah Butterworth._ + + + + +April! April! Are You Here? + + +April! April! are you here? + Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! +See! the sky is bright and clear, + Oh, how green the grass is growing! +April! April! are you here? + +April! April! is it you? + See how fair the flowers are springing! +Sun is warm and brooks are clear, + Oh, how glad the birds are singing! +April! April! is it you? + +April! April! you are here! + Though your smiling turn to weeping, +Though your skies grow cold and drear, + Though your gentle winds are sleeping, +April! April! you are here! + + _Dora Read Goodale._ + + + + +A Laughing Chorus + + +Oh, such a commotion under the ground + When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" +Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, + Such whispering to and fro; +And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked, + "'Tis time to start, you know." +"Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; + "I'll follow as soon as you go." +Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came + Of laughter soft and low, +From the millions of flowers under the ground, + Yes--millions--beginning to grow. + +O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, + Imprisoned in walls of brown, +They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, + And the sleet and the hail came down, + +But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, + Or fashioned her beautiful crown; +And now they are coming to brighten the world, + Still shadowed by Winter's frown; +And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" + In a chorus soft and low, +The millions of flowers hid under the ground + Yes--millions--beginning to grow. + + + + +The Courtin' + + +God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur 'z you can look or listen, +Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + +Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru the winder. +An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'ith no one nigh to hender. + +A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in-- +There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + +The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her, +An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + +Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted +The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + +The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', +An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + +'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On sech a blessed cretur, +A dogrose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + +He was six foot o' man, A 1, + Clear grit an' human natur'; +None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter, + +He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, +Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- + All is, he couldn't love 'em, + +But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, +The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + +She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; +My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. + +An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnit +Felt somehow thru its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upun it. + +Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, +For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + +She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, + A-raspin' on the scraper,-- +All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + +He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle, +His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + +An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, +An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + +"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal--no--I come dasignin'"-- +"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + +To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; +Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ + Comes nateral to women. + +He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t'other, +An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + +Says he, "I'd better call agin"; + Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; +Thet last work pricked him like a pin, + An'--Wal, he up an' kist her. + +When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, +All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + +For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, +Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + +The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', +Tell mother see how metters stood, + An' gin 'em both her blessin'. + +Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy. +An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +An Old Man's Dreams + + + It was the twilight hour; +Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, +Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. +The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; +High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, +Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, +To still their restless brood. + Across the way +A noisy little brook made pleasant +Music on the summer air, +And farther on, the sweet, faint sound +Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell +Like some sweet chant at vespers. + The air is heavy +With the scent of mignonette and rose, +And from the beds of flowers the tall +White lilies point like angel fingers upward, +Casting on the air an incense sweet, +That brings to mind the old, old story +Of the alabaster box that loving Mary +Broke upon the Master's feet. + + Upon his vine-wreathed porch +An old white-headed man sits dreaming +Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; +And listening to the quaint old song +With which his daughter lulled her child to rest: + + "Abide with me," she says; + "Fast falls the eventide; + The darkness deepens,-- + Lord, with me abide." + +And as he listens to the sounds that fill the +Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts +Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; +And, for a while, he seems a boy again. + With feet all bare +He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout +Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, +That wave a welcome from the other side. + With those he wreathes +The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, +Companion of his sorrows and his joys. +Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life +Seemed early linked with his, +And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion. + + Long years have flown. +No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, +They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs +Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, +And tell the old, old story, +And promise to be true till life for them shall end. + + Again the years roll on, +And they are old. The frost of age +Has touched the once-brown hair, +And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. +Children, whose rosy lips once claimed +A father's blessing and a mother's love, +Have grown to man's estate, save two +Whom God called early home to wait +For them in heaven. + + And then the old man thinks +How on a night like this, when faint +And sweet as half-remembered dreams +Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft +Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies +Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, +God called the wife and mother home, +And bade him wait. + Oh! why is it so hard for +Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, +Apart, amid the busy throng, +And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; +To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves +Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, +And knows he may not join, +But only wait till God has said, "Enough!" + And calls him home! + +And thus the old man dreams, +And then awakes; awakes to hear +The sweet old song just dying +On the pulsing evening air: + + "When other helpers fail, + And comforts flee, + Lord of the helpless, + Oh, abide with me!" + + _Eliza M. Sherman._ + + + + +God's Message to Men + + +God said: I am tired of kings; + I suffer them no more; +Up to my ear the morning brings + The outrage of the poor. + +Think ye I have made this ball + A field of havoc and war, +Where tyrants great and tyrants small + Might harry the weak and poor? + +My angel--his name is Freedom-- + Choose him to be your king. +He shall cut pathways east and west + And fend you with his wing. + +I will never have a noble; + No lineage counted great, +Fishers and choppers and plowmen + Shall constitute a state, + +And ye shall succor man, + 'Tis nobleness to serve; +Help them who cannot help again; + Beware from right to swerve. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +The Sandman + + +The rosy clouds float overhead, + The sun is going down, +And now the Sandman's gentle tread + Comes stealing through the town. +"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, + And, as he shakes his hand, +Straightway there lies on babies' eyes + His gift of shining sand. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +From sunny beaches far away, + Yes, in another land, +He gathers up, at break of day, + His store of shining sand. +No tempests beat that shore remote, + No ships may sail that way; +His little boat alone may float + Within that lovely bay. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +He smiles to see the eyelids close + Above the happy eyes, +And every child right well he knows-- + Oh, he is very wise! +But if, as he goes through the land, + A naughty baby cries, +His other hand takes dull gray sand + To close the wakeful eyes. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + +So when you hear the Sandman's song + Sound through the twilight sweet, +Be sure you do not keep him long + A-waiting in the street. +Lie softly down, dear little head, + Rest quiet, busy hands, +Till by your bed when good-night's said, + He strews the shining sands. +Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, +As shuts the rose, they softly close, + when he goes through the town. + + _Margaret Vandegrift._ + + + + +Ring Out, Wild Bells + + +Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, + The flying cloud, the frosty light: + The year is dying in the night; +Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. + +Ring out the old, ring in the new, + Ring, happy bells, across the snow: + The year is going, let him go; +Ring out the false, ring in the true. + +Ring out the grief that saps the mind, + For those that here we see no more; + Ring out the feud of rich and poor, +Ring in redress to all mankind. + +Ring out a slowly dying cause, + And ancient forms of party strife; + Ring in the nobler modes of life, +With sweeter manners, purer laws. + +Ring out false pride in place and blood, + The civic slander and the spite; + Ring in the love of truth and right, +Ring in the common love of good. + +Ring out old shapes of foul disease; + Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; + Ring out the thousand wars of old, +Ring in the thousand years of peace. + +Ring in the valiant man and free, + The larger heart, the kindlier hand; + Ring out the darkness of the land, +Ring in the Christ that is to be. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +The Wishing Bridge + + +Among the legends sung or said + Along our rocky shore, +The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead + May well be sung once more. + +An hundred years ago (so ran + The old-time story) all +Good wishes said above its span + Would, soon or late, befall. + +If pure and earnest, never failed + The prayers of man or maid +For him who on the deep sea sailed, + For her at home who stayed. + +Once thither came two girls from school + And wished in childish glee: +And one would be a queen and rule, + And one the world would see. + +Time passed; with change of hopes and fears + And in the selfsame place, +Two women, gray with middle years, + Stood wondering, face to face. + +With wakened memories, as they met, + They queried what had been: +"A poor man's wife am I, and yet," + Said one, "I am a queen. + +"My realm a little homestead is, + Where, lacking crown and throne, +I rule by loving services + And patient toil alone." + +The other said: "The great world lies + Beyond me as it laid; +O'er love's and duty's boundaries + My feet have never strayed. + +"I see but common sights at home, + Its common sounds I hear, +My widowed mother's sick-bed room + Sufficeth for my sphere. + +"I read to her some pleasant page + Of travel far and wide, +And in a dreamy pilgrimage + We wander side by side. + +"And when, at last, she falls asleep, + My book becomes to me +A magic glass: my watch I keep, + But all the world I see. + +"A farm-wife queen your place you fill, + While fancy's privilege +Is mine to walk the earth at will, + Thanks to the Wishing Bridge." + +"Nay, leave the legend for the truth," + The other cried, "and say +God gives the wishes of our youth + But in His own best way!" + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + + + +The Things Divine + + +These are the things I hold divine: +A trusting chi id's hand laid in mine, +Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees, +The taste of grapes and the drone of bees, +A rhythmic gallop, long June days, +A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays, +The welcome smile on neighbors' faces, +Cool, wide hills and open places, +Breeze-blown fields of silver rye, +The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry, +Fresh spring showers and scent of box, +The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox, +Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, +A flight of geese and an autumn moon, +Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights, +A fountain murmur on summer nights, +A dappled fawn in the forest hush, +Simple words and the song of a thrush, +Rose-red dawns and a mate to share +With comrade soul my gypsy fare, +A waiting fire when the twilight ends, +A gallant heart and the voice of friends. + + _Jean Brooks Burt._ + + + + +Mothers of Men + + +The bravest battle that ever was fought! + Shall I tell you where and when? +On the map of the world you will find it not, + 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. + +Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, + With sword or nobler pen, +Nay, not with eloquent words or thought + From mouths of wonderful men; + +But deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- + Of woman that would not yield, +But bravely, silently, bore her part-- + Lo, there is that battle field! + +No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, + No banner to gleam or wave, +But oh! these battles, they last so long-- + From babyhood to the grave. + +Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, + She fights in her walled-up town-- +Fights on and on in the endless wars, + Then, silent, unseen, goes down. + +Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, + And soldiers to shout and praise, +I tell you the kingliest victories fought + Were fought in those silent ways. + +Oh, spotless in a world of shame, + With splendid and silent scorn, +Go back to God as white as you came-- + The kingliest warrior born! + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +Echo + + +"I asked of Echo, t'other day + (Whose words are often few and funny), +What to a novice she could say + Of courtship, love and matrimony. + Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!' + +"Whom should I marry? Should it be + A dashing damsel, gay and pert, +A pattern of inconstancy; + Or selfish, mercenary flirt? + Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!' + +"What if, aweary of the strife + That long has lured the dear deceiver, +She promise to amend her life. + And sin no more; can I believe her? + Quoth Echo, very promptly;--'Leave her!' + +"But if some maiden with a heart + On me should venture to bestow it, +Pray should I act the wiser part + To take the treasure or forgo it? + Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!' + +"But what if, seemingly afraid + To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, +She vow she means to die a maid, + In answer to my loving letter? + Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--'Let her!' + +"What if, in spite of her disdain, + I find my heart entwined about +With Cupid's dear, delicious chain + So closely that I can't get out? + Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!' + +"But if some maid with beauty blest, + As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, +Will share my labor and my rest + Till envious Death shall overtake her? +Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-'Take her!'" + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Life, I Know Not What Thou Art + + +Life! I know not what thou art, +But know that thou and I must part; +And when, or how, or where we met +I own to me's a secret yet. + +Life! we've been long together +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; +'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-- +Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; + +Then steal away; give little warning, +Choose thine own time; +Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime +Bid me Good Morning. + + _Anna L. Barbauld._ + + + + +Autumn Leaves + + +In the hush and the lonely silence + Of the chill October night, +Some wizard has worked his magic + With fairy fingers light. + +The leaves of the sturdy oak trees + Are splendid with crimson and red. +And the golden flags of the maple + Are fluttering overhead. + +Through the tangle of faded grasses + There are trailing vines ablaze, +And the glory of warmth and color + Gleams through the autumn haze. + +Like banners of marching armies + That farther and farther go; +Down the winding roads and valleys + The boughs of the sumacs glow. + +So open your eyes, little children, + And open your hearts as well, +Till the charm of the bright October + Shall fold you in its spell. + + _Angelina Wray._ + + + + +A Message for the Year + + +Not who you are, but what you are, + That's what the world demands to know; +Just what you are, what you can do + To help mankind to live and grow. +Your lineage matters not at all, + Nor counts one whit your gold or gear, +What can you do to show the world + The reason for your being here? + +For just what space you occupy + The world requires you pay the rent; +It does not shower its gifts galore, + Its benefits are only lent; +And it has need of workers true, + Willing of hand, alert of brain; +Go forth and prove what you can do, + Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain. + +Give of your best to help and cheer, + The more you give the more you grow; +This message evermore rings true, + In time you reap whate'er you sow. +No failure you have need to fear, + Except to fail to do your best-- +What have you done, what can you do? + That is the question, that the test. + + _Elizabeth Clarke Hardy._ + + + + +Song of the Chattahoochee[*] + + + Out of the hills of Habersham, + Down the valleys of Hall, +I hurry amain to reach the plain, +Run the rapid and leap the fall, +Split at the rock and together again, +Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, +And flee from folly on every side +With a lover's pain to attain the plain + Far from the hills of Habersham, + Far from the valleys of Hall. + + All down the hills of Habersham, + All through the valleys of Hall, +The rushes cried "Abide, abide," +The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, +The laving laurel turned my tide, +The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay," +The dewberry dipped for to work delay, +And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide + Here in the hills of Habersham, + Here in the valleys of Hall." + + High o'er the hills of Habersham, + Veiling the valleys of Hall, +The hickory told me manifold +Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall +Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, +The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, +O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, +Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold + Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, + These glades in the valleys of Hall." + + And oft in the hills of Habersham, + And oft in the valleys of Hall, +The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone +Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, +And many a luminous jewel lone +--Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, +Ruby, garnet, and amethyst-- +Made lures with the lights of streaming stone, + In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, + In the beds of the valleys of Hall. + + But oh, not the hills of Habersham, + And oh, not the valleys of Hall +Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. +Downward the voices of Duty call-- +Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. +The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, +And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, +And the lordly main from beyond the plain + Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, + Calls through the valleys of Hall. + + _Sidney Lanier._ + +[Footnote *: Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles +Scribner's Sons.] + + + + +Courting in Kentucky + + +When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay +I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way, +I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, +Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly; +But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell +She come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. +My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk, +An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. + +Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; +But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" +Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, +He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. +I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, +An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. +Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, +Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong. + +One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree, +When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?" +An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." +Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way. +"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, +Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' +Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say; +But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay; +I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'" +An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be." + + + + +God's Will is Best + + +Whichever way the wind doth blow, +Some heart is glad to have it so; +Then blow it east, or blow it west, +The wind that blows, that wind is best. +My little craft sails not alone,-- +A thousand fleets, from every zone, +Are out upon a thousand seas, +And what for me were favoring breeze +Might dash another with the shock +Of doom upon some hidden rock. + +I leave it to a higher Will +To stay or speed me, trusting still +That all is well, and sure that He +Who launched my bark will sail with me +Through storm and calm, and will not fail, +Whatever breezes may prevail, +To land me, every peril past, +Within His Haven at the last. +Then blow it east, or blow it west, +The wind that blows, that wind is best. + + _Caroline H. Mason._ + + + + +The School-Master's Guests + + +I + +The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, +Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. +As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have + come, +His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. +There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding + a drouth. +And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; +There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that + could bloom, +And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, +With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, +Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin. +There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their + brain, +Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its + train; +There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his + slate, +And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; +And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short + twist, +As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with + the fist!" +There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty + possessed, +In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; +A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult + pains, +How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; +And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, +Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could. + + +II + +Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath, +With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath. +A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair, +Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair. +There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in + search of their prey; +Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day. +The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming + sores, +Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush + out-o'-doors. +White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the + cracks; +And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing + their backs. + + +III + +Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er, +And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard + at the door; +And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, +And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of + snow. +And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad, +Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that + they had: +"We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye + 'round, +Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been + found; +To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about, +An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out. + +"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read +You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need; +You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han', +An' you turn a stray _g_ in their _doin's_, an' tack an odd _d_ + on their _an'_; +There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see, +Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be. +An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto + last; +It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past. +Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say, +Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew." +"Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into + this, +That you turn the _u_ out o' your _labour_, an' make the word shorter + than 'tis; +An' clip the _k_ off yer _musick_, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed, +An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next. +They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters + along; +But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong. +You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about + war, +As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was + for." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments + tew." +"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me, +Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three; +An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please, +With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' _w's, x's, y's_ an' _z's_. +We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be + reached +By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached." +And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was + due, +And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." +"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day, +Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say. +My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear, +But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this + here: +'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' + an' 'They--' +An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'--'twas all I could get 'em + to say. +Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so +As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to + know." + + +IV + +Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening + before, +Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; +And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had + said, +A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. +The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place +And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the + face. +The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books +And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' + looks. +And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; +And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my + sentiments tew." + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +Mother o' Mine + + +If I were hanged on the highest hill, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose love would follow me still; + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + +If I were drowned in the deepest sea, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose tears would flow down to me, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + +If I were damned o' body and soul, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! +I know whose prayers would make me whole, + Mother o' mine! + Oh, mother o' mine! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Encouragement + + +Who dat knockin' at de do'? +Why, Ike Johnson--yes, fu' sho'! +Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad +You come down. I t'ought you's mad +At me 'bout de othah night, +An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. +Say, now, was you mad fu' true +W'en I kin' o' laughed at you? + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, +An' a-mekin' out you's mad; +Ef you's gwine to be so glum, +Wondah why you evah come. +I don't lak nobidy 'roun' +Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown-- +Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! +Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? +Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. +I's done all dat I kin do-- +Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; +Reckon I'd a' bettah wo' +My ol' ragged calico. +Aftah all de pains I's took, +Cain't you tell me how I look? + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got +Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. +Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, +She gwine ma'y Lucius White? +Miss Lize say I allus wuh +Heap sight laklier 'n huh; +An' she'll git me somep'n new, +Ef I wants to ma'y too. + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +I could ma'y in a week, +If de man I wants 'ud speak. +Tildy's presents 'll be fine, +But dey wouldn't ekal mine. +Him whut gits me fu' a wife +'ll be proud, you bet yo' life. +I's had offers, some ain't quit; +But I hasn't ma'ied yit! + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + +Ike, I loves you--yes, I does; +You's my choice, and allus was. +Laffin' at you ain't no harm-- +Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? +Hug me closer--dah, da's right! +Wasn't you a awful sight, +Havin' me to baig you so? +Now ax whut you want to know-- + Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. + + _Paul Laurence Dunbar._ + + + + +The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls + + +The harp that once through Tara's halls + The soul of music shed, +Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls + As if that soul were fled. +So sleeps the pride of former days, + So glory's thrill is o'er, +And hearts, that once beat high for praise, +Now feel that pulse no more. + +No more to chiefs and ladies bright + The harp of Tara swells: +The chord alone, that breaks at night, + Its tale of ruin tells. +Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, + The only throb she gives +Is when some heart indignant breaks, + To show that still she lives. + + _Thomas Moore._ + + + + +Aux Italiens + + +At Paris it was, at the opera there;-- + And she looked like a queen in a book that night, +With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, + And the brooch on her breast so bright. + +Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, + The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; +And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, + The souls in purgatory. + +The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; + And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, +As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, + _Non ti scordar di me?_[A] + +The emperor there, in his box of state, + Looked grave, as if he had just then seen +The red flag wave from the city gate, + Where his eagles in bronze had been. + +The empress, too, had a tear in her eye, + You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, +For one moment, under the old blue sky, + To the old glad life in Spain. + +Well, there in our front-row box we sat + Together, my bride betrothed and I; +My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, + And hers on the stage hard by. + +And both were silent, and both were sad. + Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, +With that regal, indolent air she had; + So confident of her charm! + +I have not a doubt she was thinking then + Of her former lord, good soul that he was! +Who died the richest and roundest of men. + The Marquis of Carabas. + +I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, + Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; +I wish him well, for the jointure given + To my Lady of Carabas. + +Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, + As I had not been thinking of aught for years, +Till over my eyes there began to move + Something that felt like tears. + +I thought of the dress that she wore last time, + When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, +In that lost land, in that soft clime, + In the crimson evening weather: + +Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); + And her warm white neck in its golden chain; +And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, + And falling loose again; + +And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; + (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) +And the one bird singing alone to his nest; + And the one star over the tower. + +I thought of our little quarrels and strife, + And the letter that brought me back my ring; +And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, + Such a very little thing! + +For I thought of her grave below the hill, + Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; +And I thought, "Were she only living still, + How I could forgive her and love her!" + +And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, + And of how, after all, old things are best, +That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower + Which she used to wear in her breast. + +It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, + It made me creep, and it made me cold; +Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet + Where a mummy is half unrolled. + +And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, + In a dim box over the stage, and drest +In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, + And that jasmine in her breast! + +I was here, and she was there; + And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:-- +From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, + And her sumptuous, scornful mien, + +To my early love, with her eyes downcast, + And over her primrose face the shade, +(In short, from the future back to the past,) + There was but a step to be made. + +To my early love from my future bride + One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, +I traversed the passage; and down at her side + I was sitting, a moment more. + +My thinking of her or the music's strain, + Or something which never will be exprest, +Had brought her back from the grave again, + With the jasmine in her breast. + +She is not dead, and she is not wed! + But she loves me now, and she loved me then! +And the very first word that her sweet lips said, + My heart grew youthful again. + +The marchioness there, of Carabas, + She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; +And but for her--well, we'll let that pass; + She may marry whomever she will. + +But I will marry my own first love, + With her primrose face, for old things are best; +And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above + The brooch in my lady's breast. + +The world is filled with folly and sin, + And love must cling where it can, I say: +For beauty is easy enough to win; + But one isn't loved every day, + +And I think in the lives of most women and men, + There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, +If only the dead could find out when + To come back, and be forgiven. + +But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! + And oh, that music! and oh, the way +That voice rang out from the donjon tower, + _Non ti scordar di me_, + _Non ti scordar di me!_ + + _Robert Bulwer Lytton._ + +[Footnote A: A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget +me."] + + + + +My Prairies + + +I love my prairies, they are mine + From zenith to horizon line, +Clipping a world of sky and sod + Like the bended arm and wrist of God. + +I love their grasses. The skies + Are larger, and my restless eyes +Fasten on more of earth and air + Than seashore furnishes anywhere. + +I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, + The never resting prairie winds. The trees +That stand like spear points high + Against the dark blue sky + +Are wonderful to me. I love the gold + Of newly shaven stubble, rolled +A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be + The pathway of a deity. + +I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds + Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's +Mad bellowing or the shadow stride + Of mounted herdsmen at my side. + +I love my prairies, they are mine + From high sun to horizon line. +The mountains and the cold gray sea + Are not for me, are not for me. + + _Hamlin Garland._ + + + + +Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead + +(_From "The Princess"_) + + +Home they brought her warrior dead: + She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: +All her maidens, watching, said, + "She must weep or she will die." +Then they praised him, soft and low, + Call'd him worthy to be loved, +Truest friend and noblest foe; + Yet she neither spoke nor moved. +Stole a maiden from her place, + Lightly to the warrior stept, +Took the face-cloth from the face; + Yet she neither moved nor wept. +Rose a nurse of ninety years, + Set his child upon her knee-- +Like summer tempest came her tears-- + "Sweet my child, I live for thee." + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +September + + + Sweet is the voice that calls + From babbling waterfalls +In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; + And soft the breezes blow, + And eddying come and go +In faded gardens where the rose is dying. + + Among the stubbled corn + The blithe quail pipes at morn, +The merry partridge drums in hidden places, + And glittering insects gleam + Above the reedy stream, +Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. + + At eve, cool shadows fall + Across the garden wall, +And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; + And pearly vapors lie + Along the eastern sky, +Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. + + Ah, soon on field and hill + The wind shall whistle chill, +And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, + To fly from frost and snow, + And seek for lands where blow +The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. + + The cricket chirps all day, + "O fairest summer, stay!" +The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; + The wild fowl fly afar + Above the foamy bar, +And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. + + Now comes a fragrant breeze + Through the dark cedar-trees +And round about my temples fondly lingers, + In gentle playfulness, + Like to the soft caress +Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. + + Yet, though a sense of grief + Comes with the falling leaf, +And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, + In all my autumn dreams + A future summer gleams, +Passing the fairest glories of the present! + + _George Arnold._ + + + + +The Old Kitchen Floor + + +Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast +To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed. +I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall, +But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. +Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be +And all its surroundings were sacred to me, +From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door, +And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor. + +I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide +And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side +Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies +And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes. +And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still +Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill. +But the dearest of memories laid up in store +Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor. + +To-night those old musings come back at their will +But the wheel and its music forever are still. +The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, +And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay. +The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then +And the voices of children ring out there again. +The sun at the window looks in as of yore, +But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor. + + + + +Rustic Courtship + + +The night was dark when Sam set out + To court old Jones's daughter; +He kinder felt as if he must, + And kinder hadn't oughter. +His heart against his waistcoat throbbed, + His feelings had a tussle, +Which nearly conquered him despite + Six feet of bone and muscle. + +The candle in the window shone + With a most doleful glimmer, +And Sam he felt his courage ooze, + And through his fingers simmer. +Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool, + Take courage, shaking doubter, +Go on, and pop the question right, + For you can't live without her." + +But still, as he drew near the house, + His knees got in a tremble, +The beating of his heart ne'er beat + His efforts to dissemble. +Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose, + And let the female wimmin +Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so, + And set your heart a-swimmin'." + +So Sam, he kinder raised the latch, + His courage also raising, +And in a moment he sat inside, + Cid Jones's crops a-praising. +He tried awhile to talk the farm + In words half dull, half witty, +Not knowing that old Jones well knew + His only thought was--Kitty. + +At last the old folks went to bed-- + The Joneses were but human; +Old Jones was something of a man, + And Mrs. Jones--a woman. +And Kitty she the pitcher took, + And started for the cellar; +It wasn't often that she had + So promising a feller. + +And somehow when she came upstairs, + And Sam had drank his cider, +There seemed a difference in the chairs, + And Sam was close beside her; +His stalwart arm dropped round her waist, + Her head dropped on his shoulder, +And Sam--well, he had changed his tune +And grown a trifle bolder. + +But this, if you live long enough, + You surely will discover, +There's nothing in this world of ours + Except the loved and lover. +The morning sky was growing gray + As Sam the farm was leaving, +His face was surely not the face + Of one half grieved, or grieving. + +And Kitty she walked smiling back, + With blushing face, and slowly; +There's something in the humblest love + That makes it pure and holy. +And did he marry her, you ask? + She stands there with the ladle +A-skimming of the morning's milk-- + That's Sam who rocks the cradle. + + + + +The Red Jacket + + +'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar +The north winds beat and clamor at the door; +The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, +Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; +The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend +But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; +Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, +Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. + +In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, +Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; +In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet +The weary traveler with their smiles to greet; +In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm +Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, +Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-- +"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!" + +But hark! above the beating of the storm +Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. +Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, +And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; +From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, +The ready friend no danger can appall; +Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, +He hurries forth to battle and to save. + +From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, +Devouring all they coil themselves about, +The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, +Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. +Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe +In vain attempts their power to overthrow; +With mocking glee they revel with their prey, +Defying human skill to check their way. + +And see! far up above the flame's hot breath, +Something that's human waits a horrid death; +A little child, with waving golden hair, +Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,-- +Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, +While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. +And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, +A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!" + +Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng +A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; +Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, +Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. +The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, +Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; +But up, still up he goes! the goal is won! +His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! + +Gone to his death. The wily flames surround +And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, +In flaming columns move with quickened beat +To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. +Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, +Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; +Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, +Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. + +Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; +Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, +Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm +Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm, +Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance! +Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance! +Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly; +Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die! + +Silence! he comes along the burning road, +Bearing, with tender care, his living load; +Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save +The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! +He's up again! and now he's coming fast-- +One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed-- +And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain. +A happy mother clasps her child again. + + _George M. Baker._ + + + + +John Maynard + + +'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse + One bright midsummer day, +The gallant steamer Ocean Queen + Swept proudly on her way. +Bright faces clustered on the deck, + Or, leaning o'er the side, +Watched carelessly the feathery foam + That flecked the rippling tide. + +Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, + That smiling bends serene, +Could dream that danger, awful, vast, + Impended o'er the scene; +Could dream that ere an hour had sped + That frame of sturdy oak +Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, + Blackened with fire and smoke? + +A seaman sought the captain's side, + A moment whispered low; +The captain's swarthy face grew pale; + He hurried down below. +Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, + And clear his orders came, +No human efforts could avail + To quench th' insidious flame. + +The bad news quickly reached the deck, + It sped from lip to lip, +And ghastly faces everywhere + Looked from the doomed ship. +"Is there no hope, no chance of life?" + A hundred lips implore; +"But one," the captain made reply, + "To run the ship on shore." + +A sailor, whose heroic soul + That hour should yet reveal, +By name John Maynard, eastern-born, + Stood calmly at the wheel. +"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, + Above the smothered roar, +"Head her southeast without delay! + Make for the nearest shore!" + +No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, + Or clouds his dauntless eye, +As, in a sailor's measured tone, + His voice responds, "Ay! ay!" +Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, + Crowd forward wild with fear, +While at the stern the dreaded flames + Above the deck appear. + +John Maynard watched the nearing flames, + But still with steady hand +He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly + He steered the ship to land. +"John Maynard, can you still hold out?" + He heard the captain cry; +A voice from out the stifling smoke + Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!" + +But half a mile! a hundred hands + Stretch eagerly to shore. +But half a mile! That distance sped + Peril shall all be o'er. +But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames + No longer slowly creep, +But gather round that helmsman bold, + With fierce, impetuous sweep. + +"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice + The captain cries once more, +"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, + And we shall reach the shore." +Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart + Responded firmly still, +Unawed, though face to face with death, + "With God's good help I will!" + +The flames approach with giant strides, + They scorch his hand and brow; +One arm, disabled, seeks his side, + Ah! he is conquered now. +But no, his teeth are firmly set, + He crushes down his pain, +His knee upon the stanchion pressed, + He guides the ship again. + +One moment yet! one moment yet! + Brave heart, thy task is o'er, +The pebbles grate beneath the keel, + The steamer touches shore. +Three hundred grateful voices rise + In praise to God that He +Hath saved them from the fearful fire, + And from the engulfing sea. + +But where is he, that helmsman bold? + The captain saw him reel, +His nerveless hands released their task, + He sank beside the wheel. +The wave received his lifeless corse, + Blackened with smoke and fire. +God rest him! Never hero had + A nobler funeral pyre! + + _Horatio Alger, Jr._ + + + + +Piller Fights + + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you; +There isn't anything I'd rather do +Than get a big piller and hold it tight, +Stand up in bed and then just fight. + +Us boys allers have our piller fights +And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night. +Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night," +Then go right upstairs for a piller fight. + +Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs +And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?" +And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has; +Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says. + +Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door; +If she's a-listenin' both of us snore, +But as soon as ever she goes we light a light +And pitch right into our piller fight. + +We play that the bed is Bunker Hill +And George is Americans, so he stands still. +But I am the British, so I must hit +As hard as ever I can to make him git. +We played Buena Vista one night-- +Tell you, that was an awful hard fight! + +Held up our pillers like they was a flag, +An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!" +That was the night that George hit the nail-- +You just ought to have seen those feathers sail! + +I was covered as white as flour, +Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour; +Next day when our ma saw that there mess +She was pretty mad, you better guess; + +And she told our pa, and he just said, +"Come right on out to this here shed." +Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore +And made us both promise to do it no more. + +That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights +Or when Pa's away we have piller fights, +But in Buena Vista George is bound +To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round. + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you; +There isn't anything I'd rather do +Than get a big piller and hold it tight, +Stand up in bed, and then just fight. + + _D.A. Ellsworth._ + + + + +Little Bateese + + +You bad leetle boy, not moche you care +How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere +Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day +Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay. +W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay! + Leetle Bateese! + +Off on de fiel' you foller de plough, +Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow, +Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall +So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all, +An' you're only five an' a half this fall-- + Leetle Bateese! + +Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight? +Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right; +Say dem to-morrow--ah! dere he go! +Fas' asleep in a minute or so-- +An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow-- + Leetle Bateese. + +Den wake up right away, toute suite, +Lookin' for somethin' more to eat, +Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane, +Soon as they swaller, dey start again; +I wonder your stomach don't get no pain, + Leetle Bateese. + +But see heem now lyin' dere in bed, +Look at de arm onderneat' hees head; +If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year, +I bet he'll be stronger than Louis Cyr +And beat de voyageurs leevin' here-- + Leetle Bateese. + +Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,-- +Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack +On de long portage, any size canoe; +Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do, +For he's got double-joint on hees body too-- + Leetle Bateese. + +But leetle Bateese! please don't forget +We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet. +So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare, +An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere, +For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere-- + Leetle Bateese! + + _W.H. Drummond._ + + + + +Conscience and Future Judgment + + +I sat alone with my conscience, +In a place where time had ceased, +And we talked of my former living +In the land where the years increased; +And I felt I should have to answer +The question it might put to me, +And to face the question and answer +Throughout an eternity. + +The ghosts of forgotten actions +Came floating before my sight, +And things that I thought had perished +Were alive with a terrible might; +And the vision of life's dark record +Was an awful thing to face-- +Alone with my conscience sitting +In that solemnly silent place. + +And I thought of a far-away warning, +Of a sorrow that was to be mine, +In a land that then was the future, +But now is the present time; +And I thought of my former thinking +Of the judgment day to be; +But sitting alone with my conscience +Seemed judgment enough for me. + +And I wondered if there was a future +To this land beyond the grave; +But no one gave me an answer +And no one came to save. +Then I felt that the future was present, +And the present would never go by, +For it was but the thought of a future +Become an eternity. + +Then I woke from my timely dreaming, +And the vision passed away; +And I knew the far-away warning +Was a warning of yesterday. +And I pray that I may not forget it +In this land before the grave, +That I may not cry out in the future, +And no one come to save. + +I have learned a solemn lesson +Which I ought to have known before, +And which, though I learned it dreaming, +I hope to forget no more. + +So I sit alone with my conscience +In the place where the years increase, +And I try to fathom the future, +In the land where time shall cease. +And I know of the future judgment, +How dreadful soe'er it be, +That to sit alone with my conscience +Will be judgment enough for me. + + + + +Dandelion + + +There's a dandy little fellow, +Who dresses all in yellow, +In yellow with an overcoat of green; +With his hair all crisp and curly, +In the springtime bright and early +A-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen. +Through all the bright June weather, +Like a jolly little tramp, +He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road; +Around his yellow feather, +Thy gypsy fireflies camp; +His companions are the wood lark and the toad. + +But at last this little fellow +Doffs his dainty coat of yellow, +And very feebly totters o'er the green; +For he very old is growing +And with hair all white and flowing, +A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen. +Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy, +Golden dancer on the lea! +Older growing, white hair flowing, +Poor little baldhead dandy now is he! + + _Nellie M. Garabrant._ + + + + +The Inventor's Wife + + +It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try + him! +Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come + nigh him. +Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what--ef you want to be sick of your + life, +Jest come and change places with me a spell--for I'm an inventor's wife. +And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, +That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot. +Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; +And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'? +And there was his "Patent Peeler," too--a wonderful thing, I'll say; +But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. +As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such + trash, +Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash. +Law! that don't worry him--not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man-- +He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, +Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, +While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' + our corn. +When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; +Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart--but that was years ago. +He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way-- +I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day; +But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, +And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried. +We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun +But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. +So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright-- +'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. +Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things. +Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?--'Twas full of wheels and springs; +It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; +All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, +That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, +And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. +Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, +But he hadn't mor'n got into it when--dear me! sakes alive! +Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap! +And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! +I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long + night +A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright; +I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin'; +So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.--There was 'Bijah peacefully + lyin', +Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, +But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day. +Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life? +Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife? + + _Mrs. E.T. Corbett._ + + + + +Out in the Snow + + +The snow and the silence came down together, + Through the night so white and so still; +And young folks housed from the bitter weather, + Housed from the storm and the chill-- + +Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, + Coasted the hill-sides under the moon, +Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, + Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon. + +They saw the snow when they rose in the morning, + Glittering ghosts of the vanished night, +Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, + And the day with a frosty pomp was bright. + +Out in the clear, cold, winter weather-- + Out in the winter air, like wine-- +Kate with her dancing scarlet feather, + Bess with her peacock plumage fine, + +Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter, + Frank and Tom with their gay hallo, +And half a score of roisterers after, + Out in the witching, wonderful snow, + +Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, + Righting themselves with a frozen frown, +Grumbling at every snowy tumble; + But young folks know why the snow came down. + + _Louise Chandler Moulton._ + + + + +Give Them the Flowers Now + + +Closed eyes can't see the white roses, + Cold hands can't hold them, you know; +Breath that is stilled cannot gather + The odors that sweet from them blow. +Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, + Its children of earth doth endow; +Life is the time we can help them, + So give them the flowers now! + +Here are the struggles and striving, + Here are the cares and the tears; +Now is the time to be smoothing + The frowns and the furrows and fears. +What to closed eyes are kind sayings? + What to hushed heart is deep vow? +Naught can avail after parting, + So give them the flowers now! + +Just a kind word or a greeting; + Just a warm grasp or a smile-- +These are the flowers that will lighten + The burdens for many a mile. +After the journey is over + What is the use of them; how +Can they carry them who must be carried? + Oh, give them the flowers now! + +Blooms from the happy heart's garden, + Plucked in the spirit of love; +Blooms that are earthly reflections + Of flowers that blossom above. +Words cannot tell what a measure + Of blessing such gifts will allow +To dwell in the lives of many, + So give them the flowers now! + + _Leigh M. Hodges._ + + + + +The Lost Occasion + +(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.) + + +Some die too late and some too soon, +At early morning, heat of noon, +Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, +Whom the rich heavens did so endow +With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, +With all the massive strength that fills +Thy home-horizon's granite hills, +With rarest gifts of heart and head +From manliest stock inherited-- +New England's stateliest type of man, +In port and speech Olympian; +Whom no one met, at first, but took +A second awed and wondering look +(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece +On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece); +Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, +The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, +With power reserved at need to reach +The Roman forum's loftiest speech, +Sweet with persuasion, eloquent +In passion, cool in argument, +Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes +As fell the Norse god's hammer blows. +Crushing as if with Talus' flail +Through Error's logic-woven mail, +And failing only when they tried +The adamant of the righteous side,-- +Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved +Of old friends, by the new deceived, +Too soon for us, too soon for thee, +Beside thy lonely Northern sea, +Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, +Laid wearily down thy august head. + +Thou shouldst have lived to feel below +Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,-- +The late-sprung mine that underlaid +Thy sad concessions vainly made. +Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall +The star-flag of the Union fall, +And armed Rebellion pressing on +The broken lines of Washington! +No stronger voice than thine had then +Called out the utmost might of men, +To make the Union's charter free +And strengthen law by liberty. +How had that stern arbitrament +To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, +Shaming ambition's paltry prize +Before thy disillusioned eyes; +Breaking the spell about thee wound +Like the green withes that Samson bound; +Redeeming, in one effort grand, +Thyself and thy imperiled land! +Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, +O sleeper by the Northern sea, +The gates of opportunity! +God fills the gaps of human need, +Each crisis brings its word and deed. +Wise men and strong we did not lack; +But still, with memory turning back, +In the dark hours we thought of thee, +And thy lone grave beside the sea. + +Above that grave the east winds blow, +And from the marsh-lands drifting slow +The sea-fog comes, with evermore +The wave-wash of a lonely shore, +And sea-bird's melancholy cry, +As Nature fain would typify +The sadness of a closing scene, +The loss of that which should have been. +But, where thy native mountains bare +Their foreheads to diviner air, +Fit emblem of enduring fame, +One lofty summit keeps thy name. +For thee the cosmic forces did +The rearing of that pyramid, +The prescient ages shaping with +Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. +Sunrise and sunset lay thereon +With hands of light their benison, +The stars of midnight pause to set +Their jewels in its coronet. +And evermore that mountain mass +Seems climbing from the shadowy pass +To light, as if to manifest +Thy nobler self, they life at best! + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +The Flower of Liberty + + +What flower is this that greets the morn, +Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? +With burning star and flaming band +It kindles all the sunset land: +O tell us what its name may be,-- +Is this the Flower of Liberty? + It is the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +In savage Nature's far abode +Its tender seed our fathers sowed; +The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, +Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, +Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see +The full-blown Flower of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +Behold its streaming rays unite, +One mingling flood of braided light-- +The red that fires the Southern rose, +With spotless white from Northern snows, +And, spangled o'er its azure, see +The sister Stars of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +The blades of heroes fence it round, +Where'er it springs is holy ground; +From tower and dome its glories spread; +It waves where lonely sentries tread; +It makes the land as ocean free, +And plants an empire on the sea! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + +Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, +Shall ever float on dome and tower, +To all their heavenly colors true, +In blackening frost or crimson dew,-- +And God love us as we love thee, +Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! + Then hail the banner of the free, + The starry Flower of Liberty! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +The Lamb + + + Little lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee, +Gave thee life, and made thee feed +By the stream and o'er the mead? +Gave thee clothing of delight,-- +Softest clothing, woolly, bright? +Gave thee such a tender voice, +Making all the vales rejoice? + Little lamb, who made thee? + Dost thou know who made thee? + + Little lamb, I'll tell thee; + Little lamb, I'll tell thee; +He is called by thy name, +For he calls himself a lamb. +He is meek and He is mild; +He became a little child: +I a child, and thou a lamb, +We are called by His name. + Little lamb, God bless thee! + Little lamb, God bless thee! + + _William Blake._ + + + + +The Roll Call + + +"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried; + "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, + From the lips of the soldier standing near, +And "Here" was the answer the next replied. + +"Cyrus Drew!"--then a silence fell-- + This time no answer followed the call, + Only the rear man had seen him fall, +Killed or wounded he could not tell. + +There they stood in the failing light, + These men of battle, with grave dark looks, + As plain to be read as open books, +While slowly gathered the shades of night. + +The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood, + And down in the corn, where the poppies grew + Were redder stains than the poppies knew +And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. + +"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came + Two stalwart soldiers into the line, + Bearing between them Herbert Kline, +Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. + +"Ezra Kerr!"--and a voice said "Here!" + "Hiram Kerr!"--but no man replied. + They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, +And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. + +"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke; + "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; + "Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead, +Just after the enemy wavered and broke. + +"Close by the roadside his body lies; + I paused a moment and gave him a drink, + He murmured his mother's name I think, +And Death came with it and closed his eyes." + +'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear-- + For that company's roll when called that night, + Of a hundred men who went into the fight, +Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" + + _N.G. Shepherd._ + + + + +A Prayer for a Little Home + + +God send us a little home +To come back to when we roam-- +Low walls and fluted tiles, +Wide windows, a view for miles; +Red firelight and deep chairs; +Small white beds upstairs; +Great talk in little nooks; +Dim colors, rows of books; +One picture on each wall; +Not many things at all. +God send us a little ground-- +Tall trees standing round, +Homely flowers in brown sod, +Overhead, Thy stars, O God! +God bless, when winds blow, +Our home and all we know. + + _London "Spectator."_ + + + + +I Have Drank My Last Glass + + +No, comrades, I thank you--not any for me; +My last chain is riven--henceforward I'm free! +I will go to my home and my children to-night +With no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight; +And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife +To forgive me the wreck I have made of her life. +_I have never refused you before?_ Let that pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace, +With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face; +Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand, +And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand; +See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees, +Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze. +Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;-- + But I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now +That a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow-- +When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride, +Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side; +But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky +Bidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye." +And I'll do it, God helping! Your _smile_ I let pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late, +For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait +On a fellow who's left every cent in their till, +And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill. +Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured! +And I begged for one glass--just one would have cured,-- +But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair, +I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer; +From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down, +And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown, +And she prayed--prayed for _bread_, just a poor crust of bread, +For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead! +And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas! + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + +For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, +Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold, +There, on the bare floor, asked God to bless _me_! +And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see, +I _believe_ what I ask for!" Then sobered, I crept +Away from the house; and that night, when I slept, +Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys + I have drank my last glass. + +My darling child saved me! Her faith and her love +Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above! +I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race, +And sober I'll go to my last resting place; +And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank God +No _drunkard_ lies under the daisy-strewn sod! +Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass, + For I've drank my last glass, boys, + I have drank my last glass. + + + + +Highland Mary + + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o' Montgomery, +Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! +There simmer first unfauld her robes, + And there the langest tarry; +For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + +How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn's blossom, +As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasp'd her to my bosom! +The golden hours, on angel wings, + Flew o'er me and my dearie; +For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary! + +Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, + Our parting was fu' tender; +And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder; +But, oh, fell death's untimely frost, + That nipp'd my flower sae early! +Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + +Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, + I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly! +And closed for aye the sparkling glance + That dwalt on me sae kindly! +And mouldering now in silent dust, + That heart that lo'ed me dearly; +But still within my bosom's core + Shall live my Highland Mary! + + _Robert Burns._ + + + + +A Night with a Wolf + + +Little one, come to my knee! + Hark, how the rain is pouring +Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, + And the wind in the woods a-roaring! + +Hush, my darling, and listen, + Then pay for the story with kisses; +Father was lost in the pitch-black night, + In just such a storm as this is! + +High up on the lonely mountains, + Where the wild men watched and waited +Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, + And I on my path belated. + +The rain and the night together + Came down, and the wind came after, +Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, + And snapping many a rafter. + +I crept along in the darkness, + Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,-- +Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, + And a sheltering rock behind it. + +There, from the blowing and raining + Crouching, I sought to hide me: +Something rustled, two green eyes shone, + And a wolf lay down beside me. + +Little one, be not frightened; + I and the wolf together, +Side by side, through the long, long night + Hid from the awful weather. + +His wet fur pressed against me; + Each of us warmed the other; +Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, + That beast and man was brother. + +And when the falling forest + No longer crashed in warning, +Each of us went from our hiding-place + Forth in the wild, wet morning. + +Darling, kiss me in payment! + Hark, how the wind is roaring; +Father's house is a better place + When the stormy rain is pouring! + + _Bayard Taylor._ + + + + +She Was a Phantom of Delight + + +She was a Phantom of delight +When first she gleamed upon my sight; +A lovely Apparition sent +To be a moment's ornament; +Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; +Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; +But all things else about her drawn +From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; +A dancing Shape, an Image gay, +To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. + +I saw her upon nearer view, +A Spirit, yet a Woman too! +Her household motions light and free, +And steps of virgin-liberty; +A countenance in which did meet +Sweet records, promises as sweet; +A Creature not too bright or good +For human nature's daily food; +For transient sorrows, simple wiles, +Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. + +And now I see with eye serene +The very pulse of the machine; +A Being breathing thoughtful breath, +A Traveler between life and death; +The reason firm, the temperate will, +Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; +A perfect Woman, nobly planned, +To warn, to comfort, and command; +And yet a Spirit still, and bright +With something of angelic light. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +The Rhodora + +(_On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower_) + + +In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, +I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, +Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, +To please the desert and the sluggish brook. +The purple petals, fallen in the pool, +Made the black water with their beauty gay; +Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, +And court the flower that cheapens his array. +Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why +This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, +Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, +Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: +Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! +I never thought to ask, I never knew: +But, in my simple ignorance, suppose +The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +There Was a Boy + + +There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs +And islands of Winander!--many a time, +At evening, when the earliest stars began +To move along the edges of the hills, +Rising or setting, would he stand alone, +Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; +And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands +Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth +Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, +Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, +That they might answer him,--And they would shout +Across the watery vale, and shout again, +Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, +And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud +Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild +Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause +Of silence such as baffled his best skill, +Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung +Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise +Has carried far into his heart the voice +Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene +Would enter unawares into his mind +With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, +Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received +Into the bosom of the steady lake. +This boy was taken from his mates, and died +In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. +Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale +Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs +Upon a slope above the village-school; +And through that church-yard when my way has led +On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there +A long half-hour together I have stood +Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies! + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +The Quangle Wangle's Hat + + +On the top of the Crumpetty Tree + The Quangle Wangle sat, +But his face you could not see, + On account of his Beaver Hat. +For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, +With ribbons and bibbons on every side, +And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, +So that nobody ever could see the face + Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +The Quangle Wangle said + To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, +"Jam, and jelly, and bread + Are the best of food for me! +But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree +The plainer than ever it seems to me +That very few people come this way +And that life on the whole is far from gay!" + Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +But there came to the Crumpetty Tree + Mr. and Mrs. Canary; +And they said, "Did ever you see + Any spot so charmingly airy? +May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? +Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! +Oh, please let us come and build a nest +Of whatever material suits you best, + Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" + +And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree + Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; +The Snail and the Bumblebee, + The Frog and the Fimble Fowl +(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg); +And all of them said, "We humbly beg +We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,-- +Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! + Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" + +And the Golden Grouse came there, + And the Pobble who has no toes, +And the small Olympian bear, + And the Dong with a luminous nose. +And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, +And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, +And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,-- +All came and built on the lovely Hat + Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. + +And the Quangle Wangle said + To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, +"When all these creatures move + What a wonderful noise there'll be!" +And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon +They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, +On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, +And all were as happy as happy could be, +With the Quangle Wangle Quee. + + _Edward Lear._ + + + + +The Singing Leaves + + +I + +"What fairings will ye that I bring?" + Said the King to his daughters three; +"For I to Vanity Fair am boun, + Now say what shall they be?" + +Then up and spake the eldest daughter, + That lady tall and grand: +"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, + And gold rings for my hand." + +Thereafter spake the second daughter, + That was both white and red: +"For me bring silks that will stand alone, + And a gold comb for my head." + +Then came the turn of the least daughter, + That was whiter than thistle-down, +And among the gold of her blithesome hair + Dim shone the golden crown. + +"There came a bird this morning, + And sang 'neath my bower eaves, +Till I dreamed, as his music made me, + 'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'" + +Then the brow of the King swelled crimson + With a flush of angry scorn: +"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, + And chosen as ye were born, + +"But she, like a thing of peasant race, + That is happy binding the sheaves"; +Then he saw her dead mother in her face, + And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves." + + +II + +He mounted and rode three days and nights + Till he came to Vanity Fair, +And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, + But no Singing Leaves were there. + +Then deep in the greenwood rode he, + And asked of every tree, +"Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf, + I pray you give it me!" + +But the trees all kept their counsel, + And never a word said they, +Only there sighed from the pine-tops + A music of seas far away. + +Only the pattering aspen + Made a sound of growing rain, +That fell ever faster and faster. + Then faltered to silence again. + +"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page + That would win both hose and shoon, +And will bring to me the Singing Leaves + If they grow under the moon?" + +Then lightly turned him Walter the page, + By the stirrup as he ran: +"Now pledge you me the truesome word + Of a king and gentleman, + +"That you will give me the first, first thing + You meet at your castle-gate, +And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, + Or mine be a traitor's fate." + +The King's head dropt upon his breast + A moment, as it might be; +'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said, + "My faith I plight to thee." + +Then Walter took from next his heart + A packet small and thin, +"Now give you this to the Princess Anne, + The Singing Leaves are therein." + + +III + +As the King rode in at his castle-gate, + A maiden to meet him ran, +And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried + Together, the Princess Anne. + +"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he, + "And woe, but they cost me dear!" +She took the packet, and the smile + Deepened down beneath the tear. + +It deepened down till it reached her heart, + And then gushed up again, +And lighted her tears as the sudden sun + Transfigures the summer rain. + +And the first Leaf, when it was opened, + Sang: "I am Walter the page, +And the songs I sing 'neath thy window + Are my only heritage." + +And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land + That is neither on earth nor sea, +My lute and I are lords of more + Than thrice this kingdom's fee." + +And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!" + And ever it sang, "Be mine!" +Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, + And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!" + +At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, + At the second she turned aside, +At the third,'twas as if a lily flushed + With a rose's red heart's tide. + +"Good counsel gave the bird," said she, + "I have my hope thrice o'er, +For they sing to my very heart," she said, + "And it sings to them evermore." + +She brought to him her beauty and truth, + But and broad earldoms three, +And he made her queen of the broader lands + He held of his lute in fee. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +Awakening + + +Never yet was a springtime, + Late though lingered the snow, +That the sap stirred not at the whisper + Of the south wind, sweet and low; +Never yet was a springtime + When the buds forgot to blow. + +Ever the wings of the summer + Are folded under the mold; +Life that has known no dying + Is Love's to have and to hold, +Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter! + The song! the green and the gold! + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness + +_(From "King Henry VIII")_ + + +Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth +The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, +And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, +And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely +His greatness is a-ripening,--nips his root, +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, +This many summers in a sea of glory, +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride +At length broke under me, and now has left me +Weary, and old with service, to the mercy +Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, +More pangs and fears than wars or women have; +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, +Never to hope again. + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +The Newsboy + + +Want any papers, Mister? + Wish you'd buy 'em of me-- +Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, + An' bizness dull, you see. +Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, + An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat, +None on 'em earning money-- + What do you think of that? + +_Couldn't Dad work?_ Why yes, Boss, + He's workin' for Gov'ment now-- +They give him his board for nothin', + All along of a drunken row, +_An' Mam?_ well, she's in the poor-house, + Been there a year or so, +So I'm taking care of the others, + Doing as well as I know. + +_Tibby my sister?_ Not much, Boss, + She's a kitten, a real Maltee; +I picked her up last summer-- + Some boys was a drownin' of she; +Throw'd her inter a hogshead; + But a p'liceman came along, +So I jest grabbed up the kitten + And put for home, right strong. + +And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby + Hain't never quarreled yet-- +They sleep in my bed in winter + An' keeps me warm--you bet! +Mam's cat sleeps in the corner, + With a piller made of her paw-- +Can't she growl like a tiger + If anyone comes to our straw! + +_Oughtn't to live so?_ Why, Mister, + What's a feller to do? +Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, + Seems as if each on 'em knew-- +They'll all three cuddle around me, + Till I get cheery, and say: +Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, + An' money an' clothes, too, some day. + +But if I do git rich, Boss, + (An' a lecturin' chap one night +Said newsboys could be Presidents + If only they acted right); +So, if I was President, Mister, + The very first thing I'd do, +I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby + A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too! + +None o' your scraps an' leavin's, + But a good square meal for all three; +If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, + That shows you don't know _me_. +So 'ere's your papers--come take one, + Gimme a lift if you can-- +For now you've heard my story, +You see I'm a fam'ly man! + + _E.T. Corbett._ + + + + +Parting of Marmion and Douglas + + +Not far advanced was morning day, +When Marmion did his troop array + To Surrey's camp to ride; +He had safe conduct for his band, +Beneath the royal seal and hand, + And Douglas gave a guide: +The ancient Earl, with stately grace, +Would Clara on her palfrey place, +And whispered in an undertone, +"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." +The train from out the castle drew, +But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.-- +"Though something I might plain," he said, +"Of cold respect to stranger guest, +Sent hither by your king's behest, +While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, +Part we in friendship from your land, +And, noble Earl, receive my hand."-- +But Douglas round him drew his cloak, +Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- +"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still +Be open, at my sovereign's will, +To each one whom he lists, howe'er +Unmeet to be the owner's peer. +My castles are my king's alone, +From turret to foundation-stone,-- +The hand of Douglas is his own; +And never shall in friendly grasp +The hand of such as Marmion clasp." + +Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, +And shook his very frame for ire, + And--"This to me!" he said,-- +"An't were not for thy hoary beard, +Such hand as Marmion's had not spared + To cleave the Douglas' head! +And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, +He who does England's message here, + Even in thy pitch of pride, +Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, +(Nay, never look upon your lord, +And lay your hands upon your sword,) + I tell thee thou'rt defied! +And if thou said'st I am not peer +To any lord in Scotland here, +Lowland or Highland, far or near, + Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"-- +On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage +O'ercame the ashen hue of age: +Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then +To beard the lion in his den, + The Douglas in his hall? +And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? +No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! +Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, warder, ho! + Let the portcullis fall."-- +Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- +And dashed the rowels in his steed; +Like arrow through the archway sprung; +The ponderous grate behind him rung; +To pass there was such scanty room, +The bars, descending, razed his plume. + +The steed along the drawbridge flies. +Just as it trembled on the rise; +Not lighter does the swallow skim +Along the smooth lake's level brim; +And when Lord Marmion reached his band, +He halts, and turns with clenched hand, +And shout of loud defiance pours, +And shook his gauntlet at the towers, +"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" +But soon he reined his fury's pace: +"A royal messenger he came, +Though most unworthy of the name. + + * * * * * + +St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! +Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, +I thought to slay him where he stood. +'Tis pity of him too," he cried; +"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: +I warrant him a warrior tried." +With this his mandate he recalls, +And slowly seeks his castle halls. + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + + + +The Engineer's Story + + +Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. +Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. +What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, +She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell." + +I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago +On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. +There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, +With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams. + +'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, +An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, +Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, +With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below. + +Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, +Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, +Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, +Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. + +I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, +Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, +When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. +Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. + +I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, +Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, +An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, +An' the river roared below us--I shall hear her till I die! + +Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge +An' I found her--dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge +Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, +An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill! + +So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be-- +Now we're married--she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. +An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell-- +She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell." + + _Eugene J. Hall._ + + + + +Small Beginnings + + +A traveler on the dusty road + Strewed acorns on the lea; +And one took root and sprouted up, + And grew into a tree. +Love sought its shade, at evening time, + To breathe his early vows; +And age was pleased, in heats of noon, + To bask beneath its boughs; +The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, + The birds sweet music bore; +It stood a glory in its place, + A blessing evermore. + +A little spring had lost its way + Amid the grass and fern, +A passing stranger scooped a well + Where weary men might turn; +He walled it in, and hung with care + A ladle at the brink; +He thought not of the deed he did, + But judged that all might drink. +He paused again, and lo! the well, + By summer never dried, +Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues + And saved a life beside. + +A dreamer dropped a random thought; + 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; +A simple fancy of the brain, + But strong in being true. +It shone upon a genial mind, + And, lo! its light became +A lamp of life, a beacon ray, + A monitory flame; +The thought was small, its issue great; + A watch-fire on the hill; +It shed its radiance far adown, + And cheers the valley still. + +A nameless man, amid a crowd + That thronged the daily mart, +Let fall a word of Hope and Love, + Unstudied from the heart; +A whisper on the tumult thrown, + A transitory breath-- +It raised a brother from the dust, + It saved a soul from death. +O germ! O fount! O word of love! + O thought at random cast! +Ye were but little at the first, + But mighty at the last. + + _Charles Mackay._ + + + + +Rain on the Roof + + +When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, +And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, +'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, +And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. + +Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, +And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; +And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, +As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. + +There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, +To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. +I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain +Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. + +Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, +And her bright-eyed, cherub brother--a serene, angelic pair-- +Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, +As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. + +And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, +I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, +I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, +And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. + +There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, +In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, +As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, +Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain! + + _Coates Kinney._ + + + + +Gunga Din + +The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often +one of the most devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much +appreciated by the men. + + +You may talk o' gin an' beer +When you're quartered safe out 'ere, +An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; +But if it comes to slaughter +You will do your work on water, +An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. +Now in Injia's sunny clime, +Where I used to spend my time +A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, +Of all them black-faced crew +The finest man I knew +Was our regimental _bhisti_, Gunga Din. + He was "Din! Din! Din! + You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! + Hi! _Slippy hitherao!_ + Water, get it! _Panee lao!_ + You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!" + +The uniform 'e wore +Was nothin' much before, +An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, +For a twisty piece o' rag +An' a goatskin water bag +Was all the field-equipment 'e could find, +When the sweatin' troop-train lay +In a sidin' through the day, +Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, +We shouted "Harry By!" +Till our throats were bricky-dry, +Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, + It was "Din! Din! Din! + You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? + You put some _juldee_ in it, + Or I'll _marrow_ you this minute + If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" + +'E would dot an' carry one +Till the longest day was done, +An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. +If we charged or broke or cut, +You could bet your bloomin' nut, +'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. +With 'is _mussick_ on 'is back, +'E would skip with our attack, +An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." +An' for all 'is dirty 'ide +'E was white, clear white, inside +When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! + It was "Din! Din! Din!" + With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. + When the cartridges ran out, + You could 'ear the front-files shout: + "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" + +I sha'n't forgit the night +When I dropped be'ind the fight +With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. +I was chokin' mad with thirst, +An' the man that spied me first +Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. +'E lifted up my 'ead, +An' 'e plugged me where I bled, +An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water--green: +It was crawlin' and it stunk, +But of all the drinks I've drunk, +I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. + It was "Din! Din! Din! + 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; + 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: + For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!" + +'E carried me away +To where a _dooli_ lay, +An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. +'E put me safe inside, +An', just before 'e died: +"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. +So I'll meet 'im later on +In the place where 'e is gone-- +Where it's always double drill and no canteen; +'E'll be squattin' on the coals +Givin' drink to pore damned souls, +An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! + Din! Din! Din! + You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! + Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, + By the livin' Gawd that made you, + You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +"Panee lao"--Bring water swiftly. + +"Harry Ry"-The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!" + +"Put some juldee in it"--Be quick. + +"Marrow you"--Hit you. + +"Mussick"--Water-skin. + + + + +Warren's Address to the American Soldiers + +(_Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775_) + + +Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! +Will ye give it up to slaves? +Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? +What's the mercy despots feel? +Hear it in that battle peal! +Read it on yon bristling steel! + Ask it--ye who will. + +Fear ye foes who kill for hire? +Will ye to your homes retire? +Look behind you! They're afire! + And, before you, see +Who have done it! From the vale +On they come! and will ye quail? +Leaden rain and iron hail + Let their welcome be! + +In the God of battles trust! +Die we may--and die we must; +But, O where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, +As where Heaven its dews shall shed +On the martyred patriot's bed, +And the rocks shall raise their head, + Of his deeds to tell! + + _John Pierpont._ + + + + +Mad River + +IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS + + +_Traveler_ + +Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, + Mad River, O Mad River? +Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour +Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er + This rocky shelf forever? + +What secret trouble stirs thy breast? + Why all this fret and flurry? +Dost thou not know that what is best +In this too restless world is rest + From overwork and worry? + + +_The River_ + +What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, + O stranger from the city? +Is it perhaps some foolish freak +Of thine, to put the words I speak + Into a plaintive ditty? + + +_Traveler_ + +Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, + With all its flowing numbers, +And in a voice as fresh and strong +As thine is, sing it all day long, + And hear it in my slumbers. + + +_The River_ + +A brooklet nameless and unknown + Was I at first, resembling +A little child, that all alone +Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, + Irresolute and trembling. + +Later, by wayward fancies led, + For the wide world I panted; +Out of the forest dark and dread +Across the open fields I fled, + Like one pursued and haunted. + +I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, + My voice exultant blending +With thunder from the passing cloud, +The wind, the forest bent and bowed, + The rush of rain descending. + +I heard the distant ocean call, + Imploring and entreating; +Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall +I plunged, and the loud waterfall + Made answer to the greeting. + +And now, beset with many ills, + A toilsome life I follow; +Compelled to carry from the hills +These logs to the impatient mills + Below there in the hollow. + +Yet something ever cheers and charms + The rudeness of my labors; +Daily I water with these arms +The cattle of a hundred farms, + And have the birds for neighbors. + +Men call me Mad, and well they may, + When, full of rage and trouble, +I burst my banks of sand and clay, +And sweep their wooden bridge away, + Like withered reeds or stubble. + +Now go and write thy little rhyme, + As of thine own creating. +Thou seest the day is past its prime; +I can no longer waste my time; + The mills are tired of waiting. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +When Papa Was a Boy + + +When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find +In all the country round about a child so quick to mind. +His mother never called but once, and he was always there; +He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair. +He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise, +And never in his life was known to fight with other boys. +He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight, +And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late. + +He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old, +And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told. +He never, never thought of play until his work was done, +He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun. +He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor, +And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door. +"But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy, +"How he could never do these things and really be a boy." + + _E.A. Brininstool._ + + + + +Which Shall It Be? + + +"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" +I looked at John,--John looked at me, +(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet +As well as though my locks were jet.) +And when I found that I must speak, +My voice seemed strangely low and weak; +"Tell me again what Robert said"; +And then I listening bent my head. +"This is his letter: + 'I will give +A house and land while you shall live, +If, in return, from out your seven, +One child to me for aye is given.'" + +I looked at John's old garments worn, +I thought of all that John had borne +Of poverty, and work, and care, +Which I, though willing, could not share; +Of seven hungry mouths to feed, +Of seven little children's need, +And then of this. + "Come John," said I, +"We'll choose among them as they lie +Asleep"; so walking hand in hand, +Dear John and I surveyed our band. + +First to the cradle lightly stepped, +Where Lilian, the baby, slept; +Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, +A glory 'gainst the pillow white; +Softly her father stooped to lay +His rough hand down in loving way, +When dream or whisper made her stir, +And huskily he said, "Not _her_." +We stooped beside the trundle-bed, +And one long ray of lamp-light shed +Athwart the boyish faces there, +In sleep so pitiful and fair. +I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek +A tear undried; ere John could speak, +"He's but a baby too," said I, +And kissed him as we hurried by. +Pale, patient Robby's angel face +Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; +"No, for a thousand crowns not him," +He whispered, while our eyes were dim. +Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, +Turbulent, reckless, idle one,-- +Could _he_ be spared? "Nay, He who gave +Bids us befriend him to the grave; +Only a mother's heart can be +Patient enough for such as he; +And so," said John, "I would not dare +To send him from her bedside prayer." +Then stole we softly up above, +And knelt by Mary, child of love; +"Perhaps for _her_ 'twould better be," +I said to John. Quite silently +He lifted up a curl, that lay +Across her cheek in wilful way, +And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee"; +The while my heart beat audibly. +Only one more, our eldest lad, +Trusty and truthful, good and glad,-- +So like his father: "No, John, no; +I cannot, will not, let him go!" + +And so we wrote, in courteous way, +We could not give one child away; +And afterward toil lighter seemed, +Thinking of that of which we dreamed; +Happy, in truth, that not one face +We missed from its accustomed place; +Thankful to work for all the seven, +Trusting then to One in heaven. + + _Ethel Lynn Beers._ + + + + +The Battle of Bunker's Hill + + +It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, +When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; +Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, +But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; +And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, +"We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!" + +"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" +The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, +But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, +A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; +So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; +We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!" + +See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky! +The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by; +The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied, +For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side; +And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill, +With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill; +But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply, +For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh! + +Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands +Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands; +Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, +With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray. +But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, +Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers, +Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part, +And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart! + +Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf +Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off; +With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array, +Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! +And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, +Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep. + +And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance: +We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; +We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; +Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing; +But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,-- +As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb. + +And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, +The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; +When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst +From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed. +Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; +Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire. + +Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel, +And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; +And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,-- +"Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!" +And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, +As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land. + +Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes, +And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; +And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies, +We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise, +Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight, +Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height. + +What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave +No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave! +What though the day to us was lost!--upon that deathless page +The everlasting charter stands for every land and age! + +For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust, +And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; +While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, +O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore, +Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies, +He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise. + + _F.S. Cozzens._ + + + + +Health and Wealth + + +We squander health in search of wealth; + We scheme and toil and save; +Then squander wealth in search of health, + But only find a grave. +We live, and boast of what we own; +We die, and only get a stone. + + + + +The Heartening + + +It may be that the words I spoke + To cheer him on his way, +To him were vain, but I myself + Was braver all that day. + + _Winifred Webb._ + + + + +Billy's Rose + + +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell: +There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; +Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air +Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. + +In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, +Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, +While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, +Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb. + +Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, +Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; +Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, +Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door. + +Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told +How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, +Where, when all the pain was over,--where, when all the tears were shed,-- +He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head. + +Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, +How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, +Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, +And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. + +This was Nell's idea of heaven,--just a bit of what she'd heard, +With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. +But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, +For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land. + +"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell, +Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; +I can see them there with Jesus--He is playing with them, too! +Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you." + +She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent +In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; +Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows +Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close. + +But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, +"You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. +You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill; +But I'll come to you, dear brother,--yes, I promise that I will. + +"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; +I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. +They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, +While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." + +"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, +Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. +But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away +Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day. + +"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out +To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, +And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, +Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand. + +"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as + those, +And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. +I have never seen them since, dear--how I wish that I had one! +Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun." + +Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, +On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. +Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, +Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn. + +When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, +All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. +She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, +But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet. + +She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; +She had found the famous meadow--it was wrapped in cruel snow; +Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade +Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed; + +With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, +And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. +Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; +And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb. + +"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,--just a rose to take to Bill!" +And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; +And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; +As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet. + +Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, +And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; +But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, +And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize. + +Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, +From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play. +Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, +And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand. + +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell; +Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,-- +That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, +And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"? + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +The Old Actor's Story + + +Mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard; +There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; +It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; +The scene was a ship, and the actors--were myself and my new-wed wife. + +You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; +I'm old, you know, and I wander--it's a way with old women and men, +For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, +And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. + +The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, +But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. +We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, +When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. + +We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down +With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; +We played the lovers together--we were leading lady and gent-- +And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. + +The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, +And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. +How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"! +But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow. + +We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, +When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. +We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,-- +Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. + +Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; +Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,-- +Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; +But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. + +We got an offer for Melbourne,--got it that very week. +Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, +The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot +Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot. + +We hadn't a friend in England--we'd only ourselves to please-- +And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. +We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; +We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. + +But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, +When misery came upon us,--came in a hideous form. +My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad +That the doctor said she was dying,--I thought 'twould have sent me mad,-- + +Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, +And the nearest land was hundreds--aye, thousands--of miles away. +She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, +So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. + +She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,-- +She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. +I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, +Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless--my wife was dead! + +Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, +For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. +I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, +And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried. + +They locked me away from my fellows,--put me in cruel chains, +It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. +I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent +To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. + +I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, +And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, +Beat at my prison panels, and then--O God!--and then +I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. + +I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, +And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; +Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, +And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood. + +I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, +And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack +I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, +Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. + +I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! +Die in this burning prison!"--but I caught no answering cry. +Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, +And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. + +I was free--with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; +I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath +Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, +And then--O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. + +There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; +The flames flung a smile on her features,--a horrible, lurid light. +God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; +I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died. + +In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; +I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; +Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? +The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. + +I cursed like a madman raving--I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" +They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; +They had left us alone to perish--forgotten me living--and she +Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. + +I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; +I seized her in spite of my fetters,--fear gave a giant's will. +God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the + wreck +Up--up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. + +We'd a moment of life together,--a moment of life, the time +For one last word to each other,--'twas a moment supreme, sublime. +From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, +And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife! + +It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, +When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, +Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; +They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. + +I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she +Tore with new strength at my fetters--God helped her, and I was free; +Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. +Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. + +We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by +Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. +We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, +But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! + + _George B. Sims._ + + + + +The Boy Who Didn't Pass + + +A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, +There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; +He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear +Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; +He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, +And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass. + +In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, +But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; +Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, +But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. +All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, +And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass. + +How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, +For they've left him with the dullards--gone ahead a half a year, +And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, +But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. +He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too-- +The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through. + +Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, +And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night +With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, +Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, +And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, +He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass. + + + + +The Station-Master's Story + + +Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; +I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. +This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; +I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, +I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain +Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. +One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, +And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here. + +I was on at the box down yonder--that's where we turn the mails, +And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; +The side's for the other traffic--the luggage and local slows. +It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. +I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, +Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; +But I've worked the points half-sleeping--and once I slept outright, +Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright. + +Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate +Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; +And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame +As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. +I could see the bloody wreckage--I could see the mangled slain-- +And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. +That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought +Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought. + +That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, +My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, +That Johnny had made his mind up--he'd be a pointsman, too. +"He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." +I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; +Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. +I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, +For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. + +But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, +She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep-- +It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, +You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill. +There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"-- +My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. +But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I, +"I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by." + +Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; +She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. +She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, +And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late. +So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key-- +For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. +He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good-- +He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should. + +It was noon when the missus started,--her train went by my box; +She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, +I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, +Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. +But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, +Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid; +For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie +In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die. + +The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, +Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. +For a time the box had vanished--I'd worked like a mere machine-- +My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen, +With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, +Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; +There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight +That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. + +It was all in one awful moment--I saw that the boy was lost: +He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed; +The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, +And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. +I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, +And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; +On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, +And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine! + +'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?-- +Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew-- +"What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear +On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. +Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. +"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick; +The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, +I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar. + +Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face-- +I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. +Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail +To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! +Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes. +How can I look--his father--on that which there mangled lies? +That voice!--O merciful Heaven!--'tis the child's, and he calls my name! +I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. + +I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; +The place reeled round, and I fainted,--swooned with the sudden joy. +But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed +With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, +That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, +And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad-- +She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, +And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through. + +She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; +The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found +With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: +I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. +Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? +Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? +If I hadn't 'a' done my duty--had I ventured to disobey-- +My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day. + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +Hark, Hark! the Lark + +_(From "Cymbeline")_ + + +Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, + And Phoebus 'gins arise, +His steeds to water at those springs + On chaliced flowers that lies; +And winking Mary-buds begin + To ope their golden eyes: +With every thing that pretty is, + My lady sweet, arise! + Arise, arise! + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +Tommy's Prayer + + +In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, +Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; +He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born +Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. + +He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago +Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. +He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, +But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. + +There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, +Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life + bright; +Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love-- +For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. + +'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; +Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, +Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, +Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. + +Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came-- +Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. +Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, +And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. + +'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, +All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; +"So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; +Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" + +"My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, +For it makes me feel so happy--sing me something, anything," +Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, +But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'" + +Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, +Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; +But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, +And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. + +Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word +As it fell from "Singing Jessie"--was it true, what he had heard? +And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" +And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. + +"Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, +And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." +"Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, +When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?" + +So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School +All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, +Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, +Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. + +Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, +Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; +And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, +For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. + +"Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, +"Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; +So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, +And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:-- + +"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, +That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, +And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day +And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. + +"Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, +And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; +And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, +In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. + +"Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, +For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; +And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, +Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you? + +"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, +And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; +I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise-- +Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys? + +"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, +For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, +How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! +Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!" + +Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, +And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; +Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, +Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. + +Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face +As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; +For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, +And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. + +He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, +He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; +But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, +Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care. + +In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, +She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, +And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold-- +He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. + +Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come +To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home +Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, +And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. + + _John F. Nicholls._ + + + + +The Two Pictures + + +It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, +Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, +The air was redolent with perfumed balm, +And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, +Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. +An artist, weary of his narrow room +Within the city's pent and heated walls, +Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, +Until, remembering his neglected themes, +He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. +These led him through a rustic, winding lane, +Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, +And overarched by trees of noblest growth. +But when at last he reached the farther end +Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld +A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, +That weariness and haste were both obscured, +It was a child--a young and lovely child +With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, +And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, +Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. +Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, +No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, +No line of bitter grief or dark despair, +Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, +Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, +And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, +The artist seized his pencil, and there traced +In soft and tender lines that image fair: +Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, +A word of holiest import--Innocence. + +Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, +Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, +But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, +While all men spake in words of praise his name; +For he had traced full many a noble work +Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, +And drawn them from the baser things of earth, +Toward the light and purity of heaven. +One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, +He chanced upon the picture of the child, +Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, +And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, +A ray of inspiration seemed to dart +Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, +Placed it before his easel, and with care +That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, +Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, +Until all seemed to glow with life divine-- +'Twas innocence personified. But still +The artist could not pause. He needs must have +A meet companion for his fairest theme; +And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, +Through miry courts of misery and guilt, +Seeking a face which at the last was found. +Within a prison cell there crouched a man-- +Nay, rather say a fiend--with countenance seamed +And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; +Each mark of degradation might be traced, +And every scene of horror he had known, +And every wicked deed that he had done, +Were visibly written on his lineaments; +Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, +A parricide within a murderer's cell. + +Here then the artist found him; and with hand +Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, +Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, +And also wrote beneath it just one word, +A word of darkest import--it was Vice. +Then with some inspiration not his own, +Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, +And wake it to repentance e'er too late, +The artist told the tale of that bright morn, +Placed the two pictured faces side by side, +And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek +That echoed through those vaulted corridors, +Like to the cries that issue from the lips +Of souls forever doomed to woe, +Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, +And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. +"I was that child once--I, yes, even I-- +In the gracious years forever fled, +That innocent and happy little child! +These very hands were raised to God in prayer, +That now are reddened with a mother's blood. +Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, +Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!" + +He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm +And grasped it with demoniac power, +The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth +And tell my history to the tempted youth. +I looked upon the wine when it was red, +I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, +I heeded not the warnings of my friends, +But tasted of the wine when it was red, +Until it left a demon in my heart +That led me onward, step by step, to this, +This horrible place from which my body goes +Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" +He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; +But even as he went, unto his ears +Were borne the awful echoes of despair, +Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, +Cursing the demon that had brought him there. + + + + +The Two Kinds of People + + +There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; +Just two kinds of people, no more, I say. + +Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, +The good are half bad and the bad are half good. + +Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, +You must first know the state of his conscience and health. + +Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, +Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man. + +Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years +Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears. + +No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, +Are the people who lift and the people who lean. + +Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses +Are always divided in just these two classes. + +And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween, +There's only one lifter to twenty who lean. + +In which class are you? Are you easing the load +Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road? + +Or are you a leaner, who lets others share +Your portion of labor, and worry and care? + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +The Sin of Omission + + +It isn't the thing you do, dear, + It's the thing you leave undone +That gives you a bit of a heartache + At the setting of the sun. +The tender word forgotten; + The letter you did not write; +The flowers you did not send, dear, + Are your haunting ghosts at night. + +The stone you might have lifted + Out of a brother's way; +The bit of hearthstone counsel + You were hurried too much to say; +The loving touch of the hand, dear, + The gentle, winning tone +Which you had no time nor thought for + With troubles enough of your own. + +Those little acts of kindness + So easily out of mind, +Those chances to be angels + Which we poor mortals find-- +They come in night and silence, + Each sad, reproachful wraith, +When hope is faint and flagging + And a chill has fallen on faith. + +For life is all too short, dear, + And sorrow is all too great, +To suffer our slow compassion + That tarries until too late; +And it isn't the thing you do, dear, + It's the thing you leave undone +Which gives you a bit of a heartache + At the setting of the sun, + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +The Bible My Mother Gave Me + + +Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, +Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. +Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, +Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold. + +When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, +And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, +As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, +God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen. + +Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, +Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; +Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, +Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God. + +Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll +Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; +Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, +Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries. + +I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, +Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, +How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, +It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime. + +How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days +The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon + blaze. +How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, +It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as + now. + +He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, +Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; +How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, +But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came. + +That housed in caves and caverns--how it stirs our Scottish blood!-- +The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; +And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls, +Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls! + +That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, +Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, +Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, +The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free. + +So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, +As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, +As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, +The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits + for all. + + + + +Lincoln, the Man of the People + +This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln +Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No +oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. +Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln +poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument +of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless +martyr--the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved +friend of humanity." + + +When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour +Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, +She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down +To make a man to meet the mortal need, +She took the tried clay of the common road-- +Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, +Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; +Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; +Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. +Into the shape she breathed a flame to light +That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; +And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, +Moving--all husht--behind the mortal veil. +Here was a man to hold against the world, +A man to match the mountains and the sea. + +The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; +The smack and tang of elemental things; +The rectitude and patience of the cliff; +The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; +The friendly welcome of the wayside well; +The courage of the bird that dares the sea; +The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; +The pity of the snow that hides all scars; +The secrecy of streams that make their way +Under the mountain to the rifted rock; +The tolerance and equity of light +That gives as freely to the shrinking flower +As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- +To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn +That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, +He drank the valorous youth of a new world. +The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, +The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. +His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts +Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth. + +Up from log cabin to the Capitol, +One fire was on his spirit, one resolve-- +To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, +Clearing a free way for the feet of God, +The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, +To make his deed the measure of a man. +He built the rail-pile as he built the State, +Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; +The grip that swung the ax in Illinois +Was on the pen that set a people free. + +So came the Captain with the mighty heart; +And when the judgment thunders split the house, +Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, +He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again +The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- +Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- +Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. +And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down +As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, +Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, +And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. + + _Edwin Markham._ + + + + +Our Own + + +If I had known in the morning + How wearily all the day + The words unkind + Would trouble my mind + I said when you went away, +I had been more careful, darling, + Nor given you needless pain; + But we vex "our own" + With look and tone + We may never take back again. + +For though in the quiet evening + You may give me the kiss of peace, + Yet it might be + That never for me, + The pain of the heart should cease. +How many go forth in the morning, + That never come home at night! + And hearts have broken + For harsh words spoken + That sorrow can ne'er set right. + +We have careful thoughts for the stranger, + And smiles for the sometime guest, + But oft for "our own" + The bitter tone, + Though we love "our own" the best. +Ah, lips with the curve impatient! + Ah, brow with that look of scorn! + 'Twere a cruel fate, + Were the night too late + To undo the work of morn. + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +How Salvator Won + + +The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, +More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. +I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout +Went up from the people who watched me ride out. +And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd +Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. +My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, +As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane; +And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand +As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. +The great wave of cheering came billowing back +As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, +And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, +Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle +That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. +My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse +As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight-- +Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright-- +Stood taking the plaudits as only his due +And nothing at all unexpected or new. + +And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, +There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead; +At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!" +He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. +I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son; +He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. +Half-way down the furlong their heads are together, +Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; +Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, +Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! +I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, +I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; +I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, +While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. +We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed-- +'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; +The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on, +As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, +His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained-- +A noble opponent well born and well trained. + +I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost +Of that one second's flagging will be--the race lost; +One second's yielding of courage and strength, +And the daylight between us has doubled its length. +The first mile is covered, the race is mine--no! +For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow; +He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, +And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. +My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, +For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump; +And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, +I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. +With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; +I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! +O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls, +For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. +There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, +As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form; +One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, +I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. +We are under the string now--the great race is done-- +And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won! + +Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say; +'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! +Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men +Ye never will see such a grand race again. +Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, +For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf, +He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; +He has won the first place in the vast line of peers. +'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, +And even his enemies grant him his place. +Down into the dust let old records be hurled, +And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world! + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +I Got to Go to School + + +I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! +I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main! +An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule; +But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school. + +'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got +The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot; +An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, +An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school. + +I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer! +I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer! +An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool; +But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school. + +I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake. +O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make! +It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; +Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school. + +I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"! +I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains! +I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, +An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school. + +What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, +Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls? +An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll +Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school. + + _Nixon Waterman._ + + + + +With Little Boy Blue + +(_Written after the death of Eugene Field._) + + +Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog-- + Tin toys on the little armchair, +Keeping their tryst through the slow going years + For the hand that had stationed them there; +And he said that perchance the dust and the rust + Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew, +And his heart watched with them all the dark years, + Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue. + +Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue, + Three ere the cold winds had begun; +Now two are left watching--the soldier and dog; + But for him the vigil is done. +For him too, the angel has chanted a song + A song that is lulling and true. +He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest, + Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue. + +God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul-- + Not the Reaper who cometh for all-- +But out of the shadows that curtained the day + He heard his lost little one call, +Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, + Passed on to the far-away strand; +And he walks the streets of the City of Peace, + With Little Boy Blue by the hand. + + _Sarah Beaumont Kennedy._ + + + + +The Charge of Pickett's Brigade + + +In Gettysburg at break of day + The hosts of war are held in leash +To gird them for the coming fray, + E'er brazen-throated monsters flame, + Mad hounds of death that tear and maim. +Ho, boys in blue, +And gray so true, + Fate calls to-day the roll of fame. + +On Cemetery Hill was done + The clangor of four hundred guns; +Through drifting smoke the morning sun + Shone down a line of battled gray + Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay. +Virginians all, +Heed glory's call, + You die at Gettysburg to-day, + +'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade, + Great Lee had named; he knew them well; +Oft had their steel the battle stayed. + O warriors of the eagle plume, + Fate points for you the hour of doom. +Ring rebel yell, +War cry and knell! + The stars, to-night, will set in gloom. + +O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate, + Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds. +For you the centuries did wait, + While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll + And God had set the judgment roll. +A thousand years +Shall wait in tears, + And one swift hour bring to goal. + +The charge is done, a cause is lost; + But Pickett's men heed not the din +Of ragged columns battle tost; + For fame enshrouds them on the field, + And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield. +But stars and bars +Shall drape thy scars; + No cause is lost till honor yield. + + + + +Hullo + + +W'en you see a man in woe, +Walk right up and say "Hullo!" +Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do? +How's the world a-usin' you?" +Slap the fellow on the back; +Bring your hand down with a whack; +Walk right up, and don't go slow; +Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!" + +Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho; +Walk right up an' say "Hullo!" +Rags is but a cotton roll +Jest for wrappin' up a soul; +An' a soul is worth a true +Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?" +Don't wait for the crowd to go, +Walk right up and say "Hullo!" + +When big vessels meet, they say +They saloot an' sail away. +Jest the same are you an' me +Lonesome ships upon a sea; +Each one sailin' his own log, +For a port behind the fog; +Let your speakin' trumpet blow; +Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!" + +Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?" +Other folks are good as you. +W'en you leave your house of clay +Wanderin' in the far away, +W'en you travel through the strange +Country t'other side the range, +Then the souls you've cheered will know +Who ye be, an' say "Hullo." + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The Women of Mumbles Head + + +Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! +And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. +It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, +Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! +Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; +Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; +It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, +And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay. + +Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, +In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; +It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, + or when +There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry + for men. +When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! +Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, +Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, +Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! + +So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, +And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, +Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! +Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; +Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; +Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! +Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, +For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? +It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! +And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; + +And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! +But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. +Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! +"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"! +Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, +But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. + +Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, +And saw in the boiling breakers a figure--a fighting form; +It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; +It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; +It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips +Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. +They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and + more, +Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, +straight to shore. + +There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, +Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, +'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, +But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? +What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men +Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then +Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, +Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! + +"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come + back!" +As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. +"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, +"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" + +"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and + pale, +"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the + gale!" +"_Come back_!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, +We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!" + +"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your + hand! +Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! +Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, +And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." +Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, +They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- +Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, +And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!" + + _Clement Scott._ + + + + +The Fireman's Story + + +"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct; + That man on the enjine thar +Don't pack the han'somest countenance-- + Every inch of it sportin' a scar; +But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough + Piled up in the National Banks +To buy that face, nor a single scar-- + (No, I never indulges. Thanks.) + +"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer, + An' a better one never war knowed! +Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine + War put on the Quincy Road; +An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug + From Maine to the jumpin' off place +That knows more about the big iron hoss + Than him with the battered-up face. + +"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done + In a sort o' legitimate way; +He got it a-trying to save a gal + Up yar on the road last May. +I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, + For we pull out at two-twenty-five-- +Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal, + So's to keep old '90' alive. + +"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then, + Left Quincy a half an hour late, +An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not + To lay out No. 21 freight. +The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up + An' a-quiverin' in every nerve! +When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!' + As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. + +"I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead + 'Bout two hundred paces or so +Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, + An' her face jist as white as the snow; +It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright + That she couldn't move for'ard or back, +An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell + Right down in a heap on the track! + +"I'll never forgit till the day o' my death + The look that cum over Jim's face; +He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot + So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace, +Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, + An' out through the window he fled, +An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, + An' lay on the pilot ahead. + +"Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, + He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm, +An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side + Out o' reach of danger an' harm. +But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head + On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, +An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face + In a frightful and horrible mass! + +"As soon as we stopped I backed up the train + To that spot where the poor fellow lay, +An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap + An' wipin' the warm blood away. +The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, + While she sobbed like her heart war all broke-- +I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar + Would move the tough heart of an oak! + +"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town, + What for week arter week the boy lay +A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death, + An' that gal by his bed every day. +But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around-- + Kinder snatched him right outer the grave-- +His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart + Remains just as noble an' brave. + + * * * * * + +"Of course thar's a sequel--as story books say-- + He fell dead in love, did this Jim; +But hadn't the heart to ax her to have + Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. +She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day + War the fust o' leap year as you know, +So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, + An' you bet he didn't say no. + +"He's building a house up thar on the hill, + An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, +The weddin's to be on the first o' next May-- + Jist a year from the day o' the smash-- +The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, + An' she'll just turn the tables about, +An' give him the life that he saved--thar's the bell. + Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out." + + + + +Little Willie's Hearing + + +Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows, +My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose: +An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" +An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be; +An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still, +W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill." +But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see, +W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" + +An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow +It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow"; +An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before-- +I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more. +An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!" +But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be. +If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way, +He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play. + +But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it," +They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git, +Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee; +He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me. +You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear +W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!" +Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma, +It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa. + + + + +The Service Flag + + +Dear little flag in the window there, +Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, +Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- +Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! + +Blue is your star in its field of white, +Dipped in the red that was born of fight; +Born of the blood that our forebears shed +To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head. + +And now you've come, in this frenzied day, +To speak from a window--to speak and say: +"I am the voice of a soldier son, +Gone, to be gone till the victory's won. + +"I am the flag of The Service, sir: +The flag of his mother--I speak for her +Who stands by my window and waits and fears, +But hides from the others her unwept tears. + +"I am the flag of the wives who wait +For the safe return of a martial mate-- +A mate gone forth where the war god thrives, +To save from sacrifice other men's wives. + +"I am the flag of the sweethearts true; +The often unthought of--the sisters, too. +I am the flag of a mother's son, +Who won't come home till the victory's won!" + +Dear little flag in the window there, +Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, +Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- +Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! + + _William Herschell._ + + + + +Flying Jim's Last Leap + +(_The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer._) + + +Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands, +Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. +Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair +Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; +Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, +Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. +His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, +Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. +Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door; +Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; +Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start +Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. +"_Drink_! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me + sick, +Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you + quick." +Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, +Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, +Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, +Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, +Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; +Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; +Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, +In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; +Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, +Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. +Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again +Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" +"Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you + take." +Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake +With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down +O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; +That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, +When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own. +"Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask. +"I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task, +It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those +Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'" + +Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground +Conning o'er and o'er that lesson--with a grace to him new found. +Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, +Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. +Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, +Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! +"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; +Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now." +As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek +With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. +Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay +Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay +All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: +"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all." +At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, +Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each + flame now seems; +They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean +About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene; +The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around-- +Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground +Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. +Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare +For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled + face, +Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a + race +With life and death--the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around, +Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound-- +A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave! +Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands--the fiery wave +Fierce rolling round--his arms enclasp the child--God help him yet to save! +"For life or for eternal sleep," +He cries, then makes a vaulting leap, +A tree branch catches, with sure aim, +And by the act proclaims his name; +The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, +A rough voice cried from out the crowd, +"Huzza, my boys, well we know him, +None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" +A jail-bird--outlaw--thief, indeed, +Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. +"Do now your worst," his gasping cry, +"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; +I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; +Then hushed all murmurs through the throng. +With reverent hands they bore him where +The summer evening's cooling air +Came softly sighing through the trees; +The child's proud father on his knees +Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, +Which dying lips accorded him. +A mark of whip on white face stirred +To gleaming scarlet at his words. +"Forgive them all who use you ill, +She taught me that and I fulfill; +I would her hand might touch my face, +Though she's so pure and I so base." +Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, +With smile of bliss transfigured now: +Death, the angel, sealed it there, +'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer." + + _Emma Dunning Banks._ + + + + +Betty and the Bear + + +In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, +A great big black grizzly trotted one day, +And seated himself on the hearths and began +To lap the contents of a two gallon pan +Of milk and potatoes,--an excellent meal,-- +And then looked, about to see what he could steal. +The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, +And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep +Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, +And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. + +So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau, +"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!" +"A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!" +"Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." +So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. +While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed, +As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows. +Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, +Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, +"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, +Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out." +So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone +At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. + +Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, +He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, +And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor, +Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell +All the wonderful things that that morning befell; +And he published the marvellous story afar, +How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! +O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it, +Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it." + + + + +The Graves of a Household + + +They grew in beauty, side by side, + They filled one home with glee;--- +Their graves are severed, far and wide, + By mount, and stream and sea. + +The same fond mother bent at night + O'er each fair sleeping brow; +She had each folded flower in sight-- + Where are those dreamers now? + +One, 'midst the forest of the West, + By a dark stream is laid-- +The Indian knows his place of rest + Far in the cedar shade. + +The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- + He lies where pearls lie deep; +_He_ was the loved of all, yet none + O'er his low bed may weep. + +One sleeps where southern vines are drest + Above the noble slain: +He wrapped his colors round his breast + On a blood-red field of Spain. + +And one--o'er _her_ the myrtle showers + Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; +She faded 'midst Italian flowers-- + The last of that bright band. + +And parted thus they rest, who play'd + Beneath the same green tree; +Whose voices mingled as they pray'd + Around the parent knee. + +They that with smiles lit up the hall, + And cheer'd with song the hearth!-- +Alas! for love, if _thou_ wert all, + And naught beyond, O earth! + + _Felicia Dorothea Hemans._ + + + + +The Babie + + +Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, + Nae stockings on her feet; +Her supple ankles white as snow, + Or early blossoms sweet. +Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, + Her double, dimpled chin; +Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou', + With nae ane tooth between. +Her een sae like her mither's een, + Twa gentle, liquid things; +Her face is like an angel's face-- + We're glad she has nae wings. + + _Hugh Miller._ + + + + +A Legend of the Northland + + +Away, away in the Northland, + Where the hours of the day are few, +And the nights are so long in winter, + They cannot sleep them through; + +Where they harness the swift reindeer + To the sledges, when it snows; +And the children look like bears' cubs + In their funny, furry clothes: + +They tell them a curious story-- + I don't believe 't is true; +And yet you may learn a lesson + If I tell the tale to you + +Once, when the good Saint Peter + Lived in the world below, +And walked about it, preaching, + Just as he did, you know; + +He came to the door of a cottage, + In traveling round the earth, +Where a little woman was making cakes, + And baking them on the hearth; + +And being faint with fasting, + For the day was almost done, +He asked her, from her store of cakes, + To give him a single one. + +So she made a very little cake, + But as it baking lay, +She looked at it, and thought it seemed + Too large to give away. + +Therefore she kneaded another, + And still a smaller one; +But it looked, when she turned it over, + As large as the first had done. + +Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, + And rolled, and rolled it flat; +And baked it thin as a wafer-- + But she couldn't part with that. + +For she said, "My cakes that seem too small + When I eat of them myself, +Are yet too large to give away," + So she put them on the shelf. + +Then good Saint Peter grew angry, + For he was hungry and faint; +And surely such a woman + Was enough to provoke a saint. + +And he said, "You are far too selfish + To dwell in a human form, +To have both food and shelter, + And fire to keep you warm. + +"Now, you shall build as the birds do, + And shall get your scanty food +By boring, and boring, and boring, + All day in the hard dry wood," + +Then up she went through the chimney, + Never speaking a word, +And out of the top flew a woodpecker. + For she was changed to a bird. + +She had a scarlet cap on her head, + And that was left the same, +Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned + Black as a coal in the flame. + +And every country school boy + Has seen her in the wood; +Where she lives in the woods till this very day, + Boring and boring for food. + +And this is the lesson she teaches: + Live not for yourself alone, +Lest the needs you will not pity + Shall one day be your own. + +Give plenty of what is given to you, + Listen to pity's call; +Don't think the little you give is great, + And the much you get is small. + +Now, my little boy, remember that, + And try to be kind and good, +When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, + And see her scarlet hood. + +You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live + As selfishly as you can; +But you will be changed to a smaller thing-- + A mean and selfish man. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +How Did You Die? + + +Did you tackle the trouble that came your way + With a resolute heart and cheerful? +Or hide year face from the light of day + With a craven soul and fearful? +Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, + Or a trouble is what you make it, +And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, + But only how did you take it? + +You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? + Come up with a smiling face, +Its nothing against you to fall down flat, + But to lie there--that's disgrace. +The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce; + Be proud of your blackened eye! +It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; + It's how did you fight--and why? + +And though you be done to the death, what then? + If you battled the best you could, +If you played your part in the world of men, + Why, the Critic will call it good. +Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, + And whether he's slow or spry, +It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, + But only how did you die? + + _Edmund Vance Cooke._ + + + + +The Children + + +When the lessons and tasks are all ended, + And the school for the day is dismissed, +And the little ones gather around me, + To bid me good-night and be kissed,-- +Oh, the little white arms that encircle + My neck in a tender embrace! +Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, + Shedding sunshine and love on my face! + +And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming + Of my childhood, too lovely to last; +Of love that my heart will remember + When it wakes to the pulse of the past; +Ere the world and its wickedness made me + A partner of sorrow and sin; +When the glory of God was about me, + And the glory of gladness within. + +Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's + And the fountains of feeling will flow, +When I think of the paths, steep and stony + Where the feet of the dear ones must go. +Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, + Of the tempests of fate blowing wild-- +Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy + As the innocent heart of a child! + +They are idols of hearts and of households, + They are angels of God in disguise. +His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, + His glory still beams in their eyes: +Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, + They have made me more manly and mild! +And I know how Jesus could liken + The Kingdom of God to a child. + +Seek not a life for the dear ones + All radiant, as others have done. +But that life may have just enough shadow + To temper the glare of the sun; +I would pray God to guard them from evil, + But my prayer would bound back to myself. +Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner, + But the sinner must pray for himself. + +The twig is so easily bended, + I have banished the rule of the rod; +I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge, + They have taught me the goodness of God. +My heart is a dungeon of darkness, + Where I shut them from breaking a rule; +My frown is sufficient correction, + My love is the law of the school. + +I shall leave the old house in the autumn + To traverse the threshold no more, +Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones + That meet me each morn at the door. +I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, + And the gush of their innocent glee; +The group on the green and the flowers + That are brought every morning to me. + +I shall miss them at morn and at evening. + Their song in the school and the street, +I shall miss the low hum of their voices + And the tramp of their delicate feet. +When the lessons and tasks are all ended, + And death says the school is dismissed, +May the little ones gather around me + To bid me good-night and be kissed. + + _Charles M. Dickinson._ + + + + +The King and the Child + + +The sunlight shone on walls of stone, + And towers sublime and tall, +King Alfred sat upon his throne + Within his council hall. + +And glancing o'er the splendid throng, + With grave and solemn face, +To where his noble vassals stood, + He saw a vacant place. + +"Where is the Earl of Holderness?" + With anxious look, he said. +"Alas, O King!" a courtier cried, + "The noble Earl is dead!" + +Before the monarch could express + The sorrow that he felt, +A soldier, with a war-worn face, + Approached the throne, and knelt. + +"My sword," he said, "has ever been, + O King, at thy command, +And many a proud and haughty Dane + Has fallen by my hand. + +"I've fought beside thee in the field, + And 'neath the greenwood tree; +It is but fair for thee to give + Yon vacant place to me." + +"It is not just," a statesman cried, + "This soldier's prayer to hear, +My wisdom has done more for thee + Than either sword or spear. + +"The victories of thy council hall + Have made thee more renown +Than all the triumphs of the field + Have given to thy crown. + +"My name is known in every land, + My talents have been thine, +Bestow this Earldom, then, on me, + For it is justly mine." + +Yet, while before the monarch's throne + These men contending stood, +A woman crossed the floor, who wore + The weeds of widowhood. + +And slowly to King Alfred's feet + A fair-haired boy she led-- +"O King, this is the rightful heir + Of Holderness," she said. + +"Helpless, he comes to claim his own, + Let no man do him wrong, +For he is weak and fatherless, + And thou art just and strong." + +"What strength or power," the statesman cried, + "Could such a judgement bring? +Can such a feeble child as this + Do aught for thee, O King? + +"When thou hast need of brawny arms + To draw thy deadly bows, +When thou art wanting crafty men + To crush thy mortal foes." + +With earnest voice the fair young boy + Replied: "I cannot fight, +But I can pray to God, O King, + And God can give thee might!" + +The King bent down and kissed the child, + The courtiers turned away, +"The heritage is thine," he said, + "Let none thy right gainsay. + +"Our swords may cleave the casques of men, + Our blood may stain the sod, +But what are human strength and power + Without the help of God?" + + _Eugene J. Hall._ + + + + +Try, Try Again + + +'Tis a lesson you should heed, + Try, try again; +If at first you don't succeed, + Try, try again; +Then your courage shall appear, +For if you will persevere, +You will conquer, never fear, + Try, try again. + +Once or twice though you should fail, + Try, try again; +If at last you would prevail, + Try, try again; +If we strive 'tis no disgrace +Tho' we may not win the race, +What should you do in that case? + Try, try again. + +If you find your task is hard, + Try, try again; +Time will bring you your reward, + Try, try again; +All that other folks can do, +Why, with patience, may not you? +Only keep this rule in view, + Try, try again. + + + + +Indian Names + + +Ye say they all have passed away--that noble race and brave, +That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave; +That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout, +But their name is on your waters--ye may not wash it out. + +'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled, +Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world; +Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west, +And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast. + +Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale, +Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale; +But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore, +Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore. + +Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown, +And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown; +Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves, +And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves. + +Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart, +And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart; +Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust; +Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust. + +Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour, +Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power; +Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal, +But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal? + +Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow, +On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe. +Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? +Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him? + + _Lydia H. Sigourney._ + + + + +More Cruel Than War + +(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay +sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of +Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl, +had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins +having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem +is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly +broke the engagement.) + + +Your letter, lady, came too late, + For heaven had claimed its own; +Ah, sudden change--from prison bars + Unto the great white throne; +And yet I think he would have stayed, + To live for his disdain, +Could he have read the careless words + Which you have sent in vain. + +So full of patience did he wait, + Through many a weary hour, +That o'er his simple soldier-faith + Not even death had power; +And you--did others whisper low + Their homage in your ear, +As though among their shallow throng + His spirit had a peer? + +I would that you were by me now, + To draw the sheet aside +And see how pure the look he wore + The moment when he died. +The sorrow that you gave to him + Had left its weary trace, +As 'twere the shadow of the cross + Upon his pallid face. + +"Her love," he said, "could change for me + The winter's cold to spring." +Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, + Thou art a bitter thing! +For when these valleys, bright in May, + Once more with blossoms wave, +The northern violets shall blow + Above his humble grave. + +Your dole of scanty words had been + But one more pang to bear +For him who kissed unto the last + Your tress of golden hair; +I did not put it where he said, + For when the angels come, +I would not have them find the sign + Of falsehood in the tomb. + +I've read your letter, and I know + The wiles that you have wrought +To win that trusting heart of his, + And gained it--cruel thought! +What lavish wealth men sometimes give + For what is worthless all! +What manly bosoms beat for them + In folly's falsest thrall! + +You shall not pity him, for now + His sorrow has an end; +Yet would that you could stand with me + Beside my fallen friend! +And I forgive you for his sake, + As he--if he be forgiven-- +May e'en be pleading grace for you + Before the court of Heaven. + +To-night the cold winds whistle by, + As I my vigil keep +Within the prison dead-house, where + Few mourners come to weep. +A rude plank coffin holds his form; + Yet death exalts his face, +And I would rather see him thus + Than clasped in your embrace. + +To-night your home may shine with light + And ring with merry song, +And you be smiling as your soul + Had done no deadly wrong; +Your hand so fair that none would think + It penned these words of pain; +Your skin so white--would God your heart + Were half as free from stain. + +I'd rather be my comrade dead + Than you in life supreme; +For yours the sinner's waking dread, + And his the martyr's dream! +Whom serve we in this life we serve + In that which is to come; +He chose his way, you--yours; let God + Pronounce the fitting doom. + + _W.S. Hawkins._ + + + + +Columbus + + +A harbor in a sunny, southern city; +Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee; +A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, +Who ever watched the waters lovingly. + +A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; +Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: +Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, +Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild. + +And ever in the boyish soul was ringing +The urging, surging challenge of the sea, +To dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger, +To learn,--as they, its charm and mystery. + +Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, +You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; +Thank God for men--their deeds have crowned the ages-- +Who once were little dreamy lads like you. + + _Helen L. Smith._ + + + + +The September Gale + + +I'm not a chicken; I have seen + Full many a chill September, +And though I was a youngster then, + That gale I well remember; +The day before, my kite-string snapped, + And I, my kite pursuing, +The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- + For me two storms were brewing! + +It came as quarrels sometimes do, + When married folks get clashing; +There was a heavy sigh or two, + Before the fire was flashing,-- +A little stir among the clouds, + Before they rent asunder,-- +A little rocking of the trees, + And then came on the thunder. + +Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, + And how the shingles rattled! +And oaks were scattered on the ground, + As if the Titans battled; +And all above was in a howl, + And all below a clatter,-- +The earth was like a frying-pan. + Or some such hissing matter. + +It chanced to be our washing-day, + And all our things were drying: +The storm came roaring through the lines, + And set them all a-flying; +I saw the shirts and petticoats + Go riding off like witches; +I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- + I lost my Sunday breeches! + +I saw them straddling through the air, + Alas! too late to win them; +I saw them chase the clouds, as if + The devil had been in them; +They were my darlings and my pride, + My boyhood's only riches,-- +"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- +"My breeches! O my breeches!" + +That night I saw them in my dreams, + How changed from what I knew them! +The dews had steeped their faded threads, + The winds had whistled through them! +I saw the wide and ghastly rents + Where demon claws had torn them; +A hole was in their amplest part, + As if an imp had worn them. + +I have had many happy years + And tailors kind and clever, +But those young pantaloons have gone + Forever and forever! +And not till fate has cut the last + Of all my earthly stitches, +This aching heart shall cease to mourn + My loved, my long-lost breeches! + + _O.W. Holmes_ + + + + +When My Ship Comes In + + +Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, + Where the winds dance and spin; +Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, + Over the breakers' din; +Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, +Out where the blinding fog is drifting, +Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, + My ship is coming in. + +O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, + Day after weary day; +O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking + While the long nights ebbed away; +Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, +Could I but know what storms had crossed her, +Could I but know where the winds had lost her, + Out in the twilight gray! + +But though the storms her course have altered, + Surely the port she'll win, +Never my faith in my ship has faltered, + I know she is coming in. +For through the restless ways of her roaming, +Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, +Through the white crest of the billows combing, + My ship is coming in. + +Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, + Swiftly she's coming in: +Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, + Bravely she's coming in. +Precious the love she will bring to bless me, +Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, +In the proud purple of kings she will dress me-- + My ship that is coming in. + +White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, + See, where my ship comes in; +At masthead and peak her colors streaming, + Proudly she's sailing in; +Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, +Music will welcome her glad appearing, +And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, + When my ship comes in. + + _Robert Jones Burdette._ + + + + +Solitude + + +Laugh, and the world laughs with you, + Weep, and you weep alone; +For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, + But has trouble enough of its own. + +Sing, and the hills will answer, + Sigh, it is lost on the air; +The echoes bound to a joyful sound, + But shirk from voicing care. + +Rejoice and men will seek you; + Grieve, and they turn and go; +They want full measure of all your pleasure, + But they do not need your woe. + +Be glad, and your friends are many; + Be sad, and you lose them all, +There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, + But alone you must drink life's gall. + +Feast, and your halls are crowded; + Fast, and the world goes by; +Succeed and give, and it helps you live, + But no man can help you die. + +There is room in the halls of pleasure + For a large and lordly train, +But one by one we must all file on + Through the narrow aisle of pain. + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +Sin of the Coppenter Man + + +The coppenter man said a wicked word, + When he hitted his thumb one day, +En I know what it was, because I heard, + En it's somethin' I dassent say. + +He growed us a house with rooms inside it, + En the rooms is full of floors +It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it, + It was nothin' but just outdoors. + +En they planted stones in a hole for seeds, + En that's how the house began, +But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds, + Except for the coppenter man. + +En the coppenter man took a board and said + He'd skin it and make some curls, +En I hung 'em onto my ears en head, + En they make me look like girls. + +En he squinted along one side, he did, + En he squinted the other side twice, +En then he told me, "You squint it, kid," + 'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice. + +But the coppenter man said a wicked word, + When he hitted 'his thumb that day; +He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard, + En it's something I dassent say. + +En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad, + When you hitted your thumb, kerspat! +En there'd be no coppenter men to be had, + If it wasn't for words like that. + + _Edmund Vance Cooke_. + + + + +The Bells of Ostend + + +No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, +Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! +The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, +And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud. +My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, +My heart sighed in secret for those far away; +When slowly the morning advanced from the east, +The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; +The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, +"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" +Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, +I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again; +I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, +And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; +I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, +Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. +But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, +Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, +And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, +Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! + + _W.L. Bowles._ + + + + +You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave + + +With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, +The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; +And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests +Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. +Ended at last is the labor of love; +Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-- +A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, +Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; +Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child +Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild: + +"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-- +Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? +I know he was poor, but as kind and as true +As ever marched into the battle with you; +His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, +You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! +For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, +And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. +He didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood +In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod +Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-- +And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' +O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, +But you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave. +If mamma were here--but she lies by his side, +Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!" + +"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, +"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." +Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, +He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate +The long line repasses, and many an eye +Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. +"This way, it is--here, sir, right under this tree; +They lie close together, with just room for me." +"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; +A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." + +"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay +The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; +But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, +'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. +I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too-- +I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; +And they will both bless you, I know, when I say +How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; +How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, +And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; +And when the kind angels shall call _you_ to come +We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home +Where death never comes his black banners to wave, +And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." + + _C.E.L. Holmes._ + + + + +The Two Little Stockings + + +Two little stockings hung side by side, +Close to the fireside broad and wide. +"Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, +Loaded with toys and many a game. +"Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, +"I'll have no cheating, my pretty one. + +"I know who dwells in this house, my dear, +There's only one little girl lives here." +So he crept up close to the chimney place, +And measured a sock with a sober face; +Just then a wee little note fell out +And fluttered low, like a bird, about. + +"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, +As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, +And read the address in a child's rough plan. +"Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, +"The other stocking you see on the wall +I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall. + +"She's a poor little girl, but very good, +So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would +Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, +And help to make her Christmas bright. +If you've not enough for both stockings there, +Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care." + +Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, +And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; +Then softly he blew through the chimney high +A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, +When down came two of the funniest mortals +That ever were seen this side earth's portals. + +"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare +All a little girl wants where money is rare." +Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! +Away went the elves, but down from the gloom +Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low +A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe. + +How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in, +And fastened each one to the sock with a pin; +Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,-- +"She'll think it came from the sky, I guess," +Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, +And tying the hood to the stocking, too. + +When all the warm clothes were fastened on, +And both little socks were filled and done, +Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there, +And hurried away to the frosty air, +Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child +Who pities them, too, on this night so wild." + +The wind caught the words and bore them on high +Till they died away in the midnight sky; +While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air, +Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere. + + _Sara Keables Hunt._ + + + + +I Have a Rendezvous with Death + + + I have a rendezvous with Death +At some disputed barricade, +When Spring comes back with rustling shade +And apple-blossoms fill the air-- +I have a rendezvous with Death +When Spring brings back blue days and fair. + + It may be he shall take my hand +And lead me into his dark land +And close my eyes and quench my breath-- +It may be I shall pass him still. +I have a rendezvous with Death +On some scarred slope of battered hill, +When Spring comes round again this year +And the first meadow-flowers appear. + + God knows't were better to be deep +Pillowed in silk and scented down, +Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, +Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath-- +Where hushed awakenings are dear.... +But I've a rendezvous with Death +At midnight in some flaming town, +When Spring trips north again this year, +And I to my pledged word am true, +I shall not fail that rendezvous. + + _Alan Seeger._ + + + + +Let Us Be Kind + + Let us be kind; +The way is long and lonely, +And human hearts are asking for this blessing only-- + That we be kind. +We cannot know the grief that men may borrow, +We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, +But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +This is a wealth that has no measure, +This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure-- + Let us be kind. +A tender word, a smile of love in meeting, +A song of hope and victory to those retreating, +A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +Around the world the tears of time are falling, +And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling-- + Let us be kind. +To age and youth let gracious words be spoken; +Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken, +We live in vain who give no tender token-- + Let us be kind. + + Let us be kind; +The sunset tints will soon be in the west, +Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast-- + Let us be kind. +And when the angel guides have sought and found us, +Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, +And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us-- + Let us be kind. + + _W. Lomax Childress._ + + + + +The Water Mill + + +Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, +As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; +How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves +As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! +A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, +The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; +The rippling stream flows on--aye, tranquil, deep and still, +But never glideth back again to busy water mill; +The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, +For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; +Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, +For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; +Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, +Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; +Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, +Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. +Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, +The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; +Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, +For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." +Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last-- +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + +Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last, +For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; +Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, +And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. +Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, +"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." + + _Sarah Doudney._ + + + + +Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold + + +What makes the dog's nose always cold? +I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold, +If you will good and quiet be, +And come and stand by mamma's knee. +Well, years and years and years ago-- +How many I don't really know-- +There came a rain on sea and shore, +Its like was never seen before +Or since. It fell unceasing down, +Till all the world began to drown; +But just before it began to pour, +An old, old man--his name was Noah-- +Built him an Ark, that he might save +His family from a wat'ry grave; +And in it also he designed +To shelter two of every kind +Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, +And heavy clouds obscured the sun, +The Noah folks to it quickly ran, +And then the animals began +To gravely march along in pairs; +The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, +The deer, the hippopotamuses, +The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, +The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, +The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, +The rats, the big rhinoceroses, +The dromedaries and the horses, +The sheep, and mice and kangaroos, +Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, +And hundreds more-'twould take all day, +My dear, so many names to say-- +And at the very, very end +Of the procession, by his friend +And master, faithful dog was seen; +The livelong time he'd helping been, +To drive the crowd of creatures in; +And now, with loud, exultant bark, +He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. +Alas! so crowded was the space +He could not in it find a place; +So, patiently, he turned about, +Stood half way in, half way out, +And those extremely heavy showers +Descended through nine hundred hours +And more; and, darling, at the close, +'Most frozen was his honest nose; +And never could it lose again +The dampness of that dreadful rain. +And that is what, my Curls of Gold, +Made all the doggies' noses cold. + + + + +The African Chief + + +Chained in the market-place he stood, + A man of giant frame, +Amid the gathering multitude + That shrunk to hear his name-- +All stern of look and strong of limb, + His dark eye on the ground:-- +And silently they gazed on him, + As on a lion bound. + +Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, + He was a captive now, +Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, + Was written on his brow. +The scars his dark broad bosom wore + Showed warrior true and brave; +A prince among his tribe before, + He could not be a slave. + +Then to his conqueror he spake: + "My brother is a king; +Undo this necklace from my neck, + And take this bracelet ring, +And send me where my brother reigns, + And I will fill thy hands +With store of ivory from the plains, + And gold-dust from the sands." + +"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold + Will I unbind thy chain; +That bloody hand shall never hold + The battle-spear again. +A price thy nation never gave + Shall yet be paid for thee; +For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, + In lands beyond the sea." + +Then wept the warrior chief and bade + To shred his locks away; +And one by one, each heavy braid + Before the victor lay. +Thick were the platted locks, and long, + And deftly hidden there +Shone many a wedge of gold among + The dark and crisped hair. + +"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold + Long kept for sorest need: +Take it--thou askest sums untold, + And say that I am freed. +Take it--my wife, the long, long day + Weeps by the cocoa-tree, +And my young children leave their play, + And ask in vain for me." + +"I take thy gold--but I have made + Thy fetters fast and strong, +And ween that by the cocoa shade + Thy wife will wait thee long," +Strong was the agony that shook + The captive's frame to hear, +And the proud meaning of his look + Was changed to mortal fear. + +His heart was broken--crazed his brain; + At once his eye grew wild; +He struggled fiercely with his chain, + Whispered, and wept, and smiled; +Yet wore not long those fatal bands, + And once, at shut of day, +They drew him forth upon the sands, + The foul hyena's prey. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +He Who Has Vision + +_Where there is no vision the people perish.--Prov. 29:17._ + + +He who has the vision sees more than you or I; +He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; +Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought, +But the visionary came ere the builders wrought; +Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, +He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march! + +He who has the vision hears more than you may hear, +Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; +From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, +Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; +Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows +Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows! + +He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, +Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel-- +For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, +In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, +He who has the vision lives round and all complete, +And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet. + + _Folger McKinsey._ + + + + +The Children We Keep + + +The children kept coming one by one, + Till the boys were five and the girls were three. +And the big brown house was alive with fun, + From the basement floor to the old roof-tree, +Like garden flowers the little ones grew, + Nurtured and trained with tenderest care; +Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew, + They blossomed into beauty rare. + +But one of the boys grew weary one day, + And leaning his head on his mother's breast, +He said, "I am tired and cannot play; + Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." +She cradled him close to her fond embrace, + She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, +And rapturous love still lightened his face + When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. + +Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, + Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," +Stole softly away into Paradise + E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet. +While the father's eyes on the graves were bent, + The mother looked upward beyond the skies: +"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; + Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." + +The years flew by, and the children began + With longings to think of the world outside, +And as each in turn became a man, + The boys proudly went from the father's side. +The girls were women so gentle and fair, + That lovers were speedy to woo and to win; +And with orange-blooms in their braided hair, + Their old home they left, new homes to begin. + +So, one by one the children have gone-- + The boys were five, the girls were three; +And the big brown house is gloomy and alone, + With but two old folks for its company. +They talk to each other about the past, + As they sit together at eventide, +And say, "All the children we keep at last + Are the boy and girl who in childhood died." + + _Mrs. E.V. Wilson._ + + + + +The Stranger on the Sill + + +Between broad fields of wheat and corn +Is the lowly home where I was born; +The peach-tree leans against the wall, +And the woodbine wanders over all; +There is the shaded doorway still,-- +But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. + +There is the barn--and, as of yore, +I can smell the hay from the open door, +And see the busy swallows throng, +And hear the pewee's mournful song; +But the stranger comes--oh! painful proof-- +His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. + +There is the orchard--the very trees +Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, +And watched the shadowy moments run +Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: +The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,-- +But the stranger's children are swinging there. + +There bubbles the shady spring below, +With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; +'Twas there I found the calamus root, +And watched the minnows poise and shoot, +And heard the robin lave his wing:-- +But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. + +Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, +Step lightly, for I love it still! +And when you crowd the old barn eaves, +Then think what countless harvest sheaves +Have passed within' that scented door +To gladden eyes that are no more. + +Deal kindly with these orchard trees; +And when your children crowd your knees, +Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, +As if old memories stirred their heart: +To youthful sport still leave the swing, +And in sweet reverence hold the spring. + + _Thomas Buchanan Read._ + + + + +The Old Man In the Model Church + + +Well, wife, I've found the _model_ church! I worshiped there to-day! +It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; +The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. +But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. + +The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; +He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; +He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through +The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. + +I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; +The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" +The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, +Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. + +My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; +I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, +And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, +Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all." + +I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; +I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; +I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, +And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm. + +_The preachin'_? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; +I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; +He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye +Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. + +The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; +It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; +'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; +'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed. + +The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; +He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; +And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear +That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. + +How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! +How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! +Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend-- +"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end." + +I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- +In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; +I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, +The happy hour of worship in that model church today. + +Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; +The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; +O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, +To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. + + _John H. Yates._ + + + + +The Volunteer Organist + + +The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, +An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; +Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, +An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. + +The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: +"Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, +An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, +Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" + +An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, +Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. +Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, +An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. + +Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: +"This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" +The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, +An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. + +He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain +Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; +An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, +He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. + +The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, +It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; +The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, +An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!" + +An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, +Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; +An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, +Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that! + +An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- +Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; +The morning stars together sung--no soul wuz left alone-- +We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne! + +An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, +An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; +No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, +An' then--the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night! + +But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, +An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; +He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, +W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray." + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The Finding of the Lyre + + +There lay upon the ocean's shore +What once a tortoise served to cover; +A year and more, with rush and roar, +The surf had rolled it over, +Had played with it, and flung it by, +As wind and weather might decide it, +Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry +Cheap burial might provide it. +It rested there to bleach or tan, +The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; +With many a ban the fisherman +Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; +And there the fisher-girl would stay, +Conjecturing with her brother +How in their play the poor estray +Might serve some use or other. + +So there it lay, through wet and dry, +As empty as the last new sonnet, +Till by and by came Mercury, +And, having mused upon it, +"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things +In shape, material, and dimension! +Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, +A wonderful invention!" + +So said, so done; the chords he strained, +And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, +The shell disdained a soul had gained, +The lyre had been discovered. +O empty world that round us lies, +Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, +Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, +In thee what songs should waken! + + _James Russel Lowell._ + + + + +The High Tide (1571) + +(_Or "The Brides of Enderby"_) + + +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers rang by two, by three; +"Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. +"Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells! +Play all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + +Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; +But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: +And there was naught of strange, beside +The flight of mews ans peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. + +I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; +The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies, +And dark against day's golden death +She moved where Lindis wandereth, +My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; +Ere the early dews were falling, +Farre away I heard her song. +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; +Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, +From the meads where melick groweth +Faintly came her milking song: + +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, +"For the dews will soone be falling; +Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, +Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, +From the clovers lift your head; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, +Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, +Jetty, to the milking shed." + +If it be long, ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, +Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; +And all the aire, it seemeth mee, +Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), +That ring the tune of Enderby. + +Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, +Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; +And lo! the great bell farre and wide +Was heard in all the country side +That Saturday at eventide. + +The swanherds where there sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath, +The shepherde lads I heard affare, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; +Till floating o'er the grassy sea +Came down that kindly message free, +The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + +Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows +To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows, +They sayde, "And why should this thing be? +What danger lowers by land or sea? +They ring the tune of Enderby! + +"For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping downe; +For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne; +But while the west bin red to see, +And storms be none, and pyrates flee, +Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + +I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding down with might and main: +He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, +"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" +(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + +"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, +And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." +He shook as one that looks on death: +"God save you, mother!" straight he saith, +"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + +"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; +And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." +He looked across the grassy lea, +To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" +They rang "The Brides of Enderby"! + +With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed +A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. +It swept with thunderous noises loud; +Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, +Or like a demon in a shroud. + +And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, +Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. +Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- +Then beaten foam flew round about-- +Then all the mighty floods were out. + +So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, +Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. +The feet had hardly time to flee +Before it brake against the knee, +And all the world was in the sea. + +Upon the roofe we sat that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; +I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high,-- +A lurid mark and dread to see; +And awesome bells they were to mee, +That in the dark rang "Enderby." + +They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; +And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; +And yet he moaned beneath his breath, +"Oh, come in life, or come in death! +Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth." + +And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; +The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear; +Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, +The lifted sun shone on thy face, +Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + +That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; +A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: +But each will mourn his own (she saith), +And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + +I shall never hear her more +By the reedy Lindis shore, +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling +Ere the early dews be falling; +I shall never hear her song, +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along, +Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; +From the meads where melick groweth, +When the water winding down, +Onward floweth to the town. + +I shall never see her more +Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; +Stand beside the sobbing river, +Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling +To the sandy lonesome shore; +I shall never hear her calling, +"Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; +Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, +From your clovers lift the head; +Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, +Jetty, to the milking-shed." + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +September Days + + +O month of fairer, rarer days +Than Summer's best have been; +When skies at noon are burnished blue, +And winds at evening keen; +When tangled, tardy-blooming things +From wild waste places peer, +And drooping golden grain-heads tell +That harvest-time is near. + +Though Autumn tints amid the green +Are gleaming, here and there, +And spicy Autumn odors float +Like incense on the air, +And sounds we mark as Autumn's own +Her nearing steps betray, +In gracious mood she seems to stand +And bid the Summer stay. + +Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves +The sward be lightly strown, +And nests deserted tell the tale +Of summer bird-folk flown; +Though white with frost the lowlands lie +When lifts the morning haze, +Still there's a charm in every hour +Of sweet September days. + + _Helen L. Smith_ + + + + +The New Year + + +Who comes dancing over the snow, + His soft little feet all bare and rosy? +Open the door, though the wild wind blow, + Take the child in and make him cozy, +Take him in and hold him dear, +Here is the wonderful glad New Year. + + _Dinah M. Craik_ + + + + +An "If" For Girls + +(_With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling_.) + + +If you can dress to make yourself attractive, + Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight; +If you can swim and row, be strong and active, + But of the gentler graces lose not sight; +If you can dance without a craze for dancing, + Play without giving play too strong a hold, +Enjoy the love of friends without romancing, + Care for the weak, the friendless and the old; + +If you can master French and Greek and Latin, + And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien, +If you can feel the touch of silk and satin + Without despising calico and jean; +If you can ply a saw and use a hammer, + Can do a man's work when the need occurs, +Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer, + Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs; + +If you can make good bread as well as fudges, + Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, +If you can be a friend and hold no grudges, + A girl whom all will love because they must; + +If sometime you should meet and love another + And make a home with faith and peace enshrined, +And you its soul--a loyal wife and mother-- + You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind +The plan that's been developed through the ages, + And win the best that life can have in store, +You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages-- + A woman whom the world will bow before. + + _Elizabeth Lincoln Otis._ + + + + +Boy and Girl of Plymouth + + +Little lass of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet; +Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; +Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; +Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; +Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; +Modest little maiden,--Plymouth's Pilgrim girl! + +Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; +Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; +Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; +Every garment fashioned as a man's might be; +Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; +Manly little Pilgrim,--boy of Plymouth town! + +Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; +Finer task than yours was, children never knew; +Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; +Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; +Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; +Yours to make it brighter,--Pilgrim girl and boy! + + _Helen L. Smith_. + + + + +Work: A Song of Triumph + + +Work! + Thank God for the might of it, + The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, + Work that springs from the heart's desire, + Setting the brain and the soul on fire-- + Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, + And what is so glad as the beat of it, + And what is so kind as the stern command, + Challenging brain and heart and hand? + +Work! + Thank God for the pride of it, + For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, + Sweeping the life in its furious flood, + Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, + Mastering stupor and dull despair, + Moving the dreamer to do and dare-- + Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, + And what is so glad as the surge of it, + And what is so strong as the summons deep, + Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? + +Work! + Thank God for the pace of it, + For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, + Fiery steeds in full control, + Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. + Work, the power that drives behind, + Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, + Holding the runaway wishes back, + Reining the will to one steady track, + Speeding the energies, faster, faster, + Triumphing ever over disaster; + Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, + And what is so great as the gain of it, + And what is so kind as the cruel goad, + Forcing us on through the rugged road? + +Work! + Thank God for the swing of it, + For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, + Passion of labor daily hurled + On the mighty anvils of the world. + Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? + And what is so huge as the aim of it? + Thundering on through dearth and doubt, + Calling the plan of the Maker out, + Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, + Shaping the earth to a glorious end, + Draining the swamps and blasting hills, + Doing whatever the Spirit wills-- + Rending a continent apart, + To answer the dream of the Master heart. + Thank God for a world where none may shirk-- + Thank God for the splendor of Work! + + _Angela Morgan._ + + + + +Reply to "A Woman's Question" + +(_"A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers +Ask For_.") + + +You say I have asked for the costliest thing + Ever made by the Hand above-- +A woman's heart and a woman's life, + And a woman's wonderful love. + +That I have written your duty out, + And, man-like, have questioned free-- +You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, + While you in turn question me. + +And when I ask you to be my wife, + The head of my house and home, +Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life, + Thy shield when sorrow shall come-- + +You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, + And point to my coat's missing button, +And haughtily ask if I want a _cook_, + To serve up my _beef_ and my _mutton_. + +'Tis a _king_ that you look for. Well, I am not he, + But only a plain, earnest man, +Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, + Often shrink from the gulf they should span. + +'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade + From the cheek so full, so fair; +'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold + Was ever reflected there. + +True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, + And the Autumn of life will come; +But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, + Should I make it thy shelter, thy home. + +Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; + All things that a man should be"; +Ah! lady, my _truth_, in return, doubt not, + For the rest, I leave it to thee. + + _Nettie H. Pelham._ + + + + +The Romance of Nick Van Stann + + +I cannot vouch my tale is true, +Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; +But true or false, or new or old, +I think you'll find it fairly told. +A Frenchman, who had ne'er before +Set foot upon a foreign shore, +Weary of home, resolved to go +And see what Holland had to show. +He didn't know a word of Dutch, +But that could hardly grieve him much; +He thought, as Frenchmen always do, +That all the world could "parley-voo." +At length our eager tourist stands +Within the famous Netherlands, +And, strolling gaily here and there, +In search of something rich or rare, +A lordly mansion greets his eyes; +"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, +And, bowing to the man who sate +In livery at the garden gate, +"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, +Whose very charming grounds are these? +And, pardon me, be pleased to tell +Who in this splendid house may dwell." +To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man +Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"[*] + +"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste +Is equally superb and chaste; +So fine a house, upon my word, +Not even Paris can afford. +With statues, too, in every niche; +Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, +And lives, I warrant, like a king,-- +Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" +In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets +A thousand wonders in the streets, +But most he marvels to behold +A lady dressed in silk and gold; +Gazing with rapture on the dame, +He begs to know the lady's name, +And hears, to raise his wonders more, +The very words he heard before! +"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, +Milord has got a charming wife; +'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann +Must be a very happy man." + +Next day our tourist chanced to pop +His head within a lottery shop, +And there he saw, with staring eyes, +The drawing of the mammoth prize. +"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; +I wish I had as much at home: +I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, +What lucky fellow is the winner?" +Conceive our traveler's amaze +To hear again the hackneyed phrase. +"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? +Faith! he's the luckiest of men. +You may be sure we don't advance +So rapidly as that in France: +A house, the finest in the land; +A lovely garden, nicely planned; +A perfect angel of a wife, +And gold enough to last a life; +There never yet was mortal man +So blest--as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!" + +Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet +A pompous funeral in the street; +And, asking one who stood close by +What nobleman had pleased to die, +Was stunned to hear the old reply. +The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, +"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; +With such a house, and such a wife, +It must be hard to part with life; +And then, to lose that mammoth prize,-- +He wins, and, pop,--the winner dies! +Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, +I greatly feared they could not last: +And thus, we see, the sword of Fate +Cuts down alike the small and great." + +[Footnote *: Nicht verstehen:--"I don't understand."] + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Armageddon + + +Marching down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, stout and strong! +Let us cheer the way we tread on, + With a soldier's song! +Faint we by the weary road, + Or fall we in the rout, +Dirge or Paean, Death or Triumph!-- + Let the song ring out! + +We are they who scorn the scorners-- + Love the lovers--hate +None within the world's four corners-- + All must share one fate; +We are they whose common banner + Bears no badge nor sign, +Save the Light which dyes it white-- +The Hope that makes it shine. + +We are they whose bugle rings, + That all the wars may cease; +We are they will pay the Kings + Their cruel price for Peace; +We are they whose steadfast watchword + Is what Christ did teach-- +"Each man for his Brother first-- + And Heaven, then, for each." + +We are they who will not falter-- + Many swords or few-- +Till we make this Earth the altar + Of a worship new; +We are they who will not take + From palace, priest or code, +A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"-- + A lower Lord than God. + +Marching down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, stout and strong! +Ask not why the way we tread on + Is so rough and long! +God will tell us when our spirits + Grow to grasp His plan! +Let us do our part to-day-- + And help Him, helping Man! + +Shall we even curse the madness + Which for "ends of State" +Dooms us to the long, long sadness + Of this human hate? +Let us slay in perfect pity + Those that must not live; +Vanquish, and forgive our foes-- + Or fall--and still forgive! + +We are those whose unpaid legions, + In free ranks arrayed, +Massacred in many regions-- + Never once were stayed: +We are they whose torn battalions, + Trained to bleed, not fly, +Make our agonies a triumph,-- + Conquer, while we die! + +Therefore, down to Armageddon-- + Brothers, bold and strong; +Cheer the glorious way we tread on, + With this soldier song! +Let the armies of the old Flags + March in silent dread! +Death and Life are one to us, + Who fight for Quick and Dead! + + _Edwin Arnold._ + + + + +Picciola + + +It was a sergeant old and gray, + Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage. +Went tramping in an army's wake + Along the turnpike of the village. + +For days and nights the winding host + Had through the little place been marching, +And ever loud the rustics cheered, + Till every throat was hoarse and parching. + +The squire and farmer, maid and dame, + All took the sight's electric stirring, +And hats were waved and staves were sung, + And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. + +They only saw a gallant show + Of heroes stalwart under banners, +And, in the fierce heroic glow, + 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas. + +The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, + Where he behind in step was keeping; +But, glancing down beside the road, + He saw a little maid sit weeping. + +"And how is this?" he gruffly said, + A moment pausing to regard her;-- +"Why weepest thou, my little chit?" + And then she only cried the harder. + +"And how is this, my little chit?" + The sturdy trooper straight repeated, +"When all the village cheers us on, + That you, in tears, apart are seated? + +"We march two hundred thousand strong, + And that's a sight, my baby beauty, +To quicken silence into song + And glorify the soldier's duty." + +"It's very, very grand, I know," + The little maid gave soft replying; +"And father, mother, brother too, + All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying; + +"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think, + How many little sisters' brothers +Are going all away to fight, + And may be killed, as well as others!" + +"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, + His brawny hand her curls caressing, +"'Tis left for little ones like thee + To find that war's not all a blessing." + +And "Bless thee!" once again he cried, + Then cleared his throat and looked indignant +And marched away with wrinkled brow + To stop the struggling tear benignant. + +And still the ringing shouts went up + From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; +The pall behind the standard seen + By one alone of all the village. + +The oak and cedar bend and writhe + When roars the wind through gap and braken; +But 'tis the tenderest reed of all + That trembles first when Earth is shaken. + + _Robert Henry Newell._ + + + + +The King's Ring + + +Once in Persia reigned a king +Who upon his signet ring +Graved a maxim true and wise +Which, if held before his eyes, +Gave him counsel at a glance +Fit for every change and chance. +Solemn words; and these are they: +"Even this shall pass away." + +Trains of camels through the sand +Brought him gems from Samarcand, +Fleets of galleys through the seas +Brought him pearls to match with these; +But he counted not his gain-- +Treasurer of the mine and main, +"What is wealth?" the king would say; +"Even this shall pass away." + +In the revels of his court +At the zenith of the sport, +When the palms of all his guests +Burned with clapping at his jests, +He, amid his figs and wine, +Cried: "O loving friends of mine! +Pleasures come, but not to stay, +Even this shall pass away." + +Fighting on a furious field +Once a javelin pierced his shield; +Soldiers with loud lament +Bore him bleeding to his tent, +Groaning with his tortured side. +"Pain is hard to bear," he cried; +"But with patience day by day, +Even this shall pass away." + +Struck with palsy, sere and old, +Waiting at the gates of gold, +Spake he with his dying breath: +"Life is done, but what is death?" +Then, in answer to the king, +Fell a sunbeam on his ring, +Showing by a heavenly ray: +"Even this shall pass away." + + _Theodore Tilton._ + + + + +Leaving the Homestead + + +You're going to leave the homestead, John, + You're twenty-one to-day: +And very sorry am I, John, + To see you go away. +You've labored late and early, John, + And done the best you could; +I ain't going to stop you, John, + I wouldn't if I could. + +Yet something of your feelings, John, + I s'pose I'd ought to know, +Though many a day has passed away-- + 'Twas forty years ago-- +When hope was high within me, John, + And life lay all before, +That I, with strong and measured stroke, + "Cut loose" and pulled from shore. + +The years they come and go, my boy, + The years they come and go; +And raven locks and tresses brown + Grow white as driven snow. +My life has known its sorrows, John, + Its trials and troubles sore; +Yet God withal has blessed me, John, + "In basket and in store." + +But one thing let me tell you, John, + Before you make a start, +There's more in being honest, John, + Twice o'er than being smart. +Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, + And sterling worth to fail, +Oh! keep in view the good and true; + 'Twill in the end prevail. + +Don't think too much of money, John, + And dig and delve and plan, +And rake and scrape in every shape, + To hoard up all you can. +Though fools may count their riches, John, + In dollars and in cents, +The best of wealth is youth and health, + And good sound common sense. + +And don't be mean and stingy, John, + But lay a little by +Of what you earn; you soon will learn + How fast 'twill multiply. +So when old age comes creeping on, + You'll have a goodly store +Of wealth to furnish all your needs-- + And maybe something more. + +There's shorter cuts to fortune, John, + We see them every day; +But those who save their self-respect + Climb up the good old way. +"All is not gold that glitters," John, + And makes the vulgar stare, +And those we deem the richest, John, + Have oft the least to spare. + +Don't meddle with your neighbors, John, + Their sorrows or their cares; +You'll find enough to do, my boy, + To mind your own affairs. +The world is full of idle tongues-- + You can afford to shirk! +There's lots of people ready, John, + To do such dirty work. + +And if amid the race for fame + You win a shining prize, +The humbler work of honest men + You never should despise; +For each one has his mission, John, + In life's unchanging plan-- +Though lowly be his station, John, + He is no less a man. + +Be good, be pure, be noble, John; + Be honest, brave, be true; +And do to others as you would + That they should do to you; +And put your trust in God, my boy, + Though fiery darts be hurled; +Then you can smile at Satan's rage, + And face a frowning world. + +Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless + Your footsteps day by day; +The old house will be lonesome, John, + When you are gone away. +The cricket's song upon the hearth + Will have a sadder tone; +The old familiar spots will be + So lonely when you're gone. + + + + +Bernardo Del Carpio + +King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the +time of the birth of the Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure +his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. Finally +the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange +for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. +The cruel trick played by the King on Bernardo is here described. + + +The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, +And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; +"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, +I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh break my father's chain!" +"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; +Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." + +Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, +And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. +And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, +With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: +"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, +The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." + +His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and + went; +He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; +A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-- +What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? +That hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead! +He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! +A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white, +He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight! + +Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? +They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. +They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, +For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. +"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; +Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! + +He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; +He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. +Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: +"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; +My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father--oh, the worth, +The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! +I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! +I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! +Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;--for thee my fields were won; +And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" + +Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, +Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; +And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, +And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: +"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? +Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? +The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they? +If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! +Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; +Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. +Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed! +Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head." + +He loosed the steed--his slack hand fell; upon the silent face +He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. +His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; +His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + + + +Mizpah + + +Go thou thy way, and I go mine, + Apart--but not afar. +Only a thin veil hangs between + The pathways where we are, +And God keep watch 'tween thee and me + This is my prayer. +He looks thy way--He looketh mine + And keeps us near. + +I know not where thy road may lie + Nor which way mine will be, +If thine will lead through parching sands + And mine beside the sea. +Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me, + So never fear. +He holds thy hand--He claspeth mine + And keeps us near. + +Should wealth and fame perchance be thine + And my lot lowly be, +Or you be sad and sorrowful + And glory be for me, +Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me, + Both are his care. +One arm round me and one round thee + Will keep us near. + +I sigh sometimes to see thy face + But since this may not be +I leave thee to the love of Him + Who cares for thee and me. +"I'll keep ye both beneath My wings," + This comforts--dear. +One wing o'er thee--and one o'er me, + So we are near. + +And though our paths be separate + And thy way be not mine-- +Yet coming to the mercy seat + My soul shall meet with thine. +And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me" + I'll whisper there. +He blesses me--He blesses thee + And we are near. + + + + +God + + +O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright +All space doth occupy, all motion guide-- +Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! +Thou only God--there is no God beside! +Being above all beings! Mighty One, +Whom none can comprehend and none explore, +Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone-- +Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,-- +Being whom we call God, and know no more! + +In its sublime research, philosophy +May measure out the ocean-deep--may count +The sands or the sun's rays--but, God! for Thee +There is no weight nor measure; none can mount +Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark, +Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try +To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: +And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, +Even like past moments in eternity. + +Thou from primeval nothingness didst call +First chaos, then existence--Lord! in Thee +Eternity had its foundation; all +Sprung forth from Thee--of light, joy, harmony, +Sole Origin--all life, all beauty Thine; +Thy word created all, and doth create; +Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; +Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great! +Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! + +Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround-- +Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! +Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, +And beautifully mingled life and death! +As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, +So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; +And as the spangles in the sunny rays +Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry +Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. + +A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, +Wander unwearied through the blue abyss-- +They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, +All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. +What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-- +A glorious company of golden streams-- +Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- +Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? +But Thou to these art as the noon to night. + +Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, +All this magnificence in Thee is lost:-- +What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? +And what am I then?--Heaven's unnumbered host, +Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed +In all the glory of sublimest thought, +Is but an atom in the balance, weighed +Against Thy greatness--is a cipher brought +Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! + +Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, +Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; +Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine +As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. +Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly +Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee +I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, +Even to the throne of Thy divinity. +I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! + +Thou art!--directing, guiding all--Thou art! +Direct my understanding then to Thee; +Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; +Though but an atom midst immensity, +Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! +I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth-- +On the last verge of mortal being stand. +Close to the realm where angels have their birth, +Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! + +The chain of being is complete in me-- +In me is matter's last gradation lost, +And the next step is spirit--Deity! +I can command the lightning, and am dust! +A monarch and a slave--a worm, a god! +Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously +Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod +Lives surely through some higher energy; +For from itself alone it could not be! + +Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word +Created me! Thou source of life and good! +Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! +Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude +Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring +Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear +The garments of eternal day, and wing +Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, +Even to its source--to Thee--its Author there. + +O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! +Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, +Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. +And waft its homage to Thy Deity. +God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, +Thus seek thy presence--Being wise and good! +Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; +And when the tongue is eloquent no more +The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. + + _Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin._ + + + + +Casabianca + + +The boy stood on the burning deck, + Whence all but him had fled; +The flame that lit the battle's wreck + Shone round him o'er the dead. + +Yet beautiful and bright he stood, + As born to rule the storm; +A creature of heroic blood, + A proud, though childlike form. + +The flames roll'd on--he would not go + Without his father's word; +That father, faint in death below, + His voice no longer heard. + +He called aloud: "Say, father, say + If yet my task is done?" +He knew not that the chieftain lay + Unconscious of his son. + +"Speak, father!" once again he cried, + "If I may yet be gone!" +And but the booming shots replied, + And fast the flames roll'd on. + +Upon his brow he felt their breath, + And in his waving hair; +And looked from that lone post of death + In still, yet brave despair. + +And shouted but once more aloud, + "My father! must I stay?" +While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, + The wreathing fires made way. + +They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, + They caught the flag on high, +And streamed above the gallant child, + Like banners in the sky. + +There came a burst of thunder sound-- + The boy--oh! where was he? +Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strewed the sea! + +With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, + That well had borne their part-- +But the noblest thing that perished there + Was that young, faithful heart. + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + + + +Monterey + + +We were not many,--we who stood + Before the iron sleet that day; +Yet many a gallant spirit would +Give half his years if he but could + Have been with us at Monterey. + +Now here, now there, the shot it hailed + In deadly drifts of fiery spray, +Yet not a single soldier quailed +When wounded comrades round them wailed + Their dying shout at Monterey. + +And on, still on our column kept, + Through walls of flame, its withering way; +Where fell the dead, the living stept, +Still charging on the guns which swept + The slippery streets of Monterey. + +The foe himself recoiled aghast, + When, striking where he strongest lay, +We swooped his flanking batteries past, +And braving full their murderous blast, + Stormed home the towers of Monterey. + +Our banners on those turrets wave, + And there our evening bugles play; +Where orange boughs above their grave +Keep green the memory of the brave + Who fought and fell at Monterey. + +We are not many, we who pressed + Beside the brave who fell that day; +But who of us has not confessed +He'd rather share their warrior rest, + Than not have been at Monterey? + + _Charles Fenno Hoffman._ + + + + +The Teacher's "If" + + +If you can take your dreams into the classroom, + And always make them part of each day's work-- +If you can face the countless petty problems + Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk-- +If you can live so that the child you work with + Deep in his heart knows you to be a man-- +If you can take "I can't" from out his language + And put in place a vigorous "I can"-- + +If you can take Love with you to the classroom, + And yet on Firmness never shut the door-- +If you can teach a child the love of Nature + So that he helps himself to all her store-- +If you can teach him life is what we make it, + That he himself can be his only bar-- +If you can tell him something of the heavens, + Or something of the wonder of a star-- + +If you, with simple bits of truth and honor, + His better self occasionally reach-- +And yet not overdo nor have him dub you + As one who is inclined to ever preach-- +If you impart to him a bit of liking + For all the wondrous things we find in print-- +Yet have him understand that to be happy, + Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint-- + +If you can give of all the best that's in you, + And in the giving always happy be-- +If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere + Deep in the heart of every child you see-- +If you can do these things and all the others + That teachers everywhere do every day-- +You're in the work that you were surely meant for; + Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay! + + _R.J. Gale._ + + + + +The Good Shepherd + + +There were ninety and nine +Of a flock, sleek and fine + In a sheltering cote in the vale; +But a lamb was away, +On the mountain astray, + Unprotected within the safe pale. + +Then the sleet and the rain +On the mountain and plain, + And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, +And the night's growing dark, +And the wolf's hungry bark + Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale. + +And he says, "Hireling, go; +For a lamb's in the snow + And exposed to the wild hungry beast; +'Tis no time to keep seat, +Nor to rest weary feet, + Nor to sit at a bounteous feast." + +Then the hireling replied, +"Here you have at your side + All your flock save this one little sheep. +Are the ninety and nine, +All so safe and so fine, + Not enough for the shepherd to keep?" + +Then the shepherd replied, +"Ah! this lamb from my side + Presses near, very near, to my heart. +Not its value in pay +Makes me urge in this way, + But the longings and achings of heart." + +"Let me wait till the day, +O good shepherd, I pray; + For I shudder to go in the dark +On the mountain so high +And its precipice nigh + 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark." + +Then the shepherd said, "No; +Surely some one must go + Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, +From the wolf's hungry maw +And the lion's fierce paw + And restore it again to the fold." + +Then the shepherd goes out +With his cloak girt about + And his rod and his staff in his hand. +What cares he for the cold +If his sheep to the fold + He can bring from the dark mountain land? + +You can hear his clear voice +As the mountains rejoice, + "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" +Up the hillside so steep, +Into caverns so deep, + "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" + +Now he hears its weak "baa," +And he answers it, "Ah! + Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" +Then its answering bleat +Hurries on his glad feet, + And his arms gather up his lost sheep. + +Wet and cold on his breast +The lost lamb found its rest + As he bore it adown to the fold. +And the ninety and nine +Bleat for joy down the line, + That it's safe from the wolf and the cold. + +Then he said to his friends, +"Now let joy make amends + For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed-- +For the pelting of sleet +And my sore, weary feet, + For I've found the dear lamb that was lost." + +Let the hirelings upbraid +For the nights that He stayed + On the mountains so rugged and high. +Surely never a jeer +From my lips shall one hear, + For--that poor lonely lambkin--was--I. + +While the eons shall roll +O'er my glad ransomed soul + I will praise the Good Shepherd above, +For a place on His breast, +For its comfort and rest, + For His wonderful, wonderful love. + + _D. N. Howe._ + + + + +A Sermon in Rhyme + + +If you have a friend worth loving, + Love him. Yes, and let him know +That you love him ere life's evening + Tinge his brow with sunset glow; +Why should good words ne'er be said +Of a friend--till he is dead? + +If you hear a song that thrills you, + Sung by any child of song, +Praise it. Do not let the singer + Wait deserved praises long; +Why should one that thrills your heart +Lack that joy it may impart? + +If you hear a prayer that moves you + By its humble pleading tone, +Join it. Do not let the seeker + Bow before his God alone; +Why should not your brother share +The strength of "two or three" in prayer? + +If you see the hot tears falling + From a loving brother's eyes, +Share them, and by sharing, + Own your kinship with the skies; +Why should anyone be glad, +When his brother's heart is sad? + +If a silver laugh goes rippling + Through the sunshine on his face, +Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, + For both grief and joy a place; +There's health and goodness in the mirth +In which an honest laugh has birth. + +If your work is made more easy + By a friendly helping hand, +Say so. Speak out brave and truly, + Ere the darkness veil the land. +Should a brother workman dear +Falter for a word of cheer? + +Scatter thus your seed of kindness, + All enriching as you go-- +Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; + He will make each seed to grow. +So, until its happy end, +Your life shall never lack a friend. + + + + +The Fortunate Isles + + +You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, + The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song? +Then steer right on through the watery miles, + Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. +Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; +But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, +The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing +And life lies girt with a golden ring. + +These Fortunate Isles, they are not far; + They lie within reach of the lowliest door; +You can see them gleam by the twilight star; + You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore, +Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones, +They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones +Of glory for souls that have sailed before +And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. + +And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? + Why, Duty and Love and a large content. +Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles + That God let down from the firmament; +Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust; +Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust; +Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles, +And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles. + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet + + +A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, +With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; +And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, +She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it. + +But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, +The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; +So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, +And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing. + +So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; +And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. +"Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. +"Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. + +This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, +That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; +For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, +With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. + +And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, +But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, +Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, +Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet. + +Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find +In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; +And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, +Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers. + + _M. T. Morrison._ + + + + +Work Thou for Pleasure + + +Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve +The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. +Who works for glory misses oft the goal; +Who works for money coins his very soul. +Work for work's sake then, and it well may be +That these things shall be added unto thee. + + _Kenyon Cox._ + + + + +The Tin Gee Gee + + +I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade, +That place for children's toys, +Where you can purchase a dolly or spade +For your good little girls and boys. +And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: +O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee; +O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee. + +Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw, +In his little cocked hat so fine. +He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light +As he led a glittering line of tin hussars, +Whose sabers flashed in a manner a la military. +And that little tin soldier he rode at their head, +So proud on his tin Gee Gee. + +Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, +So I patted his little tin head. +What vexes your little tin soul? said I, +And this is what he said: +I've been on this stall a very long time, +And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; +Whilst just on the shelf above my head, +There's a fellow marked sixty-three. + +Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, +And I'm quite as good as he. +So why mark me at twenty-nine, +And him at sixty-three? +There's a pretty little dolly girl over there, +And I'm madly in love with she. +But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, +She turns up her nose at me, +She turns up her little wax nose at me, +And carries on with sixty-three. + +And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; +It's a dress I do admire, +She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut +When worked inside by a wire, +And once on a time when the folks had gone, +She used to ogle at me. +But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, +She turns up her nose at me. +She turns up her little snub nose at me, +And carries on with sixty-three. + +Cheer up, my little tin man, said I, +I'll see what I can do. +You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame +That she should so treat you. +So I took down the label from the shelf above, +And I labeled him sixty-three, +And I marked the other one twenty-nine, +Which was _very, very_ wrong of me, +But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul, +As he rode on his tin Gee Gee. + +Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, +At being marked sixty-three, +And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, +For he'd risen in life, do you see? +And it's so in this world; for I'm in love +With a maiden of high degree; +But I am only marked twenty-nine, +And the other chap's sixty-three-- +And a girl never looks at twenty-nine +With a possible sixty-three! + + _Fred Cape._ + + + + +"Tommy" + + +I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, +The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." +The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, +I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I: +O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"; +But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play, +The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, +O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. + +I went into a theater as sober as could be, +They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; +They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, +But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls. +For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside"; +But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, +The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc. + +O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep +Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; +An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit +Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. +Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" +But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, +The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc. + +We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, +But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; +An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, +Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints. +While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind"; +But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. +There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc. + +You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: +We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. +Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, +The Widow's uniform[1] is not the soldierman's disgrace. +For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" +But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; +An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; +An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +[Footnote 1: "Widow's uniform"--i. e., uniform of a soldier of Queen +Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."] + + + + +The Mystic Weaver + + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; + Foot and treadle, + Hand and pedal, +Upward, downward, hither, thither, +How the weaver makes them go: +As the weaver wills they go. +Up and down the web is plying, +And across the woof is flying; + What a rattling! + What a battling! + What a shuffling! + What a scuffling! +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. +Threads in single, threads in double; +How they mingle, what a trouble! +Every color, what profusion! +Every motion, what confusion! +While the web and woof are mingling, +Signal bells above are jingling,-- +Telling how each figure ranges, +Telling when the color changes, +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; +'Mid the noise and wild confusion, +Well the weaver seems to know, +As he makes his shuttle go, + What each motion + And commotion, + What each fusion + And confusion, +In the grand result will show. + Weaving daily, + Singing gaily, +As he makes his busy shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +The weaver at his loom is sitting, +Throws his shuttle to and fro; +See you not how shape and order +From the wild confusion grow, +As he makes his shuttle go?-- +As the web and woof diminish, +Grows beyond the beauteous finish,-- + Tufted plaidings, + Shapes, and shadings; + All the mystery + Now is history;-- +And we see the reason subtle, +Why the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +See the Mystic Weaver sitting +High in heaven--His loom below; +Up and down the treadles go; +Takes for web the world's long ages, +Takes for woof its kings and sages, +Takes the nobles and their pages, +Takes all stations and all stages,-- +Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle; +Armies make them scud and scuttle; +Web into the woof must flow, +Up and down the nations go, +As the weaver wills they go; + Men are sparring, + Powers are jarring, +Upward, downward, hither, thither +Just like puppets in a show. +Up and down the web is plying, +And across the woof is flying, + What a battling! + What a rattling! + What a shuffling! + What a scuffling! +As the weaver makes his shuttle +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. + +Calmly see the Mystic Weaver + Throw His shuttle to and fro; +'Mid the noise and wild confusion. + Well the Weaver seems to know + What each motion + And commotion, + What each fusion + And confusion, + In the grand result will show, + As the nations, + Kings and stations, +Upward, downward, hither, thither, +As in mystic dances, go. +In the present all is mystery; +In the past, 'tis beauteous history. +O'er the mixing and the mingling, +How the signal bells are jingling! +See you not the Weaver leaving +Finished work behind, in weaving? +See you not the reason subtle, +As the web and woof diminish, +Changing into beauteous finish, +_Why_ the Weaver makes his shuttle, +Hither, thither, scud and scuttle? + +Glorious wonder! what a weaving! +To the dull beyond believing! +Such, no fabled ages know. +Only _Faith_ can see the mystery, +How, along the aisle of history +Where the feet of sages go, +Loveliest to the purest eyes, +Grand the mystic tapet lies,-- +Soft and smooth, and even spreading +Every figure has its plaidings, +As if made for angels' treading; +Tufted circles touching ever, +Inwrought figures fading never; +Brighter form and softer shadings; +Each illumined,--what a riddle +From a cross that gems the middle. + +'Tis a saying--some reject it-- +That its light is all reflected; +That the tapet's hues are given +By a sun that shines in heaven! +'Tis believed, by all believing, +That great God himself is weaving,-- +Bringing out the world's dark mystery, +In the light of truth and history; +And as web and woof diminish, +Comes the grand and glorious finish; +When begin the golden ages +Long foretold by seers and sages. + + + + +The Mortgage on the Farm + + +'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while, +And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile; +It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; +No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm. + +I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know +How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; +I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm +Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm. + +The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim. +To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim; +And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed +He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read. + +The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, +They said the house was out of style and far behind the times; +They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm-- +Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm. + +We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day, +While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; +The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years +Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears. + +We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it, +It was a most tremendous thing--I really didn't mean it; +Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town +And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down. + +I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, +But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; +No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, +For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!" + +I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave +To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave, +And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, +The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.-- + +But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, +The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; +And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow, +I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow. + +He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, +But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; +And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, +We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs. + +To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, +And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down; +And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, +The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!" + +I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, +The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. +The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, +And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm! + + + + +The Legend Beautiful + + +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" +That is what the vision said. + +In his chamber all alone, +Kneeling on the floor of stone, +Prayed the Monk in deep contrition +For his sins of indecision, +Prayed for greater self-denial +In temptation and in trial; +It was noonday by the dial, +And the Monk was all alone. + +Suddenly, as if it lightened, +An unwonted splendor brightened +All within him and without him +In that narrow cell of stone; +And he saw the blessed vision +Of our Lord, with light Elysian +Like a vesture wrapped about Him, +Like a garment round Him thrown. + +Not as crucified and slain +Not in agonies of pain, +Not with bleeding hands and feet, +Did the Monk his Master see; +But as in the village street, +In the house or harvest field, +Halt and lame and blind He healed, +When He walked in Galilee. + +In as attitude imploring, +Hands upon his bosom crossed, +Wondering, worshiping, adoring, +Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost, +Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, +Who am I that thus Thou deignest +To reveal Thyself to me? +Who am I, that from the center +Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter +This poor cell, my guest to be? + +Then amid his exaltation, +Loud the convent bell appalling, +From its belfrey calling, calling, +Rang through court and corridor +With persistent iteration, +He had never heard before. +It was now the appointed hour +When alike in shine or shower, +Winter's cold or summer's heat, +To the convent portals came +All the blind and halt and lame, +All the beggars of the street, +For their daily dole of food +Dealt them by the brotherhood; + +And their almoner was he +Who upon his bended knees +Rapt in silent ecstasy +Of divinest self-surrender, +Saw the vision and the splendor. + +Deep distress and hesitation +Mingled with his adoration; +Should he go, or should he stay? +Should he leave the poor to wait +Hungry at the convent gate, +Till the vision passed away? +Should he slight his radiant guest, +Slight this visitant celestial +For a crowd of ragged, bestial +Beggars at the convent gate? +Would the vision there remain? +Would the vision come again? +Then a voice within his breast +Whispered audible and clear, +As if to the outward ear: +"Do thy duty; that is best; +Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + +Straightway to his feet he started, +And with longing look intent +On the blessed vision bent, +Slowly from his cell departed, +Slowly on his errand went. + +At the gate the poor were waiting, +Looking through the iron grating, +With that terror in the eye +That is only seen in those +Who amid their wants and woes +Hear the sound of doors that close. +And of feet that pass them by: +Grown familiar with disfavor, +Grown familiar with the savor +Of the bread by which men die; +But to-day, they knew not why, +Like the gate of Paradise +Seemed the convent gate to rise, +Like a sacrament divine +Seemed to them the bread and wine. +In his heart the Monk was praying, +Thinking of the homeless poor, +What they suffer and endure; +What we see not, what we see; +And the inward voice was saying: +"Whatsoever thing thou doest +To the least of mine and lowest, +That thou doest unto me." + +Unto me! but had the vision +Come to him in beggar's clothing, +Come a mendicant imploring, +Would he then have knelt adoring, +Or have listened with derision, +And have turned away with loathing? + +Thus his conscience put the question, +Full of troublesome suggestion, +As at length, with hurried pace, +Toward his cell he turned his face, +And beheld the convent bright +With a supernatural light, +Like a luminous cloud expanding +Over floor and wall and ceiling. + +But he paused with awe-struck feeling +At the threshold of his door, +For the vision still was standing +As he left it there before, +When the convent bell appalling, +From its belfry calling, calling, +Summoned him to feed the poor. +Through the long hour intervening +It had waited his return, +And he felt his bosom burn, +Comprehending all the meaning, +When the blessed vision said: +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled." + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Somebody's Darling + + +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, + Where the dead and dying lay, +Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, + Somebody's Darling was borne one day-- + +Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, + Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, +Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, + The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. + +Matted and damp are the curls of gold, + Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, +Pale are the lips of delicate mold-- + Somebody's Darling is dying now. + +Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow + Brush all the wandering waves of gold, +Cross his hands on his bosom now-- + Somebody's Darling is still and cold. + +Kiss him once for somebody's sake, + Murmur a prayer both soft and low; +One bright curl from its fair mates take-- + They were somebody's pride, you know. + +Somebody's hand hath rested there-- + Was it a mother's, soft and white? +And have the lips of a sister fair + Been baptized in their waves of light? + +God knows best! he was somebody's love; + Somebody's heart enshrined him there; +Somebody wafted his name above, + Night and morn on the wings of prayer. + +Somebody wept when he marched away, + Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; +Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, + Somebody clung to his parting hand. + +Somebody's waiting and watching for him-- + Yearning to hold him again to her heart; +And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, + And the smiling, child-like lips apart. + +Tenderly bury the fair young dead, + Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; +Carve in the wooden slab at his head, + "Somebody's Darling slumbers here." + + _Maria La Coste._ + + + + +The Pride of Battery B + + +South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, +And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. +At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; +At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began. +When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood +Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. +A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, +(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) +And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head +In grave salute. "And who are _you_?" at length the sergeant said. +"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me? +Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B. +My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead; +And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned. +And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too; +And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review. +But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, +And so they're cross--why, even Ned won't play with me and joke. +And the big colonel said to-day--I hate to hear him swear-- +He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there. +And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still, +I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill +And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.' +Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back. +Indeed I will, for Ned--says he,--if I do what I say, +I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." + +We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh +As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half. +To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, +Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then +We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, +And watched her toddle out of sight--or else 'twas tears that hid +Her tiny form--nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, +Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard! +We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; +A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound. + +That's all--save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, +And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, +Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see +Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B. + + _Frank H. Gassaway._ + + + + +The Wood-Box + + +It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, +And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, +And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, +Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near. +Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, +And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, +And it hadn't any bottom--or, at least, it seemed that way +When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play. + +When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, +And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, +And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, +And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"-- +Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, +You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!" +And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, +Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!" + +In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, +And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, +And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam-- +Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, +Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, +"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!" +Land! how plain it is this minute--shed and barn and drifted snow, +And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row. + +Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, +But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; +You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, +But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away. +Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit +All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit: +And when I look back at boyhood--shakin' off the cares of men-- +Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!" + + _Joseph C. Lincoln._ + + + + +Inasmuch + + +Good Deacon Roland--"may his tribe increase!"-- +Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace +With God and all mankind. His wants supplied, +He read his Bible and then knelt beside +The family altar, and uplifted there +His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer; +In praise for blessings past, so rich and free, +And prayer for benedictions yet to be. +Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, +He sat him down complacently, and thence +Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, +His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; +His meadows waving like the billowy seas, +And orchards filled with over-laden trees, +Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands; +Abundance crowns the labor of my hands, +Great is my substance; God indeed is good, +Who doth in love provide my daily food." + +While thus he sat in calm soliloquy, +A voice aroused him from his reverie,-- +A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet +Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; +"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day; +If I had money I would gladly pay +For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy +My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I +Should ask for something, just for what you call +Cold pieces from your table, that is all?" +The deacon listened to the child's request, +The while his penetrating eye did rest +On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed +The agitation of the heart concealed +Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, +Who asked not alms like one demanding dues. +Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined +To give encouragement to those who find +It easier to beg for bread betimes, +Than to expend their strength in earning dimes +Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought +To furnish food for those whom he has brought +Into this world, where each one has his share +Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care. +I sympathize with you, my little lad, +Your destitution makes me feel so sad; +But, for the sake of those who should supply +Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny; +And inasmuch as giving food to you +Would be providing for your parents, too, +Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, +I cannot think such charity would bless +Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat, +I cannot give you anything to eat." +Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood +The child nor found it satisfying food. +Nor did he tell the tale he might have told +Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, +But quickly shrank away to find relief +In giving vent to his rekindled grief, +While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal +In meditating on his better weal. + +Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out +To summon worshippers, with hearts devout, +To wait on God and listen to His word; +And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; +And in the house of God he soon was found +Engaged in acts of worship most profound. +Wearied, however, with his week-day care, +He fell asleep before the parson's prayer +Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came +To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: +"I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar, +To join the saints; please set the gates ajar, +That I may 'join the everlasting song,' +And mingle ever with the ransomed throng." +Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came +Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: +"Depart from me! you cannot enter here! +I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er +You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact +Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act--" +The deacon woke to find it all a dream +Just as the minister announced his theme: +"My text," said he, "doth comfort only such +As practice charity; for 'inasmuch +As ye have done it to the least of these +My little ones' saith He who holds the keys +Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,' +And I will give you immortality." + +Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, +And from the church in sudden haste withdrew, +And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet +To overtake the child of woe, and greet +Him as the worthy representative +Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give +All needful good, that thus he might atone +For the neglect which he before had shown. +Thus journeying, God directed all his way, +O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay +Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate. +And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late; +Make haste and journey with me to my home; +To guide you thither, I myself have come; +And you shall have the food you asked in vain, +For God himself hath made my duty plain; +If he demand it, all I have is thine; +Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine." +And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, +The child related how he came to roam, +Until the listening deacon understood +The touching story of his orphanhood. +Then, finding in the little waif a gem +Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem, +He drew him to his loving breast, and said, +"My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; +Nor shall you go from hence again to roam +While God in love provides for us a home." +And as the weeks and months roll on apace, +The deacon held the lad in love's embrace; +And being childless did on him confer +The boon of sonship. + + Thus the almoner +Of God's great bounty to the destitute +The deacon came to be; and as the fruit +Of having learned to keep the golden rule +His charity became all-bountiful; +And from thenceforth he lived to benefit +Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ +Their names who heeded charity's request, +Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest." + + _S.V.R. Ford._ + + + + +No Sects in Heaven + + +Talking of sects quite late one eve, +What one and another of saints believe, +That night I stood in a troubled dream +By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. + +And a "churchman" down to the river came, +When I heard a strange voice call his name, +"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide +You must leave your robes on the other side." + +But the aged father did not mind, +And his long gown floated out behind +As down to the stream his way he took, +His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book. + +"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there +I shall want my book of Common Prayer, +And though I put on a starry crown, +I should feel quite lost without my gown." + +Then he fixed his eye on the shining track, +But his gown was heavy and held him back, +And the poor old father tried in vain, +A single step in the flood to gain. + +I saw him again on the other side, +But his silk gown floated on the tide, +And no one asked, in that blissful spot, +If he belonged to "the church" or not. + +Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; +His dress of a sober hue was made, +"My hat and coat must be all of gray, +I cannot go any other way." + +Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin +And staidly, solemnly, waded in, +And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight +Over his forehead, so cold and white. + +But a strong wind carried away his hat, +And he sighed a few moments over that, +And then, as he gazed to the farther shore +The coat slipped off and was seen no more. + +Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray +Is quietly sailing--away--away, +But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, +Whether thy brim be broad or narrow. + +Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms +Tied nicely up in his aged arms, +And hymns as many, a very wise thing, +That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing. + +But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, +As he saw that the river ran broad and high, +And looked rather surprised, as one by one, +The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. + +And after him, with his MSS., +Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness, +But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do? +The water has soaked them through and through." + +And there, on the river, far and wide, +Away they went on the swollen tide, +And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, +Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. + +Then gravely walking, two saints by name, +Down to the stream together came, +But as they stopped at the river's brink, +I saw one saint from the other shrink. + +"Sprinkled or plunged--may I ask you, friend, +How you attained to life's great end?" +"_Thus_, with a few drops on my brow"; +"But I have been _dipped_, as you'll see me now. + +"And I really think it will hardly do, +As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. +You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, +But you must go that way, and I'll go this." + +And straightway plunging with all his might, +Away to the left--his friend at the right, +Apart they went from this world of sin, +But how did the brethren "enter in"? + +And now where the river was rolling on, +A Presbyterian church went down; +Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, +But the men I could count as they passed along. + +And concerning the road they could never agree, +The _old_ or the _new_ way, which it could be; +Nor ever a moment paused to think +That both would lead to the river's brink. + +And a sound of murmuring long and loud +Came ever up from the moving crowd, +"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, +That is the false, and this is the true": +Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, +_That_ is the false, and _this_ is the true." + +But the brethren only seemed to speak, +Modest the sisters walked, and meek, +And if ever one of them chanced to say +What troubles she met with on the way, +How she longed to pass to the other side, +Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, +A voice arose from the brethren then, +"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,' +For have ye not heard the words of Paul? +'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'" + +I watched them long in my curious dream. +Till they stood by the border of the stream, +Then, just as I thought, the two ways met. +But all the brethren were talking yet, +And would talk on, till the heaving tide +Carried them over, side by side; +Side by side, for the way was one, +The toilsome journey of life was done, +And priest and Quaker, and all who died, +Came out alike on the other side; +No forms or crosses, or books had they, +No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, +No creeds to guide them, or MSS., +For all had put on "Christ's righteousness." + + _Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland._ + + + + +The Railroad Crossing + + +I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick; +But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick: +It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out. +But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about. + +You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine, +A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline, +And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before, +The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore. + +You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole: +Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole; +I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said, +And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read. + +I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell, +I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L; +And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road." +I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed. + +C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot, +Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't. +"Railroad crossing"--good enough!--L double-O-K, "look"; +And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book. + +O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out," +I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about; +F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the--" +And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G. + +I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack; +A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track; +The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash, +And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. + +I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two; +But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through; +It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine; +But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign! + + _Hezekiah Strong._ + + + + +The Sunset City + + +I + +Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore +A world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more. +'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco lay +Effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day +That bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely height +And kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay. + +It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes, +And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes; +It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow, +Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below, +Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen +Of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow. + +The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air +All odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare. +The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball +Ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall. +Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew +As shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all. + + +II + +That night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay, +Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array, +That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent, +And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went. +'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed; +The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content. + + +III + +Unconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleeps +While from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps. +See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky, +And hazy clouds of gray unfold--but, hark! What means that cry? +The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan + and rock. +Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die. + +A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes; +The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes, +And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast; +Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast. +Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and + shout, +To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past. + +A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves; +And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves. +Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air. +Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere. + + +IV + +"_Fire! Fire!_" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped + to their hearts +Are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair. + +A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst. +No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst? +The shocks have broken all the mains! "_Use wine!_" the people cry. +The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die, +Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling; +From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky. + +Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden Gate +Come Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate. +The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side +To check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide. +With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at + last. +The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide; + +Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance, +And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance. +Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee. +"Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee. +Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel. +With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea. + +Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven; +Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven. +All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host +They strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,-- +On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim; +Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed. + +Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone! +And westward now--toward Van Ness--the roaring flames roll on. +"Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command, +And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand. +The fight is now for life--sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless + wife-- +The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand. + +On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given. +The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven. +The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom; +That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb. +Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think, +Behold the red waves rise and--sink into the smoldering gloom. + + +V + +The fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down, +The business section--swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown-- +Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies, +And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise. +A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bare +Waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies. + +To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute, +Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute! +Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch--the wrecks of Pomp and Pride; +Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side. +And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants + wail, +While' nations read the tragic tale--how San Francisco died. + + +VI + +PROPHECY--1906 + +Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives--indomitable will-- +The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill. +To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise, +And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise-- +A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate-- +The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies! + + +VII + +FULFILLMENT--1915 + +Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse-- +A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance! +A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore, +Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore; +Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world! +Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore. + + _Isabel Ambler Gilman._ + + + + +Autumn + +A DIRGE + + +The autumn is old; +The sere leaves are flying; +He hath gathered up gold, +And now he is dying: +Old age, begin sighing! + +The vintage is ripe; +The harvest is heaping; +But some that have sowed +Have no riches for reaping:-- +Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! + +The year's in the wane; +There is nothing adorning; +The night has no eve, +And the day has no morning; +Cold winter gives warning. + +The rivers run chill; +The red sun is sinking; +And I am grown old, +And life is fast shrinking; +Here's enow for sad thinking! + + _Thomas Hood_. + + + + +Grandmother's Quilt + + +Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place +On top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace, +You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet, +But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat; +I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think? +Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink, +Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block, +Pieced out of odds and ends; but still--now that's your papa's frock +Before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit. +I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute! +That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name, +Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came. +Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike. +And this was baby Winnie's sack--the precious little tyke! +Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then). +And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again. +This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's--poor dear! +Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here. +Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that scrap of army blue; +Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too. +They sent him home on furlough once--our soldier brother Ned; +But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead. +That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest! +Why, dearie--yes, it's satin ribbed--that's grandpa's wedding vest! +Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far, +Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star. +But, somehow--What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat, +But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet. + + + + +The Two Angels + + +Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, + Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; +The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, + The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. + +Their attitude and aspect were the same, + Alike their features and their robes of white; +But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, + And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. + +I saw them pause on their celestial way; + Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, +"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray + The place where thy beloved are at rest!" + +And he who wore the crown of asphodels, + Descending, at my door began to knock, +And my soul sank within me, as in wells + The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. + +I recognized the nameless agony, + The terror and the tremor and the pain, +That oft before had filled or haunted me, + And now returned with threefold strength again. + +The door I opened to my heavenly guest, + And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; +And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, + Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. + +Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, + "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; +And ere I answered, passing out of sight, + On his celestial embassy he sped. + +'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, + The angel with the amaranthine wreath, +Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, + Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. + +Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, + A shadow on those features fair and thin; +And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, + Two angels issued, where but one went in. + +All is of God! If he but waves his hand, + The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, +Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, + Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. + +Angels of Life and Death alike are his; + Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; +Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, + Against his messengers to shut the door? + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Witch's Daughter + + +It was the pleasant harvest-time, + When cellar-bins are closely stowed, + And garrets bend beneath their load, +And the old swallow-haunted barns-- + Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams + Through which the moted sunlight streams-- + +And winds blow freshly in, to shake + The red plumes of the roosted cocks, + And the loose hay-mow's scented locks-- +Are filled with summer's ripened stores, + Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, + From their low scaffolds to their eaves. + +On Esek Harden's oaken floor, + With many an autumn threshing worn, + Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. +And thither came young men and maids, + Beneath a moon that, large and low, + Lit that sweet eve of long ago, +They took their places; some by chance, + And others by a merry voice + Or sweet smile guided to their choice. + +How pleasantly the rising moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!-- +On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, + On girlhood with its solid curves + Of healthful strength and painless nerves! +And jests went round, and laughs that made + The house-dog answer with his howl, + And kept astir the barn-yard fowl. + +And quaint old songs their fathers sung, + In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, + Ere Norman William trod their shores; +And tales, whose merry license shook + The fat sides of the Saxon thane, + Forgetful of the hovering Dane! + +But still the sweetest voice was mute + That river-valley ever heard + From lip of maid or throat of bird; +For Mabel Martin sat apart, + And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall + Upon the loveliest face of all. +She sat apart, as one forbid, + Who knew that none would condescend + To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. + +The seasons scarce had gone their round, + Since curious thousands thronged to see + Her mother on the gallows-tree; +And mocked the palsied limbs of age, + That faltered on the fatal stairs, + And wan lip trembling with its prayers! + +Few questioned of the sorrowing child, + Or, when they saw the mother die, + Dreamed of the daughter's agony. +They went up to their homes that day, + As men and Christians justified: + God willed it, and the wretch had died! + +Dear God and Father of us all, + Forgive our faith in cruel lies,-- + Forgive the blindness that denies! +Forgive Thy creature when he takes, + For the all-perfect love Thou art, + Some grim creation of his heart. +Cast down our idols, overturn + Our bloody altars; let us see + Thyself in Thy humanity! + +Poor Mabel from her mother's grave + Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, + And wrestled with her fate alone; +With love, and anger, and despair, + The phantoms of disordered sense, + The awful doubts of Providence! +The school-boys jeered her as they passed, + And, when she sought the house of prayer, + Her mother's curse pursued her there. +And still o'er many a neighboring door + She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, + To guard against her mother's harm;-- + +That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, + Who daily, by the old arm-chair, + Folded her withered hands in prayer;-- +Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, + Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, + When her dim eyes could read no more! + +Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept + Her faith, and trusted that her way, + So dark, would somewhere meet the day. +And still her weary wheel went round, + Day after day, with no relief: + Small leisure have the poor for grief. + +So in the shadow Mabel sits; + Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, + Her smile is sadder than her tears. +But cruel eyes have found her out, + And cruel lips repeat her name, + And taunt her with her mother's shame. + +She answered not with railing words, + But drew her apron o'er her face, + And, sobbing, glided from the place. +And only pausing at the door, + Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze + Of one who, in her better days, +Had been her warm and steady friend, + Ere yet her mother's doom had made + Even Esek Harden half afraid. + +He felt that mute appeal of tears, + And, starting, with an angry frown + Hushed all the wicked murmurs down, +"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, + "This passes harmless mirth or jest; + I brook no insult to my guest. + +"She is indeed her mother's child; + But God's sweet pity ministers + Unto no whiter soul than hers. +Let Goody Martin rest in peace; + I never knew her harm a fly, + And witch or not, God knows,--not I. +I know who swore her life away; + And, as God lives, I'd not condemn + An Indian dog on word of them." + +Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, + Sat by the window's narrow pane, + White in the moonlight's silver rain. +The river, on its pebbled rim, + Made music such as childhood knew; + The door-yard tree was whispered through +By voices such as childhood's ear + Had heard in moonlights long ago; + And through the willow boughs below +She saw the rippled waters shine; + Beyond, in waves of shade and light + The hills rolled off into the night. + +Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so + The sadness of her human lot, + She saw and heard, but heeded not. +She strove to drown her sense of wrong, + And, in her old and simple way, + To teach, her bitter heart to pray. + +Poor child! the prayer, began in faith, + Grew to a low, despairing cry + Of utter misery: "Let me die! +Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, + And hide me where the cruel speech + And mocking finger may not reach! + +"I dare not breathe my mother's name; + A daughter's right I dare not crave + To weep above her unblest grave! +Let me not live until my heart, + With few to pity, and with none + To love me, hardens into stone. +O God! have mercy on thy child, + Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, + And take me ere I lose it all." + +The broadest lands in all the town, + The skill to guide, the power to awe, + Were Harden's; and his word was law. +None dared withstand him to his face, + But one sly maiden spake aside: + "The little witch is evil-eyed! +Her mother only killed a cow, + Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; + But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" + +A shadow on the moonlight fell, + And murmuring wind and wave became + A voice whose burden was her name. +Had then God heard her? Had he sent + His angel down? In flesh and blood, + Before her Esek Harden stood! + +He laid his hand upon her arm: + "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; + Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. +You know rough Esek Harden well; + And if he seems no suitor gay, + And if his hair is mixed with gray, +The maiden grown shall never find + His heart less warm than when she smiled + Upon his knees, a little child!" + +Her tears of grief were tears of joy, + As folded in his strong embrace, + She looked in Esek Harden's face. +"O truest friend of all!" she said, + "God bless you for your kindly thought, + And make me worthy of my lot!" + +He led her through his dewy fields, + To where the swinging lanterns glowed, + And through the doors the huskers showed. +"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, + "I'm weary of this lonely life; + In Mabel see my chosen wife! + +"She greets you kindly, one and all: + The past is past, and all offence + Falls harmless from her innocence. +Henceforth she stands no more alone; + You know what Esek Harden is;-- + He brooks no wrong to him or his." + +Now let the merriest tales be told, + And let the sweetest songs be sung, + That ever made the old heart young! +For now the lost has found a home; + And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, + As all the household joys return! + +Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, + Between the shadow of the mows, + Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! +On Mabel's curls of golden hair, + On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; + And the wind whispered, "It is well!" + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +David's Lament for Absalom + + +King David's limbs were weary. He had fled +From far Jerusalem; and now he stood +With his faint people for a little rest +Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind +Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow +To its refreshing breath; for he had worn +The mourner's covering, and he had not felt +That he could see his people until now. + +They gathered round him on the fresh green bank +And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun +Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, +And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. +Oh! when the heart is full--where bitter thoughts +Come crowding thickly up for utterance, +And the poor common words of courtesy,-- +Are such a mockery--how much +The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! +He prayed for Israel--and his voice went up +Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those +Whose love had been his shield--and his deep tones +Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, +For his estranged, misguided Absalom-- +The proud, bright being who had burst away +In all his princely beauty to defy +The heart that cherished him--for him he prayed, +In agony that would not be controll'd, +Strong supplication, and forgave him there +Before his God for his deep sinfulness. + +The pall was settled. He who slept beneath +Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds +Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed +The matchless symmetry of Absalom, +The mighty Joab stood beside the bier +And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, +As if he feared the slumberer might stir. +A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade +As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form +Of David entered; and he gave command +In a low tone to his few followers, +And left him with the dead. + + The King stood still +Till the last echo died; then, throwing off +The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back +The pall from the still features of his child. +He bowed his head upon him and broke forth +In the resistless eloquence of woe: + +"Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! + Thou who were made so beautifully fair! +That death should settle in thy glorious eye, + And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! +How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, + My proud boy, Absalom! + +"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill + As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! +How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill + Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, +And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb + And cold lips, Absalom! + +"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush + Of music, and the voices of the young; +And life will pass me in the mantling blush, + And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- +But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come + To meet me, Absalom! + +"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, + Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, +How will its love for thee, as I depart, + Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! +It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, + To see thee, Absalom! + +"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, + With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- +And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup, + If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. +May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, + My lost boy, Absalom!" + +He covered up his face, and bowed himself +A moment on his child; then, giving him +A look of melting tenderness, he clasped +His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, +And, as if strength were given him of God, +He rose up calmly, and composed the pall +Firmly and decently--and left him there, +As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. + + _N.P. Willis_. + + + + +Christmas Day in the Workhouse + + +It is Christmas day in the workhouse, + And the cold bare walls are bright +With garlands of green and holly, + And the place is a pleasant sight: +For with clean-washed hands and faces, + In a long and hungry line +The paupers sit at the tables, + For this is the hour they dine. + +And the guardians and their ladies, + Although the wind is east, +Have come in their furs and wrappers + To watch their charges feast; +To smile and be condescending, + Put pudding on pauper plates, +To be hosts at the workhouse banquet + They've paid for--with the rates. + +Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly + With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"; +So long as they fill their stomachs, + What matter whence it comes? +But one of the old men mutters, + And pushes his plate aside: +"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me; + For this is the day _she_ died." + +The guardians gazed in horror, + The master's face went white: +"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" + "Could their ears believe aright?" +Then the ladies clutched their husbands + Thinking the man would die, +Struck by a bolt, or something, + By the outraged One on high. + +But the pauper sat for a moment, + Then rose 'mid a silence grim, +For the others had ceased to chatter, + And trembled in every limb. +He looked at the guardians' ladies, + Then, eyeing their lords, he said: +"I eat not the food of villains + Whose hands are foul and red, + +"Whose victims cry for vengeance + From their dark unhallowed graves." +"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, + "Or else he's mad, and raves." +"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, + "But only a hunted beast, +Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, + Declines the vulture's feast. + +"I care not a curse for the guardians, + And I won't be dragged away. +Just let me have the fit out, + It's only on Christmas day +That the black past comes to goad me, + And prey on my burning brain, +I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,-- + I swear I won't shout again, + +"Keep your hands off me, curse you! + Hear me right out to the end, +You come here to see how paupers + The season of Christmas spend. +You come here to watch us feeding, + As they watch the captured beast, +Hear why a penniless pauper + Spits on your palfry feast. + +"Do you think I will take your bounty, + And let you smile and think +You're doing a noble action + With the parish's meat and drink? +Where is my wife, you traitors-- + The poor old wife you slew? +Yes, by the God above us, + My Nance was killed by you! + +"Last winter my wife lay dying, + Starved in a filthy den; +I had never been to the parish,-- + I came to the parish then. +I swallowed my pride in coming, + For, ere the ruin came. +I held up my head as a trader, + And I bore a spotless name. + +"I came to the parish, craving + Bread for a starving wife, +Bread for the woman who'd loved me + Through fifty years of life; +And what do you think they told me, + Mocking my awful grief? +That 'the House' was open to us, + But they wouldn't give 'out relief.' + +"I slunk to the filthy alley-- + 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve-- +And the bakers' shops were open, + Tempting a man to thieve: +But I clenched my fists together, + Holding my head awry, +So I came to her empty-handed + And mournfully told her why. + +"Then I told her 'the House' was open; + She had heard of the ways of _that_, +For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, + And up in her rags she sat, +Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, + We've never had one apart; +I think I can bear the hunger,-- + The other would break my heart.' + +"All through that eve I watched her, + Holding her hand in mine, +Praying the Lord, and weeping + Till my lips were salt as brine. +I asked her once if she hungered, + And as she answered 'No,' +The moon shone in at the window + Set in a wreath of snow. + +"Then the room was bathed in glory, + And I saw in my darling's eyes +The far-away look of wonder + That comes when the spirit flies; +And her lips were parched and parted, + And her reason came and went, +For she raved of our home in Devon + Where our happiest years were spent. + +"And the accents, long forgotten, + Came back to the tongue once more, +For she talked like the country lassie + I woo'd by the Devon shore. +Then she rose to her feet and trembled, + And fell on the rags and moaned, +And, 'Give me a crust--I'm famished-- + For the love of God!' she groaned. + +"I rushed from the room like a madman, + And flew to the workhouse gate, +Crying 'Food for a dying woman?' + And the answer came, 'Too late.' +They drove me away with curses; + Then I fought with a dog in the street, +And tore from the mongrel's clutches + A crust he was trying to eat. + +"Back, through the filthy by-lanes! + Back, through the trampled slush! +Up to the crazy garret, + Wrapped in an awful hush. +My heart sank down at the threshold, + And I paused with a sudden thrill, +For there in the silv'ry moonlight + My Nance lay, cold and still. + +"Up to the blackened ceiling + The sunken eyes were cast-- +I knew on those lips all bloodless + My name had been the last: +She'd called for her absent husband-- + O God! had I but known!-- +Had called in vain, and in anguish + Had died in that den--_alone_. + +"Yes, there, in a land of plenty, + Lay a loving woman dead, +Cruelly starved and murdered + For a loaf of the parish bread. +At yonder gate, last Christmas, + I craved for a human life. +You, who would feast us paupers, + _What of my murdered wife!_ + + * * * * * + +"There, get ye gone to you dinners; + Don't mind me in the least; +Think of the happy paupers + Eating your Christmas feast; +And when you recount their blessings + In your snug, parochial way, +Say what you did for _me_, too, + Only last Christmas Day." + + _George R. Sims._ + + + + +Our Presidents--A Memory Rhyme + + +First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name; +John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came; +Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go-- +'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe. + +Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q., +And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true. +Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see, +And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee. + +Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore; +New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'er +The keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realm +Abe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm. + +Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen; +And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men. +Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came; +Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again. + +McKinley--shot at Buffalo--the nation plunged in grief, +And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief. +Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came-- +New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame; + +And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run, +The country went Republican and Warren Harding won. +No duty would he shirk,--he died while on a western trip; +Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership. + + _Isabel Ambler Gilman._ + + + + +Annie and Willie's Prayer + + +'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said, +And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; +There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, +And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, +For to-night their stern father's command had been given +That they should retire precisely at seven +Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more +With questions unheard of than ever before; +He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, +No such being as Santa Claus ever had been, +And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear +How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year, +And this was the reason that two little heads +So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds. + +Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; +Not a word had been spoken by either till then; +When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, +And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?" +"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, +"I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; +For somehow, it makes me so sorry because +Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus; +Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, +For he came every year before mamma died; +But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, +And God would hear everything mamma would say; +And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here +With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." +"Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then, +And ask Him to send him with presents aden?" +"I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more, +Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, +And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, +And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. +"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe +That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; +You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,' +And by that you will know that your turn has come then. +Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me. +And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee! +I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, +And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. +Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see +That Santa Claus loves us far better than he; +Don't let him get fretful and angry again +At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!" +"Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, +And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight; +I want he should div me a nice ittle sed, +With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed; +A box full of tandy, a book and a toy-- +Amen--and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." +Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, +And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds; +They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, +And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. + +Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten +Ere the father had thought of his children again; +He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, +And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. +"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, +"And should not have sent them so early to bed; +But then I was troubled,--my feelings found vent, +For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. +But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, +And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss; +But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door, +For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." +So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, +And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. +His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, +And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. +"Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, +"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. +I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, +"By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." + +Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, +Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; +Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, +A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet, +Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, +From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. +Indeed he kept adding so much to his store +That the various presents outnumbered a score; +Then homeward he turned with his holiday load +And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. +Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, +By the side of a table spread out for a tea; +A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, +And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed; +A soldier in uniform stood by a sled +With bright shining runners, and all painted red; +There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, +And birds of all colors--were perched in the tree, +While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, +As if getting ready more presents to drop. +And as the fond father the picture surveyed, +He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid; +And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, +"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, +I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before-- +What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more. +Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, +To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." +So thinking he gently extinguished the light, +And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. + +As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun +Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one, +Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, +And at the same moment the presents espied; +Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, +And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found; +They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, +And shouted for papa to come quick and see +What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night +(Just the things that they wanted) and left before light; +"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, +"You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know"; +While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, +Determined no secret between them should be, +And told in soft whispers how Annie had said +That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, +Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, +And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer! +"Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, +And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?" + +"I should say that he was if he sent you all these, +And knew just what presents my children would please. +Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, +'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself." + +Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent, +And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? +'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs, +And made you His agent to answer their prayers. + + _Sophia P. Snow._ + + + + +Trailing Arbutus + + +I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made +Against the bitter East their barricade, + And, guided by its sweet +Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, +The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell + Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. + +From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines +Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines + Lifted their glad surprise, +While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees +His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, + And snow-drifts lingered under April skies. + +As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, +I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent, + Which yet find room, +Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, +To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day + And make the sad earth happier for their bloom. + + _J.G. Whittier._ + + + + +When the Light Goes Out + + +Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light, +An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright; +Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days-- +Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze. +So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do +Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through; +Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise, +Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days; +She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you, +And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due. +Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low, +Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago-- +Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead-- +To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead; +Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more-- +Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core. +Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still +Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will-- +Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout-- +You've lost ther chance to do it + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + +I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say +That I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way; +No words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen +Would hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men." +So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor, +Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more; +Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about-- +Yer record keeps on burnin' + When the + Light + Goes + Out. + + _Harry S. Chester._ + + + + +Prayer and Potatoes + + +An old lady sat in her old arm-chair, +With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, + And pale and hunger-worn features; +For days and for weeks her only fare, +As she sat there in her old arm-chair, + Had been potatoes. + +But now they were gone; of bad or good. +Not one was left for the old lady's food + Of those potatoes; +And she sighed and said, "What shall I do? +Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go + For more potatoes?" + +And she thought of the deacon over the way, +The deacon so ready to worship and pray, + Whose cellar was full of potatoes; +And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come; +He'll not mind much to give me some + Of such a store of potatoes." + +And the deacon came over as fast as he could, +Thinking to do the old lady some good, + But never thought of potatoes; +He asked her at once what was her chief want, +And she, simple soul, expecting a grant, + Immediately answered, "Potatoes." + +But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; +He was more accustomed to preach and pray + Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; +So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said, +He rose to pray with uncovered head, + But _she_ only thought of potatoes. + +He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, +But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace," + She audibly sighed "Give potatoes"; +And at the end of each prayer which he said, +He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead, + The same request for potatoes. + +The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; +'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so + About "those carnal potatoes." +So, ending his prayer, he started for home; +As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, + "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" + +And that groan followed him all the way home; +In the midst of the night it haunted his room-- + "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" +He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed; +From his well-filled cellar taking in haste + A bag of his best potatoes. + +Again he went to the widow's lone hut; +Her sleepless eyes she had not shut; +But there she sat in that old arm-chair, +With the same wan features, the same sad air, +And, entering in, he poured on the floor +A bushel or more from his goodly store + Of choicest potatoes. + +The widow's cup was running o'er, +Her face was haggard and wan no more. +"Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" +"Yes," said the widow, "_now_ you may." +And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, +Where he had poured his goodly store, +And such a prayer the deacon prayed +As never before his lips essayed; +No longer embarrassed, but free and full, +He poured out the voice of a liberal soul, +And the widow responded aloud "Amen!" + But spake no more of potatoes. + +And would you, who hear this simple tale, +Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"? +Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; +Search out the poor, their wants and their needs; +Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food, +For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,-- + _But don't forget the potatoes_. + + _J.T. Pettee._ + + + + +The Parts of Speech + + +Three little words you often see +Are articles _a_, _an_, and _the_. +A noun's the name of anything, +As _house_ or _garden_, _hoop_ or _swing_. +Instead of nouns the pronouns stand-- +_Her_ head, _your_ face, _his_ arm, _my_ hand. +Adjectives tell the kind of noun, +As _great_, _small_, _pretty_, _white_ or _brown_. +Verbs tell something to be done-- +To _read_, _count_, _sing_, _laugh_ or _run_. +How things are done the adverbs tell, +As _slowly_, _quickly_, _ill_ or _well_. +Conjunctions join the words together, +As men _and_ women, wind _or_ weather. +The preposition stands before +A noun, as _in_ or _through_ a door. +The interjection shows surprise, +As _oh!_ how pretty, _ah!_ how wise. +The whole are called nine parts of speech, +Which reading, writing, speaking teach. + + + + +A New Leaf + + +He came to my desk with, quivering lip-- + The lesson was done. +"Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said, + "I have spoiled this one." +I took the old leaf, stained and blotted, +And gave him a new one all unspotted, + And into his sad eyes smiled, + "Do better, now, my child." + +I went to the throne with a quivering soul-- + The old year was done. +"Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me? + I have spoiled this one." +He took the old leaf, stained and blotted, +And gave me a new one all unspotted, + And into my sad heart smiled, + "Do better, now, my child." + + _Carrie Shaw Rice._ + + + + +The Boy With the Hoe + + +How are you hoeing your row, my boy? + Say, how are you hoeing your row? + Do you hoe it fair? + Do you hoe it square? + Do you hoe it the best that you know? +Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do? + Do you plant what is beautiful there? + For the harvest, you know, + Will be just what you sow; + Are you working it on the square? + +Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy? + Are you hoeing your row neat and clean? + Are you going straight + At a hustling gait? + Are you cutting out all that is mean? +Do you whistle and sing as you toil along? + Are you finding your work a delight? + If you do it this way + You will gladden the day, + And your row will be tended right. + +Hoeing your row with a will, my boy, + And giving it thought and care, + Will insure success + And your efforts bless, + As the crop to the garner you bear; +For the world will look on as you hoe your row, + And will judge you by that which you do; + Therefore, try for first prize, + Though your utmost it tries, + For the harvest depends on you. + + _T.B. Weaver._ + + + + +Our Flag + + +Fling it from mast and steeple, + Symbol o'er land and sea +Of the life of a happy people, + Gallant and strong and free. +Proudly we view its colors, + Flag of the brave and true, +With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + +Flag of the fearless-hearted, + Flag of the broken chain, +Flag in a day-dawn started, + Never to pale or wane. +Dearly we prize its colors, + With the heaven light breaking through, +The clustered stars and the steadfast bars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + +Flag of the sturdy fathers, + Flag of the loyal sons, +Beneath its folds it gathers + Earth's best and noblest ones. +Boldly we wave its colors, + Our veins are thrilled anew +By the steadfast bars, the clustered stars, + The red, the white, and the blue. + + _Margaret E. Sangster._ + + + + +The Little Fir-Trees + + +Hey! little evergreens, + Sturdy and strong, +Summer and autumn-time + Hasten along. +Harvest the sunbeams, then, + Bind them in sheaves, +Range them and change them + To tufts of green leaves. +Delve in the mellow-mold, + Far, far below. + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +Up, up so airily, + To the blue sky, +Lift up your leafy tips + Stately and high; +Clasp tight your tiny cones, + Tawny and brown, +By and by buffeting + Rains will pelt down. +By and by bitterly + Chill winds will blow, + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +Gather all uttermost + Beauty, because,-- +Hark, till I tell it now! + How Santa Claus, +Out of the northern land, + Over the seas, +Soon shall come seeking you, + Evergreen trees! +Seek you with reindeer soon, + Over the snow: + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + +What if the maple flare + Flaunting and red, +You shall wear waxen white + Taper instead. +What if now, otherwhere, + Birds are beguiled, +You shall yet nestle + The little Christ-Child. +Ah! the strange splendor + The fir-trees shall know! + And so, + Little evergreens, grow! + Grow! Grow! + Grow, little evergreens, grow! + + _Evaleen Stein._ + + + + +He Worried About It + + +The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more-- + And he worried about it. +It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-- + And he worried about it. + It will surely give out, so the scientists said + In all scientifical books he had read, + And the whole boundless universe then will be dead-- + And he worried about it. + +And some day the earth will fall into the sun-- + And he worried about it-- +Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-- + And he worried about it. + When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, + "Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse! + It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-- + And he worried about it. + +And the earth will become much too small for the race-- + And he worried about it-- +When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space-- + And he worried about it. + The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, + That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out, + Nor room for one's thought to wander about-- + And he worried about it. + +And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider-- + And he worried about it-- +Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida-- + And he worried about it. + Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, + And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, + And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-- + And he worried about it. + +And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt-- + And he worried about it-- +Our supply of lumber and coal will give out-- + And he worried about it. + Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, + Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe, + As if vainly beseeching a general thaw-- + And he worried about it. + +His wife took in washing--half a dollar a day-- + He didn't worry about it-- +His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay-- + He didn't worry about it. + While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub + On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, + He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub-- + He didn't worry about it. + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The President + + +No gilt or tinsel taints the dress +Of him who holds the natal power, +No weighty helmet's fastenings press +On brow that shares Columbia's dower, +No blaring trumpets mark the step +Of him with mind on peace intent, +And so--HATS OFF! Here comes the State, +A modest King: + THE PRESIDENT. + +No cavalcade with galloping squads +Surrounds this man, whose mind controls +The actions of the million minds +Whose hearts the starry banner folds; +Instead, in simple garb he rides, +The King to whom grim Fate has lent +Her dower of righteousness and faith +To guide his will: + THE PRESIDENT. + +The ancient lands are struck with awe, +Here stands a power at which they scoffed, +Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states. +Are dazed,--at Columbia they mocked; +Yet human wills have forged new states, +Their wills on justice full intent, +And fashioned here a lowly King, +The People's choice: + THE PRESIDENT. + +War-ravaged, spent, and torn--old worlds +With hatred rent, turn to the West, +"Give help!" they cry--"our souls are wracked, +On every side our kingdom's pressed." +And see! Columbia hastens forth, +Her healing hand to peace is lent, +Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, +Her sons sent by + THE PRESIDENT. + +Full many a storm has tossed the barque +Since first it had its maiden trip, +Full many a conflagration's spark +Has scorched and seared the laboring ship; +And yet it ploughs a straightway course, +Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, +On sails the troubled Ship of State, +Steered forward by + THE PRESIDENT. + +STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by, +No roll of drums peals at his course, +NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you, +Your will with his: the nation's force. +And--as he passes--breathe a prayer, +May justice to his mind be lent, +And may the grace of Heaven be with +The man who rules: + OUR PRESIDENT. + + _Charles H.L. Johnston._ + + + + +Lullaby + + +Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming, + With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, +Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming, + Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go. +Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing + In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + +Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter + Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune; +Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, + As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon. +Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming + To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies. + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + +Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver + In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs, +Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river, + In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs. +Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming + Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise, + Creep! Creep! Creep! + Time to go to sleep! +Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes! + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +Chums + + +If we should be shipwrecked together +And only had water for one, +And it was the hottest of weather +Right out in the boiling sun, +He'd tell me--no matter how bad he +Might want it--to take a drink first; +And then he would smile--oh, so glad he +Had saved me!--and perish from thirst! + +Or, if we were lost on the prairie +And only had food for a day, +He'd come and would give me the share he +Had wrapped up and hidden away; +And after I ate it with sadness +He'd smile with his very last breath, +And lay himself down full of gladness +To save me--and starve right to death. + +And if I was wounded in battle +And out where great danger might be, +He'd come through the roar and the rattle +Of guns and of bullets to me, +He'd carry me out, full of glory, +No matter what trouble he had, +And then he would fall down, all gory +With wounds, and would die--but be glad! + +We're chums--that's the reason he'd do it; +And that's what a chum ought to be. +And if it was fire he'd go through it, +If I should call him to me. +You see other fellows may know you, +And friends that you have go and come; +But a boy has one boy he can go to, +For help all the time--that's his chum. + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +Jim Brady's Big Brother + + +Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad, +And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had; +He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree +And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three +Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound +Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground +Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do, +So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true. + +Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ball +From center to home just like nothing at all; +And often while playing a game he would stand +And take a high fly with just only one hand; +Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run +And won the big game when it stood three to one +Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed +The place where it lit in the old wagon road! + +Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a fly +That you hardly could see, for it went up so high; +He'd bring up his muscle and break any string +That you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing! +He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he +Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be, +And circuses often would want him to go +And be in the ring, but his mother said no. + +Jim Brady's big brother would often make bets +With boys that he'd turn two complete summersets +From off of the spring-board before he would dive, +And you'd hardly think he would come up alive; +And nobody else who went there to swim +Could do it, but it was just easy for him; +And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stay +In under and come up a half mile away. + +Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could run +Five miles in a race just as easy as one. +Right often he walked on his hands half a block +And could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk! +And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school, +Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool, +He'll get him to prove everything to be true +That Jimmy told us his big brother could do! + + _J.W. Foley._ + + + + +The Gray Swan + + +"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, +Is my little lad, my Elihu, + A-sailing with your ship?" +The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,-- +"Your little lad, your Elihu?" + He said with trembling lip,-- + "What little lad? what ship?" + +"What little lad! as if there could be +Another such a one as he! + What little lad, do you say? +Why, Elihu, that took to the sea +The moment I put him off my knee! + It was just the other day + The _Gray Swan_ sailed away." + +"The other day?" the sailor's eyes +Stood open with a great surprise,-- + "The other day? the _Swan?_" +His heart began in his throat to rise. +"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies + The jacket he had on." + "And so your lad is gone?" + +"Gone with the _Swan_." "And did she stand +With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, + For a month, and never stir?" +"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, +Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, + The wild sea kissing her,-- + A sight to remember, sir." + +"But, my good mother, do you know +All this was twenty years ago? + I stood on the _Gray Swan's_ deck, +And to that lad I saw you throw, +Taking it off, as it might be, so, + The kerchief from your neck." + "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" + +"And did the little lawless lad +That has made you sick and made you sad, + Sail with the _Gray Swan's_ crew?" +"Lawless! the man is going mad! +The best boy ever mother had,-- + Be sure he sailed with the crew! + What would you have him do?" + +"And he has never written line, +Nor sent you word, nor made you sign + To say he was alive?" +"Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; +Besides, he may be in the brine, + And could he write from the grave? + Tut, man, what would you have?" + +"Gone twenty years,--a long, long cruise, +'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; + But if the lad still live, +And come back home, think you you can +Forgive him?"--"Miserable man, + You're mad as the sea,--you rave,-- + What have I to forgive?" + +The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, +And from within his bosom drew + The kerchief. She was wild. +"My God! my Father! is it true +My little lad, My Elihu? + My blessed boy, my child! + My dead,--my living child!" + + _Alice Cary._ + + + + +The Circling Year + + +SPRING + +The joys of living wreathe my face, +My heart keeps time to freshet's race; +Of balmy airs I drink my fill-- +Why, there's a yellow daffodil! +Along the stream a soft green tinge +Gives hint of feathery willow fringe; +Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"-- + I'm glad Spring's here! + + +SUMMER + +An afternoon of buzzing flies. +Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise; +The long white road, the plodding team, +The deep, cool grass in which to dream; +The distant cawing of the crows, +Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows; +The peaceful cattle in the stream-- + Midsummer's dream! + + +AUTUMN + +A cold, gray day, a lowering sky, +A lonesome pigeon wheeling by; +The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades, +The shivering crane that flaps and wades; +Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree, +The peace the river sings to me; +The chill aloofness of the Fall-- + I love it all! + + +WINTER + +A sheet of ice, the ring of steel, +The crunch of snow beneath the heel; +Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh, +A restless pair that prance and neigh; +The early coming of the night, +Red glowing logs, a shaded light; +The firelit realm of books is mine-- + Oh, Winter's fine! + + _Ramona Graham._ + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + +A fellow near Kentucky's clime 34 +A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet 168 +'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct 125 +A harbor in a sunny, southern city 137 +Alone in the dreary, pitiless street 46 +Among the legends sung or said 63 +An old lady sat in her old arm-chair 200 +An old man going a lone highway 54 +April! April! are you here? 59 +A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace 108 +At Paris it was, at the opera there 72 +A traveler on the dusty road 97 +Away, away in the Northland 131 + +Beneath the hot midsummer sun 39 +Between broad fields of wheat and corn 147 +Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell 104 +Break, break, break 52 +Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! 123 +By Nebo's lonely mountain 45 + +Chained in the market-place he stood 145 +Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen 128 +Cleon hath ten thousand acres 37 +Closed eyes can't see the white roses 84 +Come to me, O ye children! 16 +"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried 86 +Could we but draw back the curtains 29 + +Dear little flag in the window there 127 +Did you tackle the trouble that came your way 132 +Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds 53 + +Every coin of earthly treasure 12 + +Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast 75 +Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 94 +First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name 195 +Fling it from mast and steeple 202 + +Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love 117 +God makes sech nights, all white an' still 59 +God said: I am tired of kings 62 +God send us a little home 87 +Good Deacon Roland--"May his tribe increase!" 178 +Go thou thy way, and I go mine 162 +Grandma told me all about it 48 +Great were the hearts and strong the minds 37 + +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" 174 +Han'some, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart as she kin be 96 +Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 111 +Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 27 +He came to my desk with quivering lip 202 +He who has the vision sees more than you or I 146 +Hey! little evergreens 203 +Home they brought her warrior dead 74 +How are you hoeing your row, my boy? 202 +Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber 35 + +I asked of Echo, t'other day 65 +I cannot vouch my tale is true 156 +I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick 182 +I come, I come! ye have called me long 26 +I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! 121 +If all the skies were sunshine 36 +If I had known in the morning 119 +If I were hanged on the highest hill 70 +If we should be shipwrecked together 206 +If you can dress to make yourself attractive 153 +If you can take your dreams into the classroom 165 +If you have a friend worth loving 167 +I have a rendezvous with Death 142 +I love my prairies, they are mine 74 +I'm not a chicken; I have seen 137 +In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came 112 +In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay 52 +In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say 130 +In a valley, centuries ago 36 +In Gettysburg at break of day 122 +In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 90 +In the hush and the lonely silence 65 +Into a ward of the whitewashed halls 175 +I sat alone with my conscience 81 +I saw him once before 20 +It is Christmas day in the workhouse 193 +It isn't the thing you do, dear 116 +It may be that the words I spoke 103 +It's easy to talk of the patience of Job 82 +It takes a heap o' livin' in a houst t' make it home 7 +It was a bright and lovely summer's morn 114 +It was an old, old, old, old lady 30 +It was a sergeant old and gray 158 +It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still 102 +It was in the days when Claverhouse 9 +It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide 177 +It was many and many a year ago 25 +It was the pleasant harvest-time 188 +It was the twilight hour 61 +I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West 53 +I walked through the woodland meadows 9 +I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made 199 +I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young 44 +I was sitting in my study 40 +I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade 169 +I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint of beer 170 +I, who was always counted, they say 42 +I wish there were some wonderful place 32 +I wrote some lines once on a time 14 + +Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad 206 + +King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 191 + +Laugh, and the world laughs with you 139 +Let us be kind 143 +Life! I know not what thou art 65 +Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells 47 +Like liquid gold the wheat field lies 8 +Little lamb, who made thee? 86 +Little lass of Plymouth,--gentle, shy, and sweet 154 +Little one, come to my knee! 89 + +Marching down to Armageddon 157 +Mine is a wild, strange story,--the strangest you ever heard 106 +My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf 35 + +Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes 131 +Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast 11 +Never yet was a springtime 93 +No, comrades, I thank you--not any for me 87 +No gilt or tinsel taints the dress 204 +No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end 140 +Not far advanced was morning day 95 +Not who you are, but what you are 66 + +O for one hour of youthful joy! 58 +O'Grady lived in Shanty row 44 +Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time 51 +Oh, East is East, and West is West 23 +Oh! listen to the water mill through all the livelong day 143 +Oh, such a commotion under the ground 59 +"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true" 207 +O Liberty, thou child of Law 39 +O month of fairer, rarer days 153 +Once in Persia reigned a king 159 +One sweetly solemn thought 48 +On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 91 +O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright 162 +Our band is few, but true and tried 54 +Our old brown homestead reared its walls 55 +Out of the hills of Habersham 66 + +Piller fights is fun, I tell you 80 +Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey 32 + +Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 63 + +Saint Augustine! well hast thou said 33 +She sat on the sliding cushion 29 +She's up there--Old Glory--where lightnings are sped 21 +She was a Phantom of delight 89 +Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog 122 +Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming 205 +Slow the Kansas sun was setting 37 +Some die too late and some too soon 84 +Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows 127 +Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing 138 +South mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay 176 +Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 99 +Sweet is the voice that called 75 + +Talking of sects quite late one eve 180 +The autumn is old 186 +The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day 58 +The boy stood on the burning deck 164 +The bravest battle that ever was fought 64 +The children kept coming one by one 146 +The coppenter man said a wicked word 139 +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary 28 +The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden + desk 68 +The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine 57 +The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone 120 +The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloath an' of silk 149 +The harp that once through Tara's halls 71 +The joys of living wreathe my face 208 +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 21 +The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone 55 +The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 15 +The night was dark when Sam set out 76 +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 150 +There are two kinds of people on earth to-day 116 +There fell an April shower, one night 26 +There lay upon the ocean's shore 150 +There's a dandy little fellow 82 +There was a Boy; you knew him well, ye cliffs 90 +There was a sound of revelry by night 17 +There were ninety and nine 166 +The rich man's son inherits lands 22 +The rosy clouds float overhead 62 +These are the things I hold divine 64 +The shades of night were falling fast 15 +The snow and the silence came down together 83 +The sunlight shone on walls of stone 134 +The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more 203 +The sweetest lives are those to duty wed 20 +The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire 160 +The weaver at this loom is sitting 171 +They grew in beauty, side by side 130 +They said, "The Master is coming" 30 +This is the land where hate should die 18 +Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light 199 +Three little words you often see 201 +'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar 77 +'Tis a lesson you should heed 135 +'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while 173 +'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung 28 +"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!" 41 +Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore 183 +'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown 18 +'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse 78 +'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good-night" had been said 196 +Two angels, one of Life and one of Death 187 +Two little stockings hung side by side 141 + +Want any papers, Mister? 94 +We all look on with anxious eyes 40 +We are two travellers, Roger and I 49 +Well, wife, I found the _model_ church! I worshipped there to-day 148 +W'en you see a man in woe 123 +We squander health in search of wealth 103 +We were crowded in the cabin 56 +We were not many,--we who stood 165 +"What fairings will ye that I bring?" 92 +What flower is this that greets the morn 85 +What makes the dog's nose always cold? 144 +Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill 12 +Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 56 +Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track 8 +When I compare 34 +When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay 67 +When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find 100 +When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres 97 +When the lessons and tasks are all ended 133 +When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 118 +Whichever way the wind doth blow 67 +"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" 101 +Who comes dancing over the snow 153 +Who dat knockin' at de do'? 71 +Why dost thou wildly rush and roar 100 +Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place 186 +With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread 140 +Work! Thank God for the might of it 154 +Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve 169 + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 88 +Ye say that all have passed away--that noble race and brave 135 +Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough 109 +You bad leetle boy, not moche you care 80 +You may talk o' gin an' beer 98 +You're going to leave the homestead, John 159 +Your letter, lady, came too late 136 +You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles 168 +You say I have asked for the costliest thing 155 + + + + +Transcriber's note: + + The poem "Try Try Again" is not credited with an author in + the table of contents. The author of this poem is _William E. + Hickerson_. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR, BOOK TWO*** + + +******* This file should be named 19469.txt or 19469.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/4/6/19469 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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