FROM
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OF
B. F. (WHITEY)
FORD,
DUKE OF
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CAYLORD
PRINT EOIN U.S.A.
Popdlar
Recitations
COMPRISING
DRAMATIC, PATHETIC, HUMOROUS,
WITTY AND CHARACTER SPEECHES.
COMPILED FROM THE BEST
AMERICAN AND FOREIGN AUTHORS
REG-AN PUBLISHING CORPORATION,
26 E. Van Buren Street, Chicago
1923
INTRODUCTION-
IN presenting this compilation of recitations, the publishers
felicitate themselves upon the fact that in their belief,
there is not another book of this character on the market
to-day that covers so wide a range of subjects for the speaker
and the elocutionist. A glance at the table of contents will
readily show that pathos, wit, comedy and tragedy are all
represented in this volume, and we ask your earnest consider-
ation for its good qualities.
THE PUBLISHERS.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
After the Battle 87
Asleep at the Switch 10
A Confession 15
Antony and Cleopatra 15
American Flag, the 21
And the Gang Drinks With
You 36
All For a Nomination 37
Absent-Minded Man, the 49
An Interview 57
A Drunkard's Dream 62
Alderman's Retrospect, the.. 92
Bill Mason's Ride 8
Brick Code Flirtation 18
Bondage of Drink, the 23
Bridge of Sighs, the 25
Bootblack, the 33
Bingen on the Rhine 38
Blue and the Gray, the 68
Billy Dooley's Night 85
Custer's Last Charge 90
Charge of the Light Brigade 12
Casey at the Bat 93
Captain's Daughter, the 20
Christmas on Clark Street 35
Country Store, the 39
Cardinal Wolsey, after being
Cast off by Henry VIII.... 41
Conductor Bradley 42
Chap that's Been Over to
Lunnon, the 45
Civil War.. 50
Cataline's Last Harangue to
His Army 80
Don't Marry A Man to Save
Him 17
Dog, the 27
Dying Umpire, the 74
Field of Waterloo, the 18
Fireman, the 51
Face on the Floor, the 53
Getting Right up 73
Galley Slave, the 59
Home Attractions 8
How We Tried to Whip the
Teacher 43
Human Auction, the 46
Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death 55
In the Mining Town 89
If Things Was Only Suoh 46
JimBludsoe 31
Joe 77
Little Things that Tell, the.. 14
Little Grave, the 48
My First Ci£ar 16
Maniac the 13
Mix It with Thim, Duggan.... 58
Modern Commandments, the. 81
Neglected Child, the 56
Never Give Up 61
Naming the Baby 65
No Telephone in Heaven 26
Nothin'toSay 24
O'Grady's Goat 61
Pat's Reason 9
Quarter in your Pocket, the.. 22
Reuben Fisher's Fate 65
Roll Call, the 73
Sister of Charity, the 69
Surgeon's Tale, the 71
Sheridan's Ride 5
Story of '98 78
Simple Church, the 82
Seminole's Reply, the 83
Sunday-School Pic-Nic, the... 84
They Died Too Soon 76
Toast, the 69
Vagabonds, the 29
Volunteer Organist, the 33
Warned In a Dream 75
When Father Rode the Goat. 86
What's the Matter with En-
glish ? 27
We Reap What We Sow 6
Woodman, Spare that Tree ... 7
Young Tramp, the 67
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
5
SHERIDAN'S RIDE.
Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea, uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there's a broad road to Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down,
And there, through the flash of the morning light
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need.
He stretched away with the utmost speed ;
Hills rose and fell—but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed.
And the landscape flowed away behind,
Like an ocean flowing before the wind ;
And the steed like a bark fed with furnace ire
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire ;
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire !
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ;
6
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
What was done—what to do ? a glance told him both,
And striking his spurs with a terrible oath
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of hurrahs,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and \<ith dust the black charger was gray,
By the flash of his eye and his nostrils play
He seemed to the whole great army to say :
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester town to save the day ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Sheridan !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for horse and man !
And when their statues are placed on high.
Under the dome of the Union sky—
The American soldier's temple of fame—
There with the glorious General's name,
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
'' Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight
From Winchester, twenty miles away.
WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.
For pleasure or pain, for weal or for woe,
'Tis the law of our being, we reap what we sow ;
We may try to evade them—may do what we will
But our acts, like our shadows, will follow us still.
The world is a wonderful chemist, be sure
'Twill detect in a moment the base or the pure ;
We may boast of our claims to genius or birth,
But the world takes a man for just what he's worth.
We start in the race for fortune or fame,
And then when we fail, the world bears the blame ;
But nine times in ten 'tis plain to be seen
There's a "screw somewhere loose  in the human machine.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
7
Are you wearied and worn in this hard, earthly strife?
Do you yearn for affection to sweeten your life?
Remember, this great truth has often been proved
We must make ourselves lovable would we be loved.
Though life may appear as a desolate track,
Yet the bread that we cast on the waters comes back;
This law was enacted by heaven above,
That like attracts like, and love begets love.
We are proud of our mansions of mortar and stone,
In our gardens are flowers of every zone;
But the beautiful graces that blossom within
Grow shrivelled and die in the upas of sin !
We make ourselves heroes and martyrs for gold,
'Till health becomes broken, and youth becomes old ;
Oh ! did we the same for beautiful love
Our lives might be music for angels above.
We reap what we sow—oh, wonderful truth!
A truth hard to learn in the days of our youth ;
But it shines out as fast as the "hand on the wall,
For the world has its debit and credit for all.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
Woodman, spare that tree, touch not a single bough ;
In youth it sheltered me, and I'll protect it now ;
'Twas my torefather's hand that placed it near his cot—
There, woodman, let it stand—thy axe shall harm it not.
That old familiar tree, whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea—and woulds't thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke, cut not it's earth-bound ties ;
Oh! spare that aged oak, now towering to the skies
When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade—
In all their gushing joy, here, too, my sisters played ;
My mother kissed me here—my father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear, but let the old oak stand.
My heart strings round thee cling, close as thy bark, old friend ;
Here shall the wild birds sing, and still thy branches bend ;
Old tree, the storms still brave—and, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save, thy axe shall harm it not.
8
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
HOME ATTRACTIONS.
As homeward comes the married man, he's met by wife at door,
With fond embrace a loving kiss, and— baby's throat is sore!
"And did you think to stop at Brown's, and get that marabout
I ordered yesterday ? and, dear, Fred's boots are all worn out!
I'm glad your'e so early John, so much I miss you, dear—
I've had a letter from mamma—she's coming to live here.
How very glad you look, dear John, I knew that you would be.
The flour's out, and butter, and you must send home some tea ;
That plumber has been here again—if you don't pay he'll sue;
And Mr. Pendergast called in to say your rent was due.
Fred's trousers are half cotton, you thought they were all wool—
Oh ! that reminds me that your son was whip'd to-day at school.
The roof has leaked and spoiled the rugs upon the upper hall;
And Jane must go, the careless thing, she let the mirror fall
To-day, as she was moving it—the largest one, dear John—
Of course it broke, it also broke the lamp it fell upon.
What makes you look so grave love ? take off y'r things and wipe
Your feet—and Only think, to-day Jane broke your pipe.
Oh, John! that horrid, horrid word ! you do not love me, dear;
I wish that I—boo-hoo—were dead—your'e cross as any bear!
BILE MASON'S RIDE.
Half an hour till train time, sir, an' a fearful dark time, too;
Take a look at th' switch lights, Tom, fetch in a stick when
you're thro',
'On time? ' well, yes, I guess so—left the last station allright—
She'll cum' 'roun th' curve flyin', Bill Mason comes up to-night
You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, been on th' road all his life
I'll never forget the mornin' he married his chuck of a wife;
'Twas the year the mill hands struck—struck work, every one;
They raised a row in the village—killed old Donovan's son.
Bill w'n't married more'nan hour, up comes a mes'ge from Kres
Orderin' him to go up there and bring down the night express;
He left his gal in a hurry, and went up on number one,
Thinkin' of nothin' but Mary and the train he had to run.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
9
An' Mary sat down by th' window to wait for th' night express;
An', sir, if she hadn't a' done so, she'd been a widow, I guess.
For it must a' been nigh midnight when the mill hands left th'
ridge—
An' com' down—drunken devils ! tore up a rail from th' bridge
Mary heard 'em a-workin' guessed there was somethin' wrong,
And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill's train it would be along.
She couldn't come here to tell us. A mile—it couldn't be done
She jest grabbed up a lantern and made for the bridge—alone.
Down came th' night express, sir, Bill was makin' her climb!
But Mary held the lantern, a-swingin' it all the time.
Well, sir, Bill saw th' signal and stopped the night express;
And he found his Mary cryin' on th' track, in her weddin' dress
Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir, and holdin' on to the light—
Hello ! here's the train—good-by, sir! Mason's on time to-night
PAT'S REASON.
One day I observed in a crowded horse car—
A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far
And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown,
As nobody offered to let her sit down.
And many there sat, who. to judge by their dress,
Might a gentleman's natural instincts possess ;
But who, judged by their acts, make us firmly believe,
That appearances often will sadly deceive.
There were some most intently devouring the news,
And some thro' the windows enjoying the views;
And others indulging in a make-believe nap—
While the lady still stood holding on by the strap ;
At last a young Irishman, fresh from the  sod,
Arose with a smile and most comical nod
Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated
That the lady should sit in the place he'd vacated.
"Excuse me, said Pat, "that I caused you to wait
So long before offerin' to give you a sate.
But in troth I was only just waitin' to see
If there wasn't more gintlemen here besides me.
IO
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH.
The first thing that I remember, was Carlo tugging away
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much
as to say ;
Come, master, awake and attend to the switch, lives now depend
upon you;
Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are
sending them to;
Think of the mother and babe at her breast, think of the father
and son;
Think of the lover, and loved one, too, think of them, doomed,
every one
To fall, as it were, by your very hand, into yon fathomless ditch
Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now
lies asleep at the switch.
I sprang up, amazed, scarce knew where I stood, sleep had
o'ermastered me so;
I could hear the wind hollowly howling and the deep river
dashing below;
I could hear the forest leaves rustling as the trees by the
tempest were fanned ;
But what was that noise in the distance ? that—I could not
understand !
I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled
drum,
Then nearer and nearer it came to me, and made my very ears
hum ;
What is thi9 light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to
my brain ?
What whistle's that yelling so shrilly, oh, God ! I know now,
it's the train !
We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to
the place;
So I stood with this demon before me, it's heated breath scorch-
ing my face.
It's headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the
eyes of some witch;
The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch.
I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the
track;
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
II
The switch resisted my efforts—some devil seemed holding it
back;
On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like
a flash;
I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing
after the crash.
How long I lay there unconscious, were impossible for me to tell
My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell—
For I then heard the piteous moaning, and shrieking of hus-
bands and wives ;
And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must
account for their lives.
Mothers rushed by like maniacs, with eyes»staring and wild,
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child
Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped,
And lips that could form naught but "Mamma were calling for
one perhaps dead.
My mind was made up in a second, the river should hide me away
When under the still burning rafters, I suddenly noticed there
lay
A small white hand, the owner doubtless an object of love
To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she guarded
him now from above ;
I tenderly lifted the rafters and quickly laid them aside,
How little she thought of her journey, when she left for this
last fatal ride ;
I lifted the last log from off her, and, while searching for some
spark of life
Turned her little face up to the starlight, and recognized—
Maggie, my wife !
Oh, Ford! Thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow Thou hast
shattered my pride ;
My life will be one endless nighttime, with Maggie away from
my side;
Often we've sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, hap-
py life,
How I'd strive thro' all lifetime, to build up a home for my wife
How people would envy us always, in our cozy, neat little nest,
Where I would do all of the labor, and Maggie should all the
day rest;
12
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
How one of God's blessings might cheer us, when some day I
p'r'aps should be rich,
But all of my dreams have been shattered, while I lay there
asleep at the switch.
I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see,
And every eye in the courtroom was steadfastly fixed upon me ;
And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt myself blushing red
And the next thing 1 heard were the words,  hung by the
neck, until dead.
Then I felt myself pulled again, my hand caught hold of a dress,
And I heard, what's the matter, Jim ? you've had a bad night-
mare, I guess ! 
And there was Maggie, my wife, without a scar from the ditch;
I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and not sleeping at the switch.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,
All in the valley of death, rode the six hundred.
 Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns !  he said,
Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.
 Forward, the Light Brigade !  Was there a man dismay'd?
No! tho' the soldiers knew someone had blundered :
Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but
to do and die !
In the valley of death rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them, volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into
the jaws of death
Into the mouth of hell rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare, flash'd as they turned in air,
sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while all the world wondered,
Plung'd in the battery-smoke, right thro' the lines they broke ;
Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabre-stroke shattered
and sundered
Then they rode back—but not, not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them volley'd and thunder'd;
Stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they
that had rode so well,
Came thro' the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them, left of the six hundred.
When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made !
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade!
Noble six hundred!
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
13
THE MANIAC.
Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe, she is not mad who kneels
to thee;
For what I am now too well I know, and what I was and what
should be.
I'll rave no more, in proud despair my language shall be mild
tho' sad;
But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad !
My tyrant husband forged the tale which chains me in this
dismal cell;
My fate unknown, my friends bewail—O, jailer, haste that fate
to tell!
O, haste my father's heart to cheer! his heart at once 'twill
grive an' glad
To know, although kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am
not mad!
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; he quits the grate I
knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp still—still I see—'tis gone ! and all is
gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold—no warmth ! no light! life, all thy comforts
once I had;
Yet, here I'm chained this freezing night, although not mad ;
no—no—not mad !
'Tis sure some dream, some vision ; what, I the child of rank
and wealth !
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, bereft of freedom,
friends and health ?
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, which nevermore my heart
must glad
How aches my heart, how burns my head, but 'tis not mad ;
no; 'tis not mad.
Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this, a mother's face, a mother's
tongue ?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, nor 'round her neck how
fast you clung;
Nor how with her you sued to stay, nor how that suit your sire
forbade ;
Nor how—I'll drive such thoughts away ! they'll make me mad,
they'll make me mad !
14
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled, his mild, blue eyes, how
bright they shone!
None ever loved a lovelier child, and art thou now forever gone?
And must I never see thee more, my pretty—pretty—pretty lad?
I will be free ! unbar the door ! I am not mad, I am not mad !
O, hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? his chain some
furious madman breaks ;
He comes—I see his glarin' eyes; now—now my dungeon
grate he shakes !
Help—Help ! he's gone—O, fearful woe, such screams to hear,
such sights to see,
My brain, my brain—I know, I know I am not mad, but soon
shall be.
Yes, soon—for to you while I speak, mark how yon demon's
eyeballs glare ;
He sees me—now, with dreadful shrieks he whirls a serpent
high in air!
Horror—the reptile strikes his tooth deep in my heart, so
crushed and sad ;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends—I feel the truth ; Your race is done, I'm
mad ! I'm mad !
THE LITTLE THINGS THAT TELL.
You're my sister's new sweetheart, are you ?
The one she caught at the ball ?
I heard her telling mamma so
Just as I came through the hall.
She says you are awfully stupid,
And you cannot dance at all;
It is only because you are rich, I suppose,
Made you the catch at the ball.
And she says that when you are married
She'll teach you a thing or two,
I don't think I'd be taught by a girl
If I were a man, like you.
What? not going already, are you?
Jack never hurried off so,
Sister will be down in a minute,
And be very angry, I know.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
25
A CONFESSION.
Do you remember little wife, how years ago we two together
Saw naught but love illumine life in sunny days or winter
weather?
Do you recall in younger years to part a day was bitter pain ?
Love's light was hid in clouds of tears till meeting cleared the
sky again !
Do you remember how we two would stare into each other's eyes
'Till all the earth grew heavenly blue, and speech was lost in
happy sighs.
Do you another thing recall, that used to happen often then ;
How, simply passing in the hall, we'd stop to smile and kiss
again ?
Do you remember how I sat, and, reading, held your hand in
mine.
Caressing it with gentle pat—one pat for every blessed line ?
Do you recall how at th' play through hours of agony we tarried ?
The lover's griefs brought us dismay ; we rejoiced when they
were married.
And then walked homeward, arm in arm, beneath the crescent
moonlight new,
That smiled on us, a silent charm, so glad that we were mar-
ried, too.
Ah, me ! 'twas years and years ago, when all this happened
that I sing,
And many a time the winter snow has slipped from olive groves
of spring.
And now—,oh, nonsense ! let us tell; a fig for laugh of maids
or men !
You'll hide your blushes? I'll not. Well—we're ten times
worse than we were then.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
I am dying. Egypt, dying, ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows gather on the evening blast;
Let thy arms, O queen, enfold me ! hush thy sobs and bow thine
ear,
Listen to the great heart secrets, thou, and thou alone must hear
Though my scarred and veteran legions bear their eagles high
no more,
And my wrecked and scattered galleys strew dark Actium's
fatal shore ;
16
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
Tho' no glittering guards surround me, prompt to do their
master's will,
I must perish like a Roman, die great Triumvir still.
Let not Caesar's servile minions mock the lion thus laid low.
'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him—'twas his own that
struck the blow;
His, who pillowed on thy bosom, turned aside from glory's ray
His, who drunk with thy caresses, madly threw a world away.
Should the base Plebian rabble, dare assail my name at Rome,
Where my noble spouse, Octavia, weeps in her widowed home ;
Seek her, say the gods bear witness—altars, augurs, circling
wings—
That her blood, with mine commingled, yet shall mount the
throne of kings.
And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light my path to Stygian horrors with the splendors of thy smile
Give the Caesar crowns and arches, let her brow the laurel twine,
lean scorn the Senate's triumphs, triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying ; hark ! the insulting foeman's cry,
They are coming! quick, my falchion ! let me front them ere
I die;
Ah! no more amid the battle shall my heart exulting swell—
Isis and Orosis guard thee! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!
MY FIRST CIGAR.
'Twas in a quiet alley, one glorious summer day,
I sat upon a dry goods box, and drew and puffed away ;
And as the curly smoke arose and floated on the air,
I suddenly grew awful sick—it was my first cigar.
I leaned across the dry goods box, turned almost deathly pale;
I gasped, and threw up everything, e'en to my great toenail;
Ah ! what did I at such a time, for smoking seem to care ?
Alas ! the trembling tear proclaimed—it was my first cigar.
I've swallowed gobs of castor oil, and took pills by the score;
Been turned and twisted inside out a dozen times or more ;
But sickness I have never felt, which could with that compare,
When in that lonesome alley, I smoked my first cigar.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
x7
DON'T MARRY A MAN TO SAVE HIM.
A cry comes over from Oregon
For a car-load of maidens, fully grown,
All of them women of blood and tone—
Come, marry our men to save them.
There are thousands here in these haunts of sin,
Spending their money in gambling and gin,
Corrupt without and corrupt within—
Come, marry these men to save them.
They have each been somebody's pride and joy,
Somebody's petted and pampered boy,
Spoiled for lack of a maiden coy—
Come, marry these men to save them.
You must be healthy, pure and strong,
Alike to breast and bear the wrong,
Willing to carry a burden long—
Come, marry these men to save them,
You must be leader, but always seem
To be gentle and helpless as love's young dream,
And leaned upon, when you seem to lean—
Come, marry these men to save them.
You must be cleanly, and kind and sweet,
Making a path for their godless feet
Up to the grace of the mercy-seat—
Come, marry these men to save them.
Oh, woman, you are sold at a fearful price!
If you wed your virtue to whisky and dice,
And trust your soul to a den of vice—
Don't marry a man to save him.
A life that is pure needs a pure one in turn,
A being to honor, and not one to spurn,
An equal love, that shall constant burn—
Don't marry a man to save him,
A woman's life is a precious thing,
Her love a rose unwithering ;
Would you bury it deep in early spring,
By marrying a man to save him ?
i8
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
You can pray for his soul from morn till eve ;
You can wish the angels to bring reprieve
To his sin-bound heart, but you'll always grieve
If you marry a man to save him.
God gives to woman a right to press
Her claim to a man's best manliness ;
A woman gives all ; shall a man give less?
Don't marry a man to save him.
BRICK CODE FLIRTATION.
A Chicago girl asks for a simple code of flirtation, saying that
she is familiar with the fan and handkerchief system, and wants
to know if there is any other. Yes, dear. Here is a simple one
—the brickbat flirtation :
Picking up brick from street—I am waiting for you,
Carrying brick in right hand—I am watching you.
Carrying brick in left hand—I feel secure.
Biting corner of brick—I love you.
Rubbing brick on nose—Write to me.
Wrapping brick in handkerchief—I doubt you.
Throwing brick through window—Beware of the neighbors
Balancing brick on cliin—We are watched.
Striking back of head with brick—I am married.
Scratching ear with brick—Don't speak to me.
Throwing at stranger's head—want to create an impression
Putting brick in pocket—we are safe.
This code has the advantage of being certain to attract atten-
tion, and bricks are always to be found, even when your fan is
at home.
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
Stop ! for thy tread is upon an empire's dust;
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below ;
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ?
None ; but the mortal's truth tells simpler so.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.
How that red rain bath made the harvest grow;
And in this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory!
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  yes  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 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 !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftan ; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival.
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knevj that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And rushed, the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
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
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings such as press
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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, whispr'g 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 marshalling to 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.
THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER.
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 hear the rattling trumpet thunder  cut away the mast!
So shudderiug there in silence ; for the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring, the breakers talked of death.
And as thus we sat in darkness, each one busy in their prayers,
' We are lost!  the captain shouted, staggering 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 anchored safe in harbor when the moon was shining clear.
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21
THE AMERICAN FEAG.
When freedom, from her mountain height, unfurled her stand-
to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night and set the stars of glory there!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes the milky baldric of th' skies
And striped its pure celestial white with streaking of the morn-
ing light,
Then, from mansions in the sun, she call'd her eagle bear'r down
And gave into his mighty hand the symbol of his chosen land !
Majestic monarch of the cloud ! who rear'st aloft thy regal form
To hear the tempests trumping loud, and see the lightning
lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunderdust of heaven, child of the sun ! to thee
'tis given to guard the banner of the free.
To hover in the sulphur smoke, to ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar, rike rainbows on the cloud of
war, the harbingers of victory !
Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, the sign of hope and
triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, and the long line comes
gleaning on.
Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet, has dimmed the glist'n'g
bayonet,
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn to where thy sky-born
glories burn.
And as his springing steps advance, catch war and vengeance
from the glance.
And when the cannon mouthings loud heave in wild wr'ths the
battle shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall like shoots of flame on midnight's
pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, and cowering foes shall
sink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below that lovely mes'ngr of death.
Flag of th' seas ; on ocean wave thy stars shall glitter o'er the
brave ;
When death, careering on the gale, sweeps darkly round the
bellied sail
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And frighted waves rush wildly back, before the broadside's
reeling rack.
Each dying wanderer of the sea Bhall look at once to heaven
and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly in triumph o' er the closing eye.
Flag of the free ! heart's hope and home by angel hands to
valor given,
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome and all thy hues were born
in heaven
Eorever float that standard sheet, where breathes the foe but
falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, and Freedom's banner
streaming o'er us!
THE QUARTER IN YOUR POCKET.
The mines of old king Solomon have had their share of praise,
They surely were the limit in those far-gone heathen days ;
The fabled wealth of Croesus must have been a gorgeous pile,
Enough to keep a common chap well fed for quite a while.
But I know something that can put the whole bunch to the bad—
That quarter in your pocket that you didn't know you had.
You know it well as I do, for we've all of us gone broke,
And walked around and wondered what we had to soak ;
With pay day twelve hours distant and a hunger coming on—
It's quite enough to make a chap feel rather woebegone.
And then to find—oh, joy of joys ! Now don't it make you glad—
A quarter in your pocket that you didn't know you had!
Sometimes even when you're flush, but know most mighty well
Just what your cash amounts to, don't it make you fairly yell
To find an extra quarter in some unexpected place?
It sends a smile of solemn joy careering o'er your face ;
And then you spend a dollar celebrating, like a cad,
The finding of that quarter that you didn't know you had.
I know it's just a two-bit piece, but my ! that quarter seems
Worth more than all the riches of our wildest childh'd dreams.
We hold it up and gaze at it and gloat o'er it in glee,
As if it were the finest sight a human eye might see ,
And yet it's such a little thing to drive a person mad—
The quarter in your pocket that you didn't know you had.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
THE BONDAGE OF DRINK.
You think I love it ! if this nerveless hand
Could gain immortal strength, this very hour
I'd sweep this hellish traffic from the land,
And crush its blighting, maddening, nightmare power
Yes, now with all my latest dying breath,
I'll curse the thing that drags me down to death!
Love it? I loathe it! Yet I drink, and drink,
And hate my bondage with a loathing hate ;
And hate myself as through the town I slink.
The pledge ? No, no ! Too late ! too late !
No pledge! I've tried it twice—a waste of breath!
Too late—there's no release for me but death.
It's bad enough to drink ; but not to drink—
Doth such a train of horrors wake
As in one hour would leave me dead, I think,
Ah ! keep away, ye fiends ! for pity's sake !
The very thought of them affects my brain ;
My end will be when they shall come again.
Love rum? I'd love to hold my head up high
And breathe God's air a free and fearless man,
And look with undimmed eyes on earth and sky,
With steady nerve to do, and head to plan.
I'd love to grapple trials as they come,
In manly fashion, brave and strong. Love Rum !
If I could go into some land
Where no drink is, God knows how willingly
I'd fight those dreadful tortures of the damned
That clutch the soul of him who would be free ;
But marshal up those grisly shapes of woe
To fall again as twice before? No, no !
Ah, if I might have known how it would be,
In those old college days so wild and gay,
When I first drank in youthful reverie,
Row easy then to put the cup away !
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POPULAR RECITATIONS.
A mother's hope and joy I was till then!
Now see me trembling—ha ! those eyes again.
Back, fiery eyes, to hell, whence ye belong!
I'll drink ye down—what! blood ? Drink blood?
Help, Help! they come, a hideous, devilish throng,
Back, get back ! They'll toss me in the flood !
Long, crooked hands are clawing in my hair!
Is this the end ? ha, ha ! Too late for prayer,
NOTHIN' TO SAY.
Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say!
Girls that's in love, 1 've noticed, giner'ly has their way!
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me—
Yit here I am, and here you air! and yer' mother—where is she ?
You look lots like your mother; Purty much the same in size,
And about the same complected, and favor about the eyes;
Like her, too, about livin' here, because she couldn't stay;
It'll 'most seem like you was dead like her! but I hain't got
nothin' to say!
She left you her little bible—writ yer name acrost the page—
And left her earbobs fer you, ef ever you come of age ;
I've alius kep' 'em and gyarded 'em, but if yer' goin' away—
Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say !
You don' rikollect her, I reckon ? No; you wasn't a year old then
And now yer—how old air yer ? Why, child, not twenty ! when?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married
that day ?
. . . I wisht yer mother was livin'! but—I hain't got nothin'
to say !
Twenty year ! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found !
There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there—I'll bresh it off—
turn round,
(Her mother was just twenty when us two run away !)
Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say !
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
25
THE BRIDGE OP SIGHS.
One more unfortunate, weary of breath,
Rashly importunate, gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly—young, and so fair!
Look at her garments, clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly, loving, not loathing!
Touch her not scornfully, think of her mournfully, gently and
humanly;
Not of the stains of her; all that remains of her now is pure
womanly!
Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny, rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers—one of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers oozing so clammily,
Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb—
Her fair auburn tresses—whilst wonderment guesses, where was
her home ?
Who was her father ? who was her mother ?
Had she a sister ? had she a brother ?
Or was there a dearer one still, and a n'rer one yet than all other?
Alas! for the rarity of christian charity, under the sun !
Oh, it was pitiful! near a whole city full, home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed—
Love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light
From window and casement, from garret to basement,
She stood with amazement, houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March made her tremble and shiver ;
But not the dark arch, or the black, flowing river ;
Mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery, swift to be
hurled—
Anywhere, anywhere out of the world !
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In she plunged boldly, no matter bow coldly the rough river ran-
Over the brink of it! picture it—think of it, dissolute man !
Lave in it, drink of it then, if you can !
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs, frigidly, stiffen too rigidly, decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them, and her eyes, close them, staring
so blindly !
Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring last look of despairing fixed on futurity
Perishing gloomily, spurred by contumely
Cold inhumanity, burning insanity into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly over her breast!
Owning her weakness, her evil behavior,
And, leaving, with meekness her sins to her Saviour!
NO TELEPHONE IN HEAVEN.
'' Now I can wait on baby,'' the smiling merchant said,
As he stooped and softly toyed with the golden, curly head.
"I want 'ooto call up mamma, came the answer full and free,
 Wif yo' telephone, an' ast her when she's tumin' back tome.
"Tell her I so lonesome 'at I don't know what to do,
An' papa cries so much, I dess he must be lonesome too ;
Tell her to turn to baby, 'tause at night I dit so 'fraid,
Wif nobody dere to tiss me, when de light bedins to fade.
"All froo de day I wants her, for my dolly's dot so tored
Fum the awful punchin' buddy give it wif his sword;
An' ain't nobody to fix it since mamma went away,
An' pore 'ittle lonesome dolly's ditting thinner ever' day.
 My child, the merchant murmured, he stroked the anxious
brow,
"There's no telephone connection where your mother's living
now.
"Ain't no telephone in heaven ?  and tears sprang to her eyes
 I fought dat God had ever'fing wif him up in de skies.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
27
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ENGLISH.
Can't druggists talk United States ? If so, let's give the bounce
To those outlandish Latin names that no one can pronounce,
Why not use forms that common folk can somehow figure out,
And not hide everything behind a lot of Latin doubt ?
Why say "chloride of sodium  when common salt is meant?
Or take "oxide of hydrogen  when it is our intent
To drink just good, plain water? And would anyone, alas !
Take "protoxide of nitrogen  instead of laughing gas?
'Tis sad to have to swallow drugs of any kind or form,
But the dread names given to them fill our being with alarm ;
At "sulphate of magnesia  the startled patient halts,
When all he really wishes is a dose of common salts.
On the "menu"—a bill of fare—more foreign mush we note ;
By the piece it's "a-la-carte, the whole thing's "tabled'hote.
"Roast beef au jus  we learn when we the same explore,
Means "gravy that goes with it"—only this and nothing more
 Puree of green au crouton, by those who know, 'tis said—
Would simply mean what common folks call pea soup and bread
So, day by day, our timid souls with awful fears beset
We drift on through the wide, wide world, not knowing what
we've  et.
THE DOG.
The dog is a digitigrade carnivorous mammal. This will be
news to most people who had always supposed a dog was a dog.
It has been bruited about that the dog is the best friend to
man among the brute creation.
When you notice how affectionately the dog clings to a stran-
ger that knocks at your door, you can readily believe this.
He pants after the thief. When once he gets hold of the
thief's pants, he makes breaches.
A barking dog never bites—that is to say, when he is biting
he stops barking. Conversely, a biting dog never barks, and
for similar reasons.
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The dog leaves off his own pants during cold weather.
The hair of a dog will cure his bite. A curious superstition
among hare-brained young men who are fast going to the dogs.
Dogs are professional dentists; inserting teeth without charge
The dog never barks excepting when he is awake. The dog
is always awake.
The dog has no other way to express his joy than to bark. He
always feels joy when he sees a man. When there is no other
man he expresses his joy to the man in the moon.
Little dogs are also pleased to see a man. They are very nu-
merrous, constituting a large part of the pup-elation.
As we remarked, the dog is always awake. This is no tale,
though he carries a tail in his wake.
The sea dog loves his bark. Did you ever see one that didn't ?
The dog's head is the place where the bark comes from. We
asked a dog, and the dog said so.
The head of a dog has a dog-headed look.
The bark of a tree is unlike the bark of a dog. Even a dog-
wood know this.
Dogs are not always kind,'tho there are many kinds of dogs.
Every dog has his day, although dog days last but a few weeks
in the year.
There must be Sirius error here.
The dog star is the dog's planet. They planet so that their
days come while the star is in the sky.
They do not fear it. It is not a skye terrier.
The Jews consider a dog unclean, and yet the dog will clean
out a crowd, no matter how birty.
But the dog spitzs.
Tray was a good dog, but trays are better than deuces.
Dogs were the original argonauts. They have never given
over their search for the fleas.
The bulldog is a stubborn fellow. He is not easily cowed.
Of course, the gentler sex is the more stubborn of the two. You
never heard of the dogma.
The dog has four legs ; two of them fore legs.
But perhaps we had better paws here.
Howl this do for the dog.
We will see that this don't occur again.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
29
THE VAGABONDS.
We are two travelers, 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 getting a little old, five years we've tramped thro'
wind and weather,
And slept out doors 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 out our thumbs—poor fellow, the paw he holds
up there's been frozen !
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle—this outdoor business is bad for
the strings
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, and Roger
and I set up for kings !
No, thank ye, 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
the dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin, and this old coat with
it's 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 thro'
every disaster
So fond, so faithtul and so forgiving to such a miserable, thank-
less master!
Nc\ sir! see him wag his tail and grin ? By George ! it makes
my ol<? «ves water!
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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—h'm what
a plague a cough is sir !—
Shall march a little. Start, you villian ! stand straight! 'bout
face ! salute your officer !
Put up hat paw ! dress ! take your rifle!—some dogs have arms,
you see—Now hold your
Cap Trthile the gentlemen give 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 us how many drams it takes to honor a jolly, new
acquaintance.
Five yelps—that's five ; he's mighty knowing ! the night's be-
fore 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 remember-
ing 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, in-
ward sinking!
Is there a way to forget to think ? at your age, sir, home, for-
tune, 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, they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures, I was one of your
handsome men.
If you had seen her, so fair and young, whose head was happv
on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung when the wine wem
round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, sir, should be straying from door to door, with fid-
die and dog,
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
3i
Ragged, 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 Ihe 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, re-
membering 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 soonel
the better, for Roger and me !
JIM BI/UDSO.
Wall, no ! 1 can't tell where he lives, because he don't live
you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit of livin' like you and me.
Whar hev you been for the last three years, that you haven't
heard folk tell
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How Jimmy Bludso pass'ed in his checks, the night of the
'' Prairie Belle.''
He warn't no saint—them engineers is all pretty much alike—
One wife in Natchez-under-the-hill and another one here in Pike
A careless man in his talk was Jim, an' an awkward man in a row
But he never pinked, and he never lied, I reckon he never
knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had—to treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river; to mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the '' Prairie Belle'' took fire, and a thousand times
he swore
He'd hold her nozzle agin' the bank till the last soul got ashore
All boats has their day on the Mississip, and her day came at last
The Movaster was a better boat, but the Belle, she wouldn't be
passed,
And so, came tearing along that night, the oldest craft on th' line
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, with her furnaces
crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar, and burnt a hole in the
night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made for that wilier-bank
on the right,
There was runnin' and cussin' but Jim yelled out over all the
infernal roar,
 I'll hold her nozzle agin' the bank till the last galoot's ashore,
Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat, Jim Bludso's
voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness, and know'd he would
keep his word,
And sure's as yer born, they all got off", fore the smoke-stacks fell
And Jim's ghost went up alone in the smoke of th' Prairie Belle.
He warn't no saint—but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gents that wouldn't shook hands with
him.
He'd seen his duty a dead-sure thing—went for it thar an' then;
An' Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard on a man that died for men
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
33
THI$ BOOTBLrACK.
Here y'are ? Black your boots, boss, do it for jest five cents
Shine 'em up in a miuute—that is, 'f nothin prevents.
Set yer' foot right on there, sir ; the mornin's kinder cold—
Sorter' rough on a feller when his coat's a-gettin old,
Well, yes—call it coat, sir, tho' 'tain't much mor'n a tear;
Can't get myself another—ain't got the coin to spare.
Make as much as most on 'em ? That's so ! but then, yer see,
They've only got one to do fer; there's two o' us, Jack and me.
Him? Why—that little feller with a double-up-sorter back,
Sittin' there on the gratin' sunnin' hisself—that's Jack.
Used to be 'round sellin' papers, the cars there was his lay,
But he got shoved off the platform, under the wheels, one day.
Yes, the conductor did it—gave him a reg'lar throw—
He didn't care if he killed him ; some on 'em is jest so.
He's never been allright since, sir, sorter quiet and queer—
Him and me go together, he's what they call cashier.
Trouble? O, not much, sir ; sometimes when biz gets slack
I dun'no how I'd stand it, ef 'twasn't for little Jack.
Why, boss, you ought to hear him ; he says we needn't care
How rough luck is down here, sir, if some day we git up there
All done now—how's that, sir ? shine like a pair of lamps
Mornin'—give it to Jack, sir, he looks -after the stamps.
THU VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.
The great big church was crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk
An'satins rich as cream that grows on ol' Brindle's milk ;
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys 'an stovepipe hats were
there,
An' doods, '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 kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,
An' ez we hev no substitoot—brother Moore ain't here,
Will some un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer ? 
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POPULAR RECITATIONS.
An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned rowdy style
Giv' an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle;
Then through thet holy atmosphere ther' crep' a sense er sin,
An' through thet air uv sanctity the odor uv ol' gin.
Then deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all sot on edge;
•' This man perfanes the house er God ! W'y, this is sacrilege!
The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumb-
lin' feet,
An' sprawled an' staggered up th' steps, an' g'ned the organ seat
He then went pawin' thro' the keys, and soon there rose a strain
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify th'brain ;
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head and
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 an' staggered, an' seemed to reel an'sway,
An' the elder shouted  Glory ! an' I yelled out '' Hooray !
An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,
Thet brought up blessed memories an, drenched 'em down 'ith
tears ;
An' we dreamed uv ol'-time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat,
Uv home an' love an' baby days, an' mother, an' all that.
An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song of souls forgiven—
Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv
heaven;
The mornin' stars they sung together—no soul wuz left alone—
We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on his throne.
An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again,
An' a long black crape hung on the doors uv all th' homes 'v men
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs uv glad delight,
An' then—the tramp, he staggered down 'n reeled into the night
But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word,
An' it wuz the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard ;
He hed told his own life history, an' no eye wuz dry thet day,
W'n th' elder rose an' simply said : "My brethren, let us pray I
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35
CHRISTMAS ON CEARK STREET IN 1901.
Me mind is goin' back agin, an' goin' wid a run,
To Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
Not many, p'raps, 'ud b'leeve it if I swore it on der Book—
'Cos what I'm er goin' ter tell yer doesn't tally wid der look
I carries on dis mug of mine. Yet ev'ry word is true,
Aldough I've never spoke of it ter nobody but you.
I dunno why I dun it, yet I sorter seem ter feel
Dat I done it on der level an' I hadn't ought ter squeal;
An' I'd do agin annuder time exackly what I done
Dat Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
I s'pose I ought ter tell yer just der hull t'ing from der start—
'Cos yer wouldn't understand it, if I on'y told a part,
Well, let 'er go! I'll tell yer all; it's de on'y t'ing I dare
Ter tell, widout de risk of havin' a cop's hand in my hair.
It wuz just about commencin, ter git cold at nights, an' raw,
When der bloke dat had no overcoat for winter, plainly saw
He'd have ter make a ten strike soon or else he'd find no fun
For Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
Me luck 'ud gone agin me, somehow, gone fer quite awhile;
An' cigs, mixed ale and dancin' spiels 'ud swallered all my pile.
I couldn't get no scrap agoin' for any of der dubs
What runs the boxin'-matches in der dood at'letic clubs ;
Which, coupled wit de fact dat Sweeney, a week or so before,
Had took me mug fer loafin' made prospeks mighty pore,
An' dat's de state of my affairs der year dat I begun
Me Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
'Twas four o'clock in de mornin' when I took a dark side street
An' had me mind made up ter graft de first fair game I'd meet,
When sud'nly I stubbed me toe, an' dere, stretched on de walk
Was Wes' side Mame, her eyes fast shut, face as white as chalk.
I knowed her in a minit, fer I'd knowed her since der day
She hit her fust pipe in her life; der pipe dat paved der way
Fer droppin' from a happy home an' husband wid a run,
Ter Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
36
popular recitations.
It didn't take much of a heft ter lift her up an' try
Ter see if life hed left her ; when I heard her give a sigh,
I laid her gently down agin, an' ran into a bar
An' asked de boss for just a drop uv Hennessey t'ree star.
"It's fer a dyin' girl, I said. He said :  der bluff don't go,
I offered him me coat, me hat, me boots, He still said  No! 
I didn't waste an instant, but I rushed into der street
An' see a dood cum staggern' up wid mixed drinks in his feet,
A dood went sprawlin' in de mud before I got der mun.,
Dat Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
Der rest is short, least part of it. I got der budge fer Mame—
But did a yere fer gettin' it, I'm tellin yer'—all the same ;
An' Mame—she opened up her eyes, an' smiled inter my face,
A smile fer which I'd do a year in a blame sight warmer place.
Pore Mame went ter der hospital, while I was took ter jail;
Afore she died, she sent me dis ; her pickcher. Dere's de tale,
And now yer know why I don't weaken on der t'ing I done
Dat Christmas down on Clark street in 1901.
AND THE GANG DRINKS WITH YOU.
Drink, and the gang drinks with you, swear off, and you go it
alone ;
For the bar room bum who drinks your rum has a quenchless
thirst of his own.
Feast, and your friends are many, fast, and they cut you dead ;
They'll not get mad if you use them bad, so long as their stom-
ach is fed.
Steal, if you've got a million, for then you can furnish bail;
It's the great big thief gets out on leave, while the little one
goes to j ail.
Sleep, when you can't play poker, wake when the sun is low ;
For it may be right to sleep all night, but that never wins the
dough.
POPURAR RECITATIONS.
37
Al/1, FOR A NOMINATION.
A few months ago, with a little cash, in politics I made a dash,
Resolving tho' I went to smash, I'd have the nomination.
I went to work with all my might, I called on friends both day
and night,
And oft I thought, "oh, I'm alljight, I'll get the nomination.
The friends that brought me in the field, said :  now, my boy,
you must not yield,
For boldness is your strongest shield to win the nomination.
They also urged another course—insisted too with all their force
That I should get a coach and horse and hunt the nomination.
I yield'd to their argume't; for coach and horse my money sp'nt
And every day a-driving went, to seek the nomination.
I drove through north and east and west, through all the pre-
cincts—t'was thought best
And gave myself and horse no rest, to get the nomination.
My name I hungon tavern walls, and tickets bought for ev'ry ball
Fed Pat and Mike at oyster stalls, to get the nomination.
And often, too, the hounds I'd meet, in dozens walking down
the street;
Of course, the party I must treat, to get the nomination.
My family was neglected, too, I saw them not for whole weeks
through,
And all these things I had to do, to get the nomination.
My business too, sunk very low, for cash I knew not where to go
I thought it would not long be so—I'd get the nomination.
The time rolled on, and so did I, six months elapsed, my hopes
ran high,
At last the day and hour drew nigh to make the nomination.
My friends were promptly on the ground, and when my hopes
seemed almost crowned,
Alas ! to my sorrow found, I'd lost the nomination.
With health impaired and pockets dry, I'll rest till three long
years roll by
And then again, perhaps I'll try to get the nomination.
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BING1$N ON THE RHINE.
A soldier of the Legion, lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack ol woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's
tears,
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said  I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine.
Tell my brothers and companions when they meet and crowd
around
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground;
That we fought the battle bravely, and, when the day was done
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death wound on their gallant breast, the last of many scars;
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine !
Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
And I was, aye, a truant bird, that thought his home a cage ;
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild
And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would but kept my father's sword;
And, with boyish love, I hung it where the bright light used to
shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen—calm Bingen on the Rhine !
Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and
gallant tread.
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ;
And to hang the old sword in its place—my father's sword and
mine—
For the honor of old Bingen—dear Bingen on the Rhine.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
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There's another—not a sister—in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye
Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning—
Oh, friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning;
Tell her the last night of my life—for ere the moon is risen
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison—
I dreamed that I stood with her, saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—lair Bingen on the Rhine!
I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still
And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed, with friendly
talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk ;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine—
But we'll meet no more at Bingen—loved Bingen on the Rhine!
His voice grew faint and hoarser, his grasp was childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look ; he sighed, and ceased to speak ;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled—
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead !
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battlefield, with bloody corpses strown—
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to
shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine !
THE COUNTRY STORE.
You may vaunt your snug taprooms in winter.
Your saloons and club houses galore ;
But, for solid, good old-fashioned loafing,
There's no place like the old country store.
Sizz, sizzle and sizz on the stove base !
The chewers, the smokers outbrag!
Crops, politics, peanuts and twaddle,
With a joke from the privileged wag ;
Till a cold draught alone from the window or door,
Can the sitters disturb in the old country store.
4°
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Dry wit, if wet boots must come with you,
If you'd corruscate here, let me say,
For, if shop logic rules for a minute,
Horse sense up and down's come to stay,
Creak, creakity-creak ! Rustle ! rustle !
The boss talker's wriggling his chair,
Drop newspapers, almanacs, handbills,
There's hair-splitting speech in the air.
Oh, there's lots to make intellect skim, dive or soar
Round the cylinder stove of the old country store,
"Jeft, whack in some coal! Want to freeze us?
What did Miss Martin want with them tacks ?
She hain't got a new carpet, hez she?
An' the shoemakin' bizness so lax? 
Puff, puff! and smoke rings by the dozens,
Have the smokers the chewers outstripped ?
"The widow Brown's speckled hen's droppin',
An' Lizzie White's feller hez skipped.
An' they do say "— Leave that to the wimmin, Sam Moore;
Scand'lin don't suit the crowd in this yere country store!
 Who's scand'lin', Jedge ? Ain't you pertic'lar?
 By the way, did you hear that Smith's Matt—
He'd run off with Snyder's Marier?
By gum ! I knotf'd it'd be that
When I seed 'em so sneaky all summer
A grindstunnin' spoons to a edge
An' they do say Matt's fond of his cider—
 Who's scand'lin now, I want ter know, Jedge? 
So the rig's on the rigger, and, all in a roar
Wisdom's sandwiched with mirth in the old country store.
Train time! a shrill blast in the distance,
Meaning letters from friends coming in,
Half the chairs, as if by magic deserted,
And the Postmaster busy as sin.
"What ails that ere mail pouch, Erastus?
Hez a ellerfunt stepped on it, think ?
"Road's blocked, an' no through train expected,
"Wall, fetch some coal, quick as a wink ! 
Oh, there's never a place to be bored and to bore
For your money's full worth, like the old country store.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
CARDINAL WOLSRY AFTRR BRING CAST
OFF BY HENRY VIII.
Nay, then, farewell!
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness.
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I hast now to my setting : I shall fall
Light a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
So farewell to the little good you bear me.
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 honors 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,
These 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 forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors 1
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have,
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again !
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
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And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard of—say, then, I taught thee—
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me !
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition !
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee—
Corruption wins not more than honesty;
Still, in thy right hand carry gentle peace
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not,
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy Country's,
Thy God's and truths ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ;
And Prithee, lead me in ;
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny ; 'tis the kings; my robe
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies !
CONDUCTOR BRADLEY.
Conductor Bradley—always may his name
Be said with reverence !—as the swift doom came
Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame.
Sank with the brake he grasped just where he stood
To do the utmost that a brave man could,
And die, if needful, as a true man should.
Men stooped above him ; women dropped their tears
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
Lost in the strength and glor y of his years.
What heard they ? Lo ! the ghastly lips of pain,
Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again ;
 Put out the signals for the other train ! 
No nobler utterance since the world began
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran
Electric, through the sympathies of man.
Ah, me ! how poor and noteless seem to this
The sickbed drama of self-conscienceness—
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss !
Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain.
Freighted with life, the downward-rushing train,
Following the wreked one as wave follows wave.
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave,
Others he saved, himself he could not save.
Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside,
God give us grace to live as Bradley died !
HOW WE TRIED TO WHIP TEACHER.
I wuz a boy of seventeen, ungainly, dull an' tall
Ez green ez any gozlin' but I tho't I know'd it all;
I went to school at Piano, I chopped up wood an' chored
For Zephania Wilkinson to pay him for my board.
One day Philetus Phinney, another boy in school,
About ez rough an' raw ez I—about ez big a fool—
Jist hinted in a private way, 'twould be a right smart feature,
An' giv' us lots o' glory, if we'd up an' lie' the teacher.
We wouldn't ask no better fun, than jist to make him climb;
We'd hev a long vacation an' a whopper of a time.
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The teacher he wuz sickly—he wuz not ez big as I—
I knew thet we could bounce him if we didn't half but try,
Fur anyone lookin' at him, would a said on sight,
Ther' wuzn't eny sand in him, an' not a speck uv fight.
His hands wa'n't accustomed much to hangin' outer ploughs,
To hoin' corn, to cradlin' wheat, or milkin' twenty cows ;
Philetus sed he'd use him for a mop to mop the floor ;
An' when he begged and hollered we'd h'ist him out the door.
We told the boys at recess o' the plot that we had planned,
They said 'f we couldn't down him they'd lend a helpin' hand,
But big Philetus Phinney, he wuz tickled as could be,
To think they thought a snip like him could lick a chap like he
'F I'd kick the bucket over, he'd make the teacher dance—
He'd flop him in the water, he'd mop it with his pants.
We heard the school-bell ringin' we scrambled in pell-mell;
I run ag'in the water-pail, on poppus, an' I fell;
I struck upon a stick o' wood, I badly raked my shin,
The water swoshed upon me, an' it wet me to the skin.
The scrawny little teacher, why ! he bounded from his chair,
He took me by the trousers, an' he held me in the air.
An' roun' an' roun' an' roun' an' roun' he whirled me like atop
An' when I se'ed a thousand stars, he sudden let me drop ;
He took me an' he shook me, till I tho't that I should die,
He swished me with his ruler, till my pants were nearly dry,
While big Philetus Phinney he wuz jest too scared to laugh,
He let the teacher thrush me till I bellered like a calf.
An' all the other fightin' kids sat with white an' frightened
looks,
'A shakin in ther very boots an' 'ras'lin with the'r books ;
An' oh, how hard they steddied—not a feller spoke or stirred—
They didn't dar' to whisper, er to say a single word,
Whar is thet little teacher thet guv me sech a scare?
He still is peaked lookin'—he's settin' over thar'—
An' tho' he's nearly seventy, an' sickly yet, I vow,
I'd hate to hev him git those hands o' his'n on me now.
He taught me one great lesson by that fioggin' in his school;
That a braggart un' a bully ar' a coward an' a fool.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
45
CHAP THAT'S BEEN OVER TO BUNNON.
There's pride in his walk as he strolls through the streets,
His manner expresses elation,
He's hailed by every acquaintance he meets,
Who eye him with great admiration.
He's greeted by all with  old chappie, hello!
How are you ?  His answer is,  stunnin'
For such a reply is quite English, you know,
And he just has got over from Lunnon.
His clothing is cut in the last English style,
And it takes but a glance to discover,
From the toes of his shoes to the crown of his tile,
The chappie is English all over.
The bank of his knowledge of things he has seen,
In future he'll have quite a run on ;
If he dined with the Prince, if he talked with the King—
The chap that's been over to Lunnon.
He's hobnobbed with lords and with dukes dont'cher know?
And thus his friends envy he touches,
He's driven in tamden down famed Rotten Row,
And danced at a ball with a duchess.
He's been at the op'ra with countesses fair,
He won at the Derby ten pun' on
A racer he backed, "Ah, there's life over there ! 
Says the chap that's been over to Lunnon.
Of course he has met all the men that are great,
And with them familiarly chatted,
The painters and sculptors, the leaders of state,
And poets with locks long and matted.
He tells how his company by all was desired—
And when this loved theme he's begun on
He talks till the ears of his hearers are tired,
The chap that's been over to Lunnon.
46
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
THP HUMAN AUCTION.
Ho ! here are lives by the score to sell, up to the platform, gents
and bid.
Make me an offer, they'll pay you well, all of 'em ripe for the
coffin lid!
Here is a wowan-pinched and pale, plying her needle ifor daily
bread;
Give me a shirt for her ? more on sale, dying! gentlemen, dy-
ing! dead !
A family, six in number, here, fresh from a cellar in Somers'
Town;
Mother, her sixth confinement near, father and brats with
fever down.
'Twas pestilence spoke then, was it not ? an open sewer, I think
he said
Well, his offer shall buy the lot, dying! gentlemen—dying!
dead!
Now, good customers, here's a chance; a thousand men in the
prime of life,
Wielders of musket, sword and lance, armed and drilled for
the deadly strife.
General Warfare lifts his hand, a bullet for each, cries the gent
in red.
No offer but his, fast flows the sand, dying ! gentlemen—dying!
dead!
A body of toilers worn and weak, clerks and curates and writing
men,
Look at the flush on each sunken cheek, mark the fingers that
grasp the pen !
Come, good gentlemen, can't we deal ? has drudgery's eye for
bargains fled ?
He offers, at last, the price of a meal, dying ! gentlemen, dying!
dead!
IP THINGS WAS ONLY SICH.
A seedy old beggar asked alms of me
As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree,
He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul,
And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole,
As he sang a song to a dismal pitch,
With the burden "If things was only sich !
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
47
"If things was only sich, said he :
 You should see what a wonderful man I'd be;
No beggar I, by the wayside thrown,
But I'd live in a palace, and millions own,
And men would court me if I were rich—
As I'd be if things was only sich.
 If things was only sich, said he,
 I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea;
I would have a throne and be a king,
And rule the roost with a mighty swing—
I'd make a place in fame's bright niche—
I'd do it if things was only sich.
"If things was only sich, said he,
"Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree,
I'd clothe myself in dazzling garb,
I'd mount the back of the costliest barb,
And none should ask me wherefore or which—
Did it chance that things was only sich.
"If things was only sich, said he,
 I'd love the fairest, and they'd love me ;
Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart,
Might have borne with me life's better part;
But lost to me here, in poverty's ditch,
What were mine if things were only sich.
Thus the old beggar moodily sung.
And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.
I could but pity to hear him berate,
In dolorous tones, the decrees of fate,
That laid on his back its iron switch,
While he cried, "If things was only sich.'*
 If things was only sich !  e'en all
Might the past in sad review recall:
But little the use and little the gain.
Exhuming the bones of buried pain—
And whether we're poor or whether we're rich,
We'll say not,  If things was only sich.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
THE EITTEE GRAVE-
 It's only a little grave, they said,
 Only just a child that's dead ; 
And so they carelessly turned away
From the mound the spade had made that day.
Ah! they did not know how deep a shade
That little grave in our home had made.
I know the coffin was narrow and small,
One yard would have served for an ample pall;
And one man in his arms could have borne away
The rosebud and its freight of clay.
But I know that darling hopes were hid
Beneath that little coffin lid.
I knew that a mother had stood that day
With folded hands by that form of clay ;
I know that burning tears were hid
'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid;
And I knew her lip and cheek and brow
Were almost as white as her baby's now.
I knew that some things were hid away,
The crimson frock and wrappings gay,
The little sock and half-worn shoe,
The cap with its plumes and tassels blue ;
An empty crib with its covers spread
As white as the face of the sinless dead.
'Tis a little grave, but O, beware !
For world-wide hopes are buried there;
And ye, perhaps, in coming years,
May see like her, through blinding tears,
How much of light, how much of joy
Is buried with an only boy !
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
49
THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN.
I'll tell ye the story of a curious man,
To entertain you this evening I'll do what I can ;
He was a distant relation to bow-legged Sam,
His nose was as red as a sugar-cured ham,
And his name was Patrickardo McManahan.
But he had a queer and troublesome fault,
Eike a 2:40 trotter that has the spring halt,
He was quite absent-minded, and at certain times
He'd execute some peculiar unforseen monkeyshines
Caused by, as several of our learned physicians informed, the
powerful and non-committal properties combined together and
forming a sort of absent-mindedness or forgetfulness, as it were
—in other words, his brain was off its base.
Now, for instance, some mornings he'd arise from his bed,
And, in place of a hat, put a pail on his head:
Sometimes he'd imagine that he was the Mayor,
Or at work for the city as county wind weigher,
And he'd swell on his influence, wealth and high station.
With moral presumption and great exultation.
He'd speak with disdain on Chinese emigration,
And, at certain periods, would merit extreme approbation,
And all due to the unfortunate effects of being an absent-
minded man.
But he was known and respected all over the town,
In his elegent barouche he rode grandly around:
He thought at one time he was General Grant's son,
And fell in convulsions at the sound of a gun ;
He went to a picnic and got rather full,
And filled the bass drum with molasses candy pull;
Sang the Star Spangled Banner with the greatest of ease,
He read the Declaration of Independence from a flying trapeze,
He lost a $5000 diamond—the police tried to find it—
Well, if you believe that, why, your'e absent-minded.
But it was very seldom he got on a spree,
When he couldn't buy coffee, he always bought tea;
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He went to the circus, got drinking hard cider,
And thought he was one of the bare-back horse riders;
He split the tent open in making the leap,
And fell down on his neck about 200 feet,
With his eyes full of sawdust and very near blinded,
He says: Patrickardo McManahan, you must be absent-
minded.
Now, ye see, what a bother he had all the while,
He attempted to walk Dan O'Leary a mile :
He had a Spitz dog and a bull foundland pup,
And at eating and biting they both took the cup.
He'd speak of his learning and great education.
He was a burden to all through his hallucination:
Like Colonel Sellers, he always had a speculation.
He carried the banner or slept in the station,
The Beautiful Snow was his own creation ;
He was always expecting a bum nomination,
And—and—and—(Stop.)
I've forgotien the rest of this recitation. The same unfortu-
ate defect of being absent-minded.
CIVII< WAR
"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!
"Ah, Captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead.
There's music around when my barrel's in tune!
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the reeling dragoon.
"Now, rifleman, steal through the bush and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood,
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!
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"Oh, Captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette,
Eor he looked so like you, as he laid on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
' 'But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold :
An inch from the center my lead broke it's way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.
 Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket—'tis she,
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband—Hush ! soldier, 'twas heaven's decree,
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!
"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue—weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night—
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! 
THE FIREMAN.
The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls
Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent, falls :
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead,
And ready torpor wraps each sinking head.
Stilled is the stir of labor and of life;
Hushed is the hum and tranquilized the strife,
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears ;
The young forget their sports, the old their cares ;
The grave are careless ; those who joy or weep
All rest contented on the arm of sleep.
Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now,
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ;
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide,
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side ;
'Tis summer's eve; the soft winds scarcely rouse
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs ;
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And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone
Breathes to her heart a music like its own.
When, hark ! O horror ! what a crash is there !
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air ?
'Tis fire! 'tis fire! She wakes to dream no more;
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door;
The dun smoke eddies round ; and, hark ! that cry :
 Help ! help ! Will no one aid? I die, I die ! 
She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height,
She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight;
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play,
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey.
"Help! help! Will no one come?  She can no more,
But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor.
Will no one save thee ? Yes, there yet is one
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone ;
When all have fled, when all but he would fly,
The fireman comes to rescue or to die.
He mounts the stair—it wavers 'neath his tread;
He seeks the room, flames flashing round his head ;
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame,
And turns again to brave the raging flame.
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath ;
The falling timbers menace him with death ;
The sinking floors his hurried steps betray ;
And ruin crushes round his desperate way;
Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise,
Yet still he staggers forward with his prize ;
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! on I
Courage ! One effort more, and all is won !
The stair is passed—the blazing hall is braved ;
Still on ! yet on ! once more ! thank heaven, she's saved !
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THE FACE ON THE FLOOR.
'Trtas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which nearly filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square ;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
"Where did it come from? someone said. "The wind has
blown it in.
"What does it want?  another cried,  whisky, beer or gin? 
'' Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work—
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk.
The badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace—
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper
place ;
 Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts in so good a crowd
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
Gimme a drink—that's what I want—I'm out of funds you kn'w
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow ;
What ? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.
There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you one and all
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call;
Give you a song ? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past,
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are
going fast.
Say, give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do—
I 'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too ;
That ever I was a decent man, not one of you would think,
But I was, some four or five years back—Say, give us another
drink.
Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame ;
Five fingers—there, that's the scheme—and corking whisky, too
Well, here's luck, boys, and, landlord, my best regards to you.
You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;
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As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And, but for a blunder, should have made considerable wealth.
I was a painter—not one that daubs on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good
I worked hard at my canvass, and was bidding fair to rise,
And gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes,
I made a picture, perhaps jou've seen, 'tis called the Chase of
Fame,
It brought me a lot of money, and added to my name ;
And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.
Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me ;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven
Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live ;
With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor, and a wealth of chest-
nut hair ?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.
I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise,
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes
It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown
My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone ;
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.
That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile
I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while;
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye,
Come, laugh like me, 'tis only babes and women that should cry.
Say, boys, if you give me another whisky, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw, righthere, a picture of the face that drove me mad
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball
score—
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You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.
Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man ;
Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
With awful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
To be, or not to be, that is the question ;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them ! To die—to sleep—
No more ; and, by sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die—to sleep—
To sleep ! perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause ; there's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin ? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
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And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pith and moment.
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
THE NEGLECTED CHILD.
I never was a favorite—my mother never smiled
On me with half the tenderness that blessed her fairer child,
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, while fondled on her knee;
I've turned away to hide my tears—there was no kiss for me !
And yet I strove to please with all my little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy can rarely give offense,
But when my artless efforts met a cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself, in tears, upon her neck.
How blessed are the beautiful! love watches o'er their birth;
Oh! beauty, in my nursery I learned to know thy worth—
For even there, I often felt forsaken and forlorn,
And wished—others wished it too—I never had been born !
I'm sure I was affectionate—but in my sister's face
There was a look of love that claimed a smile, or an embrace,
But when I raised my lips, to meet the pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart—they spoke not in my eyes^
But oh ! that heart too keenly felt the anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form with gems and roses decked ;
I did not covet them ; but oft, when wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege of being so beloved.
But soon a time of triumph came—a time of sorrow, too—
For sickness o'er my sister's form her venomed mantle threw—
The features, once so beautiful, now wore the hue of death ;
And former friends shrank fearfully from her infectious breath.
'Twas then, unwearied, day and night I watched beside her bed
And fearlessly upon my breast I pillowed her poor head,
She lived—she loved me for my care ! my grief was at an end ;
I was a lonely being once, but now I have a friend.
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AN INTERVIEW.
Good evening, Judge, What is my business?
Just to ask a few questions of you
If I am permitted the freedom—
I'll take but a minute or two,
What for? Why, I'm a reporter
Of the Yellow Hullacaloo.
A libelous sheet? Has abused you?
Come, now, that is certainly queer;
We haven't been sued for a libel
More than seven times during the year,
And if anyone, Judge, has attacked you,
He must have been taking his beer.
Go on? So I will. You are running
For Congressman here in the Third;
There are some few charges against you,
Of which you have probably heard,
So I've called to inquire the foundation
Of these charges to which I've referred.
All lies! Oh, no doubt—but inform me
About that affiair at McCue's;
It's making a great deal of scandal,
To explain it you cannot refuse.
'Tis said you forged some of his paper
And had it run through by the Jews,
The public is also desirous
Of knowing to what an extent
You engaged in the fraudulent doings
Of the firm of Sharp, Skinnem & Bent—
Liabilities nearly a million,
And assets not worth a red cent.
How about taking bribes from the lawyers
To let all their clients go free?
Did you have a disgraceful connection
With Madamoiselle Jiggamaree,
And appear in the courtroom much drunker
Than a boiled owl could possibly be?
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Did you ever—Judge, what are you doing?
Come, come, let my collar alone!
That kick, I am morally certain
Has fractured my femoral bone—
I'll walk down the steps, if you'll let me—
Oh, Lord, what a solid flagstone!
MIX IT WITH THIM, DUGAN.
Pat Dugan got a kind invite to attend, one Friday night,
The Shamrock club's reunion, sharp at nine
He was not aware, you see, that the Cockney's coterie
Met in that self-same building at that time.
Till amongst them he appeared, for ould Oireland loudly ch'r'd
Down stairs they fired Dugan on his head,
Thro' a door, with force, went Pat, where the Shamrock
members sat,
Gaily singing, Hoist the green above the red.
Ev'ry Irish member there, wrenched a leg from off a chair,
They wrecked the chimney-place in search of bricks;
Quickly up the flight of stair they all crept with greatest care,
With Pat Dugan at the head of all the micks.
Pausing at the Cockney's door, they heard the Englishmen all
roar
Brittannia rules the wave! with might and vim;
The Irishmen could stand no more, with a crash down went
the door,
The Shamrocks shouting out as they piled in;
Mix it wid thim, Dugan! yelled big Dinny Coogan,
Soak it to thim—poke it to thim! hollered out Devine,
Don't waste a brick, screamed Clancy, we'll do th' trick up
fancy
The British lion takes water whin the Shamrocks fall in line.
'Twas a most delightful fight which occurred that Friday night,
In a badly battered shape the Britons fled;
But their President was game till little Pat McShane,
Broke a statue of King Edward on his head.
They tore down the English flag, and ripped it like a rag,
And nailed old Erin's emblem on the shelves;
Whin th' cops rushed in th' hall, the Shamrocks large and small
Like maniacs, were fighting, 'mongst themselves.
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With the cops they had a bout, Kelly turned the lights all out,
You can't tell friend from foe in darkness deep;
So a Shamrock with a brick, often soaked a fellow mick,
'Twas thus that O'Brien put Dugan fast asleep.
Dugan's missed, there's no mistake, but he had a lovely wake,
His portrait now adorns the clubroom wall;
Vet'rans of that famous fight meet each year that very night,
And gazing on his phiz, these words recall,
Mix it wid thim, Dugan, yelled big Paddy Coogan,
Soak it to thim, poke it to thim! hollered out Devine;
Don't waste a brick, cried Clancy, we'll do the trick up fancy,
The British lion takes water whin the Shamrocks fall in line.
THE GALLEY SLAVE.
There lived in France, in days not long now dead,
A farmer's sons—twin brothers, like in face;
And one was taken in the other's stead
For a small theift, and sentenced in disgrace
To serve for years a hated galley slave,
Yet said not a word his prized good name to save.
Trusting remoter days would be more blessed,
He set his will to wear the verdict out,
And knew most men are prisoners at best
Who some strong habit ever drag about
Like chain and ball: then meekly prayed that he
Rather the prisoner he was should be.
But best resolves are of such feeble thread,
They may be broken in temptation's hands,
After long toil the guiltless prisoner said:
"Why should I thus, and feel life's precious sands
The narrow of my glass, the present, run,
For a poor crime that I have never done?
Such questions are like cups, and hold reply;
For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled,
And gained the country road, and hastened by
Brown furrowed fields and skipping brooklets, fed
By shepherd clouds, and felt 'neath sapful trees,
The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze.
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Then, all that long day having eaten naught,
He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife
A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought,
She gave it to him; but as he quaffed the life,
Dewn her kind face he saw a single tear
Pursue its wet and sorrowful career.
Within the cot he now beheld a man
And maiden, also weeping. "Speak, said he,
"And tell me of your grief; for if I can,
I will disroot the sad tear-fruited tree.
The cotter answered: "In default of rent
We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent.
Then said the galley slave: "Whoso returns
A prisoner escaped may feel the spur
To a right action, and deserves and earns
Proffered reward. I am a prisoner!
Bind these, my arms, and drive me back my way,
That your reward the price of home may pay.
Against his wish the cotter gave consent,
And at the prison gate received his fee,
Though some made it a thing for wonderment
That one so sickly and infirm as he,
When stronger would have dared not to attack,
Could capture this bold youth and bring him back.
Straightway the cotter to the mayor hied
And told him all the story, and that lord
Was much affected, dropping gold beside
The pursed sufficient silver of reward;
Then wrote his letter in authority,
Asking to set the noble prisoner free.
There is no nobler, better life on earth
Than that of conscious, meek self-sacrifice,
Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth
And holy work, made His sublime disguise,
Teaching this truth, still rarely understood;
'Tis sweet to suffer for another's good.
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NEVER GIVE UP.
Never give up—it is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetters,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care.
Never give up, or the burden may sink you—
Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
And in all trials and troubles bethink you,
The watchword of life is, never give up!
Never give up! there are chances and changes,
Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one,
And through the chaos, High Wisdom arranges
Ever success, if you'll only hold on.
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest
Is the stern watchword of never give up!
Never give up, though the grapeshot may rattle,
Or the full thundercloud over you burst;
Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
Never give up! if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
And the best counsel in all your distresses
Is the brave watchword of never give up 1
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 children always vexed;
You couldn't tell jist whin or where that goat would pop up nixt.
Now you can bet your coat that if there's fun afloat
The neighbors charge the divilment to Tim O'Grady's goat,
Wid goons an' sticks an' knives the hoosbands an' the wives
Have thried most all their lives to find and kill O'Grady's goat.
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Ould Missis Casey stood one day, the dirty clothes to rub
Upon the washboard, whin she dived headfosht o'er the tub;
She lit upon her back an' yelled as she was lyin' flat,
"Go, git a gun an' kill the baste—O'Grady's goat doon that.
Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash upon the line to dry;
She went 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 for havin' foon,
Whin suddinly there was a crash, an' everybody roon!
The iseter soup fell on th' floor, an' nearly drowned the cat,
The stove was knocked in smithereens—O'Grady's goat doon
that.
Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea, both standin' at the gate,
An' they wor jist about to kiss aich other sly and schwate:
They coom together like two rams an' mashed their noses flat,
They never spake as they go by—O'Grady's goat doon that.
O'Hooleran brought home a keg av dannymite wan day,
To blow a cisthren in the yard, an' hid the stuff away;
But suddintly an airthquake coom! O'Hooleran, house an' hat
An' iverything in sight wint up—O'Grady's goat doon that.
The folks in Grady's neighborhood all live in fear and fright,
They think it's certain death to go around there after night;
An' in their schlape they see a ghost upon the air afloat,
An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: "Look out for Grady's
goat.
Wan Winter mornin' whin the snow was deep upon the ground
Men, women, children—in a crowd—were sad and standin'
round
Th' form of wan, cold, stiff or dead, an' sticking down his throat
Was Mag McGinty's boostle fasht—thas's indade O'Grady's
goat.
A DRUNKARD'S DREAM.
I passed through a cavern gaping wide, festooned with snakes
on every side,
Whose glistening eyes with vemon gleamed, and from whose
mouth blue vapor streamed.
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And further down, as on I passed, the cave grew smaller, till
at last
I had to stoop and slowly creep on hands and knees, my way
to keep.
But still, impelled by hidden power, I crawled along in that
dread hour—
Which seemed to me like months and years, and filled me
with tormenting fears.
In moldering heaps on every side lay skulls, with orbits glar-
ing wide,
And grinning jaws that seemed to mock as I crept from slimy
rock to rock;
And, ever screaming in my ears, the vampires flew, their
maddening jeers
Thickening the air like Stygian night, and o'er the senses
casting blight,
And, leaping madly in their flight, against my face ghast toads
did light;
And, crawling o'er my palsied hands, great lizards left their
slimy bands;
Anon the shrieking demons rent the stifling air, and through
me sent
Such thrills of horror and sickening dread, as never crazed
a mortal's head.
Then suddenly, by hands unseen, before my eyes was passed
a screen
On which in letters bold there stood the drunkard's doom, in
words of blood
"Ne'er to the drunkard shall be given a crown of glory bright
in heaven,
But in the d'kest pit of hell his black'nd soul shall ever dwell.
This vanished; but the pageant dread went ever on. Now
o'er my head
A ghastly gleam of sulph'rous light burst on my view and
made the night
In that dread cave even darker seem; yt by its fitful, flicker-
ing gleam,
Just there before my eyes I saw a form that filled my soul
with awe,
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Shrivelled, ghastly, gaunt, it lay upon the ground; its hair
was gray
And furrowed deep its pallid cheek; then, rising; up it tried
to speak,
But with the effort backward fell, and rent the air with such
a yell
As froze the marrow in my bones, and then, with agonizing
tones
It moaned and groaned: "Despair! despair! oh, drunkard,
backward turn, beware!
Dash down the curs'd, poison'd cup before it burns thy spirit
UP- . . ,
Then came a calm and all was still, save that a shining, silv ry
rill
That tinkled by 'neath shady trees, refreshed my eyes and
cooled the breeze,
Then kneeling by that brook I prayed: "Oh! Heavenly Father,
who hast made
This sparkling water, hear my prayer, and save my soul from
dark despair,
Oh, give me strength to withstand in this dread hour the
tempter's hand;
Oh, grant I may once more be a man from liquor's slavery
free.
Then, bending o'er the brook, I quaffed from that refreshing
stream a draught
And once more saw the gleam of day—without was peace—
within, Hope's ray.
Do you ever stop to consider what small things we are
upon this earth? Here today, gone tomorrow. Where do we
come from, whither do we go? Who knows?
Fat gentleman (gasping.)—W-what do you m-mean by—
m-making m-me run after the car so? I'll p-probably—die
of—apoplexy!
Polite conductor.—Yes sir. Transfer to some car going
past the morgue, sir?
She—Now, what would you do, George, if you were left
a widower?
He—Oh, I suppose pretty much the same as you would do
if you were left a widow.
She—Oh, you wretch! And you always told me you could
never love anybody else.
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NAMING THE BABY.
They gather in solemn council, the chiefs in the household band,
They sit in the darkened chamber, a conclave proud and grand;
They peer in the curtained chamber, and each with one voice
exclaim
As they point to the new-found treasure, "the baby must
have a name!
They bring forth names by the dozen, with many an anxious
look
They scan all the tales and novels, they search through the
good Old Book;
Till the happy-voiced young mother now urging her prior claim,
Cries out in fondest accents: "O ! give him a pretty name!
"His grandpa was Ebenezer, long buried and gone, dear soul,
Says the tender voice of granny, as the quiet teardrops roll,
"O, call him Eugene Augustus, cries the y'ngest of the throng
"Plain John, says the happy father, "is an honest name and
strong.
And thus is the embryo statesman, or, perhaps the soldier bold,
Respecting his future title left utterly out in the cold;
And yet it can matter but little to him who is heedless of fame.
For no name will dishonor the mortal if the mortal dis-
honors the name.
REUBEN FISHER'S FAITH.
Old Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane,
Was never in life disposed to complain;
If the weather proved fair, he thanked God for the sun,
And if it were rainy, with him, 'twere all one—
"I have just the weather I fancy, said he;
"For what pleases God always satisfies me.
If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark,
And his eye never lost its happiest spark;
 'Twill not better fix it to gloom or to sigh,
To make the best of it I always shall try !
So, care, do your worst, said Reuben, with glee,
"And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall see.
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If his children were wild, as children will prove,
His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love;
"My dear wife, he'd say, "don't worry nor fret;
'Twill all be right with the wayward ones yet;
'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way;
They'll penitent turn from their evil some day.
If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,
"Well, well; we'll not join in the cry, anyway;
There are always two sides to every tale—
And the true one at last is sure to prevail.
There is an old rule that I learned when a lad—
Deem everyone good till he's proved to be bad.
And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound,
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,
Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught,
"We none of us do half as well as we ought.
If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile—
"Well, if they must go, Heaven bless them the while;
We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met,
And though we have parted I'll cherish them yet;
They will go their way, and I will go mine—
Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join.
There was sickness and death at last in his cot,
But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not;
' 'Tis the Father afflicts; let Him do what He will;
What comes from His hand can mean us no ill;
I cheerfully give back the blessings He lent,
And through faith in the future find present content.
Then he lay on his deathbed at last undismayed,
No terror had death at which he was afraid;
"Living or dying, 'tis all well with me,
For God's will is my will, submissive said he.
And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace,
That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face.
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THE YOUNG TRAMP.
Hello, thar, stranger? Whar yer from?
Come in and make yerself to hum.
We're common folks, ain't much on style;
Come in and stop a little while;
'Twont do no harm ter rest yer some
Youngster, yer pale, and don't look well;
What, way from Bosting? Naow, do tell,
Why, that's a hundred miles or so;
What started yer, I'd like ter know,
On sich a tramp; got goods to sell?
No home, no friend? Naow, that's too bad;
Wall, cheer up, my boy, and don't get sad,
Wife, see what yer can find to eat,
And put the coffee on ter heat—
We'll fix yer up all right, my lad.
Willing ter work, can't get a job,
And not a penny in your fob;
Wall naow, that's rough, I do declare.
What, tears? Come, youngster, I can't bear
Ter see yer take on so and sob.
How came yer so bad off, my son?
Father was killed? Shot, whar? Bull Run?
Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad,
And got used up, too, pretty bad;
I shan't forget old 'sixty-one.
So yer were left in Bosting, hey?
A baby when he went away.
Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife;
Yer know one of 'em saved my life,
Else I would not be here to-day.
'Twas when the "Black Horse Cavalcade
Swept down on our small brigade;
I got the shot that made me lame,
When down on me a trooper came,
And this 'ere chap struck up his blade.
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Poor fellow! He was stricken dead;
The trooper's sabre cleaved his head.
Joe Billings was my comrade's name,
He was a Bosting boy, and game;
I almost wished I'd died, instead.
Why, lad, what makes you tremble so?
Your father! what, my comrade Joe?
And you his son? Come to my heart;
My home is yours; I'll try in part
To pay his boy the debt I owe.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
By the flow of the inland river, wh'ce the fl'ts of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, asleep on the
ranks of the dead—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the one, the Blue; under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory, those in the gloom of defeat;
All with the battle-blood gory, in the dusk of eternity meet—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the laurel, the Blue; under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours the desolate mourners go,
Loving laden with flowers, alike for the friend and the foe—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the roses, the Blue; under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor, the morning sun-rays fall,
With a t'ch impartially tender, on the blos'ms bloom'g for all—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
'Broidered with gold, the Blue; mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth on the forest and field of grain.
With an equal murmur falleth the cooling drip of rain—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue; wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with unbraiding, the generous deed was done;
In the storm of the y'rs that are fad'g no br'v'r battle was
won—
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the blossoms, the Blue; under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever, or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever when they laurel the graves
of our dead;
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the Judgement Day,
Love and tears, for the Blue; tears and love for the Gray.
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THE TOAST.
Pop! went the gay cork flying, sparkled the gay champagne;
By the light of a day that was dying he filled up their goblets
again.
"Let the last, best toast be woman—woman, d'r woman! said
he
"Empty your glass, my darling, when you drink to your sex
with me.
But she caught his strong brown fingers and held him tight
as in fear,
And through the gathering twilight her voice fell on his ear:
"Nay, ere you drink, I implore you, by all that you hold divine
Pledge a woman in teardrops rather by far than in wine!
By the woes of the drunkard's mother, by his children who
beg for bread,
By the fate of her whose beloved one looks on the wine when
'tis red,
By the kisses changed to curses, by the tears more bitter
than brine,
By many a fond heart broken—pledge no woman in wine.
What has wine brought to woman ? nothing but tears and pain,
It has torn from her heart her love, and has proven her
prayers in vain;
And her household goods all scattered, lie tangled up in vine,
O ! I prithee, pledge no woman in the curse of so many—wine!
THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silver and gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold;
Joy revelled around her—love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.
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She felt in her spirit the summons of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose queenly like Mary, and answered, "I come.
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved—
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.
Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretches' retreat
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.
Those feet that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;
Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem,
Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them.
That voice that once echoed the song of the vain,
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;
And the hair that was shining with diamonds and pearl,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.
Her down bed—a pallet; her trinkets—a bead;
Her lustre—one taper that serves her to read:
Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed,
Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head.
Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees,
Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified there.
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.
Yet not to service of heart and of mind,
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined,
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
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She strengthens the weary—she comforts the weak.
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affection on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.
Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tinted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.
Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.
Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men—
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-minded maid.
THE SURGEON'S TALE.
'Twas a dark December evening loud the blast and bitter cold,
Downward came the whirling waters, deep and black the
river rolled.
Not a dog beneath the tempest—not a beggar upon his beat:
Wind and rain and cold and darkness swept thro' every desert
street.
Muffled to the teeth, that evening I was struggling in the storm
Through pestilent lanes and hungry alleys; suddenly an
ancient form
Peered from out a gloomy doorway, and with trembling
croak, it said:
"In the left-hand empty garret you will find a woman—dead.
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Never stepped a finer creature when she was a simple maid;
But she did like many another—loved a man and was betrayed,
I have seen her in her carriage riding, diamonds in her hair,
And I've seen her starving—starving, do you hear?—and now
—she's there!
Up the worn and slippery stair with a quickened pulse I sprung
Famine, filth and mean despair round about the darkness hung
No kind vision met my glances, friend or helper of the poor;
So the crazy room I entered and looked down upon the floor.
There on the rough and naked boards a long, gaunt, wasted
figure lay,
Murdered in its youth, by hunger, all its beauty wrinkled clay,
Life's poor wants had left her nothing, clothes nor fuel—food
nor bed,
Nothing—save some ragged letters, whereon lay the ghastly
head,
Nothing—yet what more could pity crave for one about to die,
Than sweet words from one she worshipped—sweet, though
every word a lie !—
In the morning of her pleasure, in the midnight of her pain,
They were all her wealth and comfort, treasured—ay, and not
in vain.
And with her now they lie moldering, and a date upon a stone,
Tellest where to end the story, love's poor outcast sleeps alone,
Mourn not; for at length she sleepeth the soft slumber of
the dead,
Resting on her loved love letters—last fit pillow for her head,
Verdict—"Found Dead.
"Doc, I want you to diagnose my case as appendicitis.
"But you haven't got appendicitis.
"I know it; but the report that I can afford it will help my
financial standing a whole lot.
"My man, inquired the judge before passing sentence,
"why did you swindle people who placed confindence in you?
"Because, your honor, was the graceless reply, "it was just
impossible to swindle people who wouldn't confide in me.
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GETTING RIGHT UP.
"Now, wake me up at six o'clock, he said on going to bed;
"Tomorrow is my busy day, I'll get right up, he said.
His patient wife, who previously experiments had tried,
Said nothing—only looked at him, and sadly, softly sighed.
The night passed on; the morning came. At six she said:
"My own,
It's six o'clock. You know you said— he grunted, "Lemme
'lone!
At seven she gently tried again, but once again without
The slightest semblance of success—he only snapped "Get
out!'
She thought he swore at eight o'clock, and gave up trying then
And he whose busy day it was got up at half-past ten.
Then came the tide of bitterness that overflowed her cup;
For he remarked: "What! half-past ten? why didn't you
wake me up?
THE ROLE CALL.
"Corporal Green! the Orderly cried,
"Here! was the answer, loud and clear,
From the lips of the soldier who stood near—
And "Here was the word 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 hillsides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grow,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
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For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire—
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
 Herbert Kline !  at the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
"Ezra Kerr ! and a voice answered,  Here ! 
"Herman 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 to the roadside his body lies ;
I paused a moment and gave him 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 at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered  Here! 
THE DYING UMPIRE.
An umpire of the league nines lay dying at the plate,
And the gory rocks about him told the story of his fate.
He had made a rank decision, and the crowd, in frenzy deep,
Had shuffled off his mortal coil by rocking him to sleep.
The catcher stood beside him as his life blood ebbed away,
And swung his bat with vigor to keep the crowd at bay.
The dying umpire beckoned, and the captain of the nine
Beat over him in sorrow, for he feared another fine.
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But the umpire's words came feebly as the crisis was at hand,
His dimmed eyes was soon to open in a brighter, fairer land.
Then he whispered low and sadly, "Call the game, it's getting
dark;
Let it end on even innings, so the last run do not mark.
"I have finished watching bases; I am numbered with the slain,
And the cry of 'rats' will never echo in my ears again.
"Place my hand upon the home plate; let me have my little
mask;
Frame a set of resolutions; this is all I have to ask. 
The dying umpire faltered, his face turned toward the sun,
One gasp and all was over; it was his last home run.
They buried him at twilight in a hole they quickly made,
And no stone marks the lonely spot where the weary umpire's
laid.
WARNED IN A DREAM.
Last night I dosed in my easy chair,
For my active brain was tired ;
And she came and stood beside me there—
The girl I long desired.
I knew that this was another life,
And it seemed more old and strange,
For she said, like a real and loving wife,
 Say, Harry, I want some change.
She told me the bab)T had a rash,
And the cook was drunk all day :
She spoke of her urgent need for cash,
And the bills she had to pay.
She said that Tommy had hurt his knee,
And Bessie had had a fall,
And I might stop to-morrow and see
If the doctor could not call.
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She owned that Johnny had grown too large
For her to correct him any more ;
And would I kindly take him in charge,
And investigate why he swore ?
She said there where holes in the kitchen sink,
And the skylight leaked again,
And Bowers, the plumber, didn't think
The boiler would stand the strain.
She asked me what was the price of wheat,
And hinted I should have known
Enough to keep away from the street,
And to let "such things  'lone !
In her calm, persistent way, she spoke
Again of the butcher's bill;
And then with a lucky start, I woke—
A  lonely bachelor  still!
THEY DIED TOO SOON.
George Washington was President and honored in his day,
He was the father of the land, and all things came his way ;
He had a basketful ot fun, a wagonload of fame—
But he never was a rooter at a baseball game.
Napoleon conquered half the world, and had a crown of gold,
And in his time his cup was just as full as it could hold.
It looks from here as though he should have had his share of
fun
But he never strained his vocals when the home team won.
And also Julius Csesar, who had his share of sport,
He won a score of battles and always held the fort,
He killed off lots of people, regardless of the cost—
But he never slugged the umpire when the home team lost.
And also Alexander, he turned most every trick,
And then shed tears because there were no more worlds to lick
He climbed 'way up the ladder, as high as people get—
But he never pawned his scepter to pay a baseball bet.
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
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JOB.
We don't take vagrants in, sir, and I'm alone to-day,
Leastwise, I could call the good man—he's not so far away.
Your'e welcome to a breakfast—I'll bring some bread and tea;
You might sit on the old stone yonder, under the chestnut tree.
You're travelling, stranger? mebbe you've got some notions to
sell?
We hev a sight of peddlers, but we allers treat them well.
For they, poor souls, are trying like the rest of us to live;
An' it's not like tramping the country, calling on folks to give.
Not that I meant a word, sir—no offense in the world to you ;
I think, now I look at it closer, your coat is an army blue.
Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? That was how many
1 years ago ?
I had a boy at Shiloh, Kearney—a sergeant—Joe !
Joe Kearney, you might a' met him ? but in course, you were
miles apart,
He was a tall, straight boy, sir, the pride of his mother's heart.
We were off to Kittery, then sir, small farm in dear old Maine;
It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, but I couldn't go back
again.
He was all we had, was Joseph ; he and my old man and me
Had sort o' growed together, and were happy as we could be.
I wasn't a-lookin' for trouble, when the terrible war begun,
And I wrestled for grace to be able to give up our only son.
Well, well, 'tain't no use o' talking, my old man said, said he;
"The Lord loves a willin' giveran' that's what I tried to be.
Well, the heart and the flesh are rebels, and have to be fought
with grace;
But I'd given my life-yes, willin-to look on my dead boy's face.
Take care, you are spillin' your tea, sir, poor soul! don't cry,
I'm sure
You've had a good mother, sometime—your wounds, were they
hard to cure ?
Andersonville ? God help you ! Hunted by dogs did you say ?
Hospital! crazy seven years sir? I wonder you're living to-day.
I'm thankful my Joe was shot, sir. "How do you know that
he died?
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'Twas certified, sir. by the surgeon, here's the letter, and may-
be he lied!
Well, I never ! you shake like the ager. My Joe ! there's his
name and the date ;
"Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant—lies here in a critical
state—
Just died, will be buried to-morrow—can't wait for his parents
to come.
Well, I thought God had left us that hour, as for John, my poor
man, he was dumb.
Didn't speak for a month to the neighbors, scarce spoke in a
week, sir, to me ;
Never been the same man since that Monday they brought us
this letter you see.
And you were from Maine ! from old Kittery ? what time in the
year did you go ?
I just disremember the fellows that marched out of town with
our Joe.
Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir, it's gettin' too warm
out o' door,
If I'd known you'd been agone for a sojer, I'd taken you in
here afore.
Now make yourself easy; we're humbler, we Kansas folk don't
go for show—
Sit here—it's Joe's chair—take your hat off; call father! My
God ! you are Joe !
STORY OF '98.
The soldier's in the market place, the Judge is in the town—
And Justice's stern-faced handmaid,Law, now wears her darkest
frown
'Tis the year of tears and trouble, the year of blood and hate.
Of blackened hearts and roofless homes—the year of 98.
For the prisoners to the court house,the soldiers clear the way,
The fate of two young lives shall be determined to-day,
Through surging crowds of clansmen the youthful rebels pass,
But not an arm is raised to save, 6tands mute each gallow glass.
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The people's heart is broken ; their hopes are dead and gone,
They hardly dare to breathe with sound, each face is scared and
wan i
For heavy as a thunderbolt, swift as a lightning flash,
Upon their patriot plot has fallen the English vengeance lash.
The land they thought with arms to free was but the faster bound,
The hearts, that freedom's hopes had raised, were dashed again
to ground.
The Judge is seated; round the court like statues soldiers stand;
The two whose doom this day shall fix are fettered hand in
hand.
Two noble youths with clear gray eyes; and glance that never
quails,
Their lips are set and bloodless, but their courage never fails,
And only when the Judas friend, less calmly far than they,
Stands in the box and faces them, do they at length give way,
Then the memory of the past springs up their souls to rend,
They curse the hour their trusting hearts called that black trai-
tor—  friend.
'Tis over now ; the foreman's lips have spoken the fatal word,
When from out that surging crowd a woman's voice is heard ;
"Ob! Judge, alanna ! Judge, asthore ! will I have lave to spake?
I'm all they have, God help thim ! their mother old and weak,
Himself is dead, my lord, for long, oh ! long, long years,
The love of them two boys is all a poor old woman cheers.
One's not my own. His mother died and left him but a babe—
But shure I love thim both, will ye save thim both, aroon? 
Then rose a murmur strong and deep, and all that anxious crowd
For mercy on the widow's sons prayed earnestly aloud,
The Judge was moved with pity, but duty tied him down,
He tried in vain to steel his heart, he tried in vain to frown.
"These men are your only stay? they toil that you may live?
The mercy that I can, I'll show, his life to one I'll give !
Take then, your choice—your husband's son, whose mother is
no more,
Or him, whom to the sire of both you in your bosom love.
A cruel choice ! a bitter task ! she bowed her aged head,
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Bitter tears coursed down her cheek, then looking up she said—
«' I thank you kindly, sir, my lord, but, oh ! my lord, 'tis hard !
How can I choose between the boy I bore and him I reared ?
Oh ! Judge, alanna! choose yourself, take which you will to s've
If I sent one to death I d not rest quiet in my grave! 
"Good woman, I can do no more, one dies ! 'tis right and just!
The life to spare depends on you, make your choice-you must!
One moment more, and then she spoke,  Mike, my darlin' boy
You know 'tis not I love you less, I'd die for you with joy !
But Cormac's mother's dead, asthore, he's none to take his part,
So—him—I choose ! Mike! this day it's broken is my heart!
His mother's dead, alanna, shure, 'tis you will see her soon,
Tell her, my-boy-I saved-her son ! God bless you, Mike,aroon !
A cheer rose from out the crowd, the Judge's eyes were dim,
'' Take thy sons, noble heart! thou shalt not weep for them !''
Then to the prisoners, "Go, he said, "if Irish hearts be true,
Learn that with justice English rule may mingle mercy, too ! 
CATALINE'S LAST HARANGUE TO HIS ARMY.
Brave comrades ! all is ruined ! I disdain
To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown !
And now, let each that wishes for long life
Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome.
Ye are all free to go—What! no man stirs!
Not one—a soldier's spirit in you all ?
Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes
Is womanish—'twill pass.) My noble hearts !
Well have you chosen to die ! For, in my mind,
The grave is better than o'erburthened life—
Better the quick release of glorious wounds,
Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues—
Better the spear head quivering in the heart,
Than daily struggle againsi fortune's curse—
Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood,
To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge
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In poverty, dull pain, and base decay—
Once more, I say—are ye resolved ?
Then each man to his tent, and take the arms
That he would love to die in—for, this hour
We storm the Consul's camp—A last farewell!
When we next meet, we'll have no time to look,
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance—
Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome !
Now to your cohort's heads—the word's—Revenge!
TEN MODERN COMMANDMENTS.
I. Thou shalt not go away from home to do thy trading, not
thy^son, nor thy daughter.
II. Thou shalt patronize thy home merchants, thy home
printer, for yea, verily, doth the home worker spread over the
tidings of the goodness and greatness, and many will patronize
thee.
III. Thou shalt employ thy home mechanics that they shall
not be driven from their homes to find bread for their little ones
IV. Thou shalt not ask for credit, as goods cost much and the
merchant's brain is burdened with bile. His children clamor
for daily bread, and his wife abideth at home for lack of garment
as adorneth her sister. Blessed, yea, thrice blessed is the man
who pays cash.
V. Thou shalt not ask for reduced price on thine'' influence,''
for guilt is in your heart, and the merchant readeth it like an
open book. He laugheth thee to scorn, and shouteth to his
clerks, ha, ha !
VI. Thou shalt doeth whatever lieth in thy power to encour-
age and promote the welfare of thine own neighorhood and
thine own people.
VII. Thou shalt not suffer voice of pride to overcome thee,
and if foreign merchants entice thee, consent thou not, for thou
mayest be deceived.
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VIII. Thou shalt spend thy earnings at home that they may
return from whence it came and give nourishment to such as
may come after thee.
IX. Thou shalt not bear false witness against the town where-
in thou dwelleth, but speak well of it to all men.
X. Thou shalt keep these commandments and teach them to
thy children even unto the third and fourth generations, that
they may be made to flourish and grow in plenty when thou art
laid to rest with thy fathers.
THE SIMPLE CHURCH.
I've been to quaker meeting, wife, and I shall go again,
It was so quiet and so neat, so simple and so plain ;
The angels seemed to gather there, from off ttie other shore.
And fold their wings in quietness, as tho' they'd been before.
The walls were free from painting and costly works of art,
That in our modern churches seem to play so large a part;
For it seems that all endeavor to please the eye of man,
And lose all thought of plainness in every church they plan.
The windows had no colored glass, to shed a gloom around.
But God's pale sunlight entered unrestrained and all unbound;
And centered in a little spot so bright it seemed to me
A glimpse of brightness somewhat like our future home will be.
There was no learned minister, who read as from a book,
And showed that he had practiced his every word and look;
But a sermon full of wisdom was preached by a Friend,
That took firm hold of our thoughts and held them to the end.
He used no long high-sonnding words, and had a sing-song way
In drawing out his sentences in what he had to say ;
But he told the truth and told it so that everyone who heard,
Felt the prompting spirit more than just the spoken word.
There was no pulpit decked with flowers of beauty rich and rare
And made ot foreign costly woods, almost beyond compare;
But plain and simple as the truths as we had that day heard,
The common painted gallery did much to help the word.
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83
There was no bustle, noise or stir, as each one took his seat,
But silence settled over all, so solemn and so sweet,
As each one in a quiet way implored for strength to know
The right and wrong in everything and asked the way to go.
It seemed when I was there, wife, so peaceful and so still,
That I was in God's presence, and there to do His will;
This simple, peaceful quiet did more to touch my heart
Than any worship yet had done, with all its show and art.
I'm going there again, wife, and you would like it, too ;
I know what it has done for me—'twill do the same for you;
And you, when entering through the plain but open door,
Will wonder why you've never tried that simple church before.
THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee!
The shackels ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder when the tempest mutter'd low
And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of his blow !
I've scared ye in the city, I've scalped ye on the plain ;
Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain !
I scorn your proffered treaty ! the pale-face I defy !
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and blood my battle cry!
Some strike for hope of booty, some to defend their all—
I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall;
I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan.
Ye've trailed me thro' the forest, ye've tracked meo'erth' str'm
Struggling thro' the everglade, your bristling bayonets gleam ;
But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of veng'nce still is red, and warns ye—Come not here
I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye,
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, and fight ye till I die!
I ne'er will ask ye quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, till I sink beneath its wave 1
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THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow is the picnic, and I may sleep late, I fear ;
I'd not lose that picnic, mother, for all the world in cash,
I want to praise my Maker and get my share of hash.
The girls will all take cake, mother, but I will take some pies,
For I am blessed greatly, and the last batch were good size ;
'Twill be a most refreshing season, out there in the wood,
With doughnuts, prayers, clams and hymns, and all such pre-
cious food.
The pastor spoke last night, mother, about our sinful souls,
He warned that the Lord loves not a stocking full of holes;
I've laid my heart where thieves do not break in and steal,
So pack the pies and plates, mother, while I sew up this heel.
We won't have dancing, mother, there is no such sin as this,
We'll wreathe sweet songs of tuneful praise, and stand around
and kiss;
The deacon will be there, mother, to scatter blessed pearls,
Along the road to perfect bliss, and hug the older girls.
So wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
I've so looked forward to the time, and now it's almost here!
Sometimes I think the Lord's too good to wicked girls like me,
And you bet I'll cut Sue Perkins out, or else I climb a tree!
The picnic's over, mother dear, and yet alive I am,
We went way up the river, and stopped below the dam ;
It didn't quite come off, mother, as I supposed it would,
The dinner rather petered out, but yet the prayers were good.
The pastor, bless his kindly heart, provided one surprise,
By playing leap-frog with the boys, and landing in the pies ;
And deacon Smiley, none so pure as he, crowned our despair,
By leading in the hymns with all the butter in his hair.
The other deacons lent their aid, to help the thing along,
With prayers and pickles here and there, sandwiches and song ;
And never people jwere more blessed, that passed beneath the rod
With mouths half full of pie and cheese and reverence for God.
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And when the lunch was finished we offered up a hymn
And then played Copenhagen until the day was dim ;
I never had such pious fun, in all my life before,
The brethern caught and kissed me until my mouth was sore.
And so the picnic's over, and yet alive I am,
In spite of holy exercise, lobster, hymns and ham,
I didn't cut Sue out, because it would have been a sin,
Besides, she didn't go, and so I raked her fellow in.
I'll always like these picnics, they get up once a year,
To bring together all the friends that hold each other dear;
They lead us onward to that picnic time among the blessed,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and give a girl a rest.
BILLY DOOLEY'S NIGHT.
The theatre was full and so were the actors
Bill Dooley was going to appear
That night in his far-famed slack wire clog
For he was the Pompey around here.
The barroom was completely filled with dead beats,
Who awaited a pleasant surprise ;
For they knew that they would eat when the curtain up,
And they longed for the curtain to rise.
Well, the curtain arose, and so did the people,
Who commenced to shout and hurrah ;
When Bill Dooley appeared as young Oliver Twist
They gave him the laugh and yah yah.
Well, the play it began when the curtain went up,
But something was wrong, I felt sure;
He's away off his base, said John Joseph Mansfield,
Who never went back on the poor.
A brick, yes it was ; and I saw Dooley start,
And carom on the dark red for two ;
And it made me feel thirsty to see how he worked,
Continually dropping his cue.
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He cried : I'm the king! when a woman jumped up
And said : You're no king ! but one of the gang,
And you owe me for washing. That knocked Dooley cold,
And his head on his breast it did hang.
At length the footlights he approached with a rush—
And, fellow free-lunchers, he said,
If I haven't drank whiskey enough to-night,
The fault is my wealth, not my head.
Many a time I have made you all sick,
And get up and go out for a beer ;
When me and Jim Stokes walked a mile in a week,
How I wish Dan O'Leary was here.
You insult me to-night, and say that I'm sober,
While for a beer or a lunch I may groan ;
But I'll tell you the truth—perhaps some of you'll treat,
I've a mother-in-law dead—drunk—at home.
WHEN FATHER RODE THE GOAT.
The house is full of arnica and mystery profound,
We do not dare to run about or make the slightest sound ;
We leave the big piano shut, and do not strike a note,
The doctor's been here seven times, since father rode the goat.
He joined the lodge a week ago—got in at four a. m.,
Sixteen brothers brought him home, tho' he says he bro't them
His wrist was sprained, and one big rip had rent his Sunday coat
There must have been a lively time when father rode the goat.
He's resting on the couch to-day, and practicing his signs,
The halting signal, working grip, and other monkeyshines;
Mutters passwords 'neath his breath, and other things he'll quote
They surely had an evening'6 work when father rode the goat.
He has a gorgeous uniform, all gold and red and blue,
A hat with plumes and yellow braid, and golden badges, too;
But somehow, when we mention it, he wears a look so grim,
We wonder if he rode the go./ or the goat rode him.
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AFTER THE BATTLE.
The drums are muffled, the bugles are still,
There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill;
And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill
Where sheaves of the dead bar the way ;
For a great field is reaped, Heaven's garners to fill,
And stern death holds his harvest to-day.
There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry ;
'Tis the muster roll sounding—and who shall reply
For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky,
With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly,
As they wait the last trumpet, which they may not defy!
Whose hands clutch the sword hilt so grimly.
The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed,
As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowed—
As the burial requiem is chanted aloud,
The groans of the death-stricken drowning,
While victory looks on like a queen pale and proud
Who awaits till the morning her crowning.
There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay ;
The vain pomps of peace time are all swept away,
In the terrible face of the dread battle day;
Nor coffins nor shroudings are here ;
Only relics that lay where thickest the fray—
A rent casque and a headless spear
Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe,
Like a storm wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow ;
With sound like their spirits that faint as they go
By the red-glowing river, whose waters
Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow
To the eyes of her desolate daughters.
They are fled—they are gone; but oh ! not as they came;
Jn the pride of those numbers they staked on the game,
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POPULAR RECITATIONS.
Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame,
Never lift the stained sword which they drew ;
Never more shall they boast of a glorious name,
Never march with the leal and the true.
Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn,
They stole on our ranks in the midst of the morn;
Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn,
Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky ;
From the flash of the steel a new daybreak seemed born,
As we sprang up to conquer or die.
The tumult is silenced ; the death lots are cast,
And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last;
Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast?
Would ye see it once more, oh, ye brave ?
Yes—the broad road to honor is red where ye passed,
And of glory ye asked—but a grave !
Every family has a skeleton in the cupboard except those that
live in a Chicago flat, they use all the cupboards for bedrooms.
When a girl tells you she does not know how to sing don't
coax her, because she may prove it.
Generally, the man that wakes up alter a night's sleep to find
himself famous, has been sleeping with one eye open.
It is not always the man who prays the loudest that has the
first cinch on passing the Heavenly gates.
No use wasting time in vain regrets: get up and do—your-
self, if nothing better turns up.
Everybody will supply sympathy for the mere asking—it is
such a cheap commodity.
The ethics of the horse trader :  every man is a wolf, except
the last lamb I sheared.
Don't strive for W ealth, you are only helping the lawyer's
game, after you are dead.
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89
IN THE MINING TOWN.
 'Tis the last time, darling, he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown,
 My own is the prettiest girl in town,
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king
So truly blest on his royal throne,
As I shall be when I claim my own?
'Twas a fond farewell; 'twas a sweet good bye,
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh,
So into the basket that swayed and swung
O'er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung,
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe
As they lowered him into the depths below,
Her sweet young face with its tresses brown,
Was the fairest face in the mining town.
Lo ! the morning came ; but the marriage bell
High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell
For the true heart buried 'neath the earth and stone,
Far down in the heart of the mire—alone.
A sorrowful peal, on their wedding day
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay,
And the face that looked from her tresses brown,
Was the saddest face in the mining town.
Thus time rolled along on its weary way,
Until fifty years with their shadows gray
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow,
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.
Oh ! never a kiss from a husband's lips,
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger tips,
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown
From the saddest heart in th e mining town.
Far down in the depths of the mine one day,
In the loosened earth they were digging away,
9°
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
They discovered a face, so young, so fair,
From the smiling lip to the bright, brown hair,
Untouched by the fingers of time's decay.
When they drew him up to the light of day
The wondering people gathered around,
To gaze at the man thus strangely found.
Then a woman came from among the crowd.
With long white hair and slight form bowed ;
She silently knelt by the form of clay,
And kissed the lips that were cold and gray,
Then; the sad, old face with its snowy hair,
On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there,
He had found her at last, his waiting bride,
And the people buried them, side by side.
CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE
Dead! is it possible ? He, the bold rider,
Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,
Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,
Shunning our battle king's ringlets of light!
Dead ! our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken?
No one to tell us the way of his fall!
Slain in the desert, and never to waken,
Never, not even to victory's call!
Comrades, he's gone; but ye need not be grieving ;
No, may my death be like his when I die !
No regrets wasted on words I am leaving,
Falling with brave men, and face to the sky.
Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it;
Fame is eternal, and better than all;
Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it,
Glory can hollow the fragments that fall.
Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!
All the night long he had been on their track,
Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,
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Wild for a charge that should never give back.
There on the hilltop he halted and saw them—
Lodges all loosened and ready to fly ;
Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,
Told of his coming, before he was nigh.
All the wide valley was full of their forces,
Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,
Warriors running in haste to their horses,
Thousands of enemies close to his feet!
Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,
There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey
Numbers ! What recked he ? What recked those who fol'w'd
Men who had fought ten to one ere that day ?
Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred
Into the battle line, steady and full;
Then down the hillside exultingly thundered
Into the hordes of the old Sitting Bull!
Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,
Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,
Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,
Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux.
Right to their centre he charged, and then, facing—
Hark to those yells? and around them, oh, see!
Over the hilltops the devils come racing,
Coming as fast as the waves of the sea !
Red ,was the circle of fire about them ;
No hope of victory, no ray of light,
Shot through that terrible black cloud without them,
Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.
Then, did he blanch ? Did he die like a craven,
Begging those torturing fiends for his life ?
Was there a soldier who carried the Seven
Elinch like a coward, or fled from the strife ?
No! by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!
There, in the midst of the devils they close,
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Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing.
Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes.
Backward again and again they were driven,
Shrinking to close with the lost little band;
Never a cap that had worn the bright seven
Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand,
Closer and closer the death circle growing,
Even the leader's voice, clarion clear,
Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,
"We can die but once, boys, but sell your lives dear!
THE ALDERMAN'S RETROSPECT.
In vain the board with silver groans and fumes of turtle rise,
He only heaves a sigh and moans, as each new dish he tries;
For Indigestion mounts her seat and Appetite departs;
Ah ! happy days when he could eat a quarter's worth of tarts.
Go hide the capon from his sight, remove the ris-de-veau
For every taste he takes to-night increases gastric woe,
Now, back o'er many a distant day his wand'ring fancies run;
A lanky lad he puts away two pounds of underdone.
Lo! o'er his thin-stemmed goblet's brim the sparkling nectar
creams
Its lips are left unkissed by him, he bows his head and dreams,
Once more at night a hungry boy, he leaves his master's snop,
And sups upon a wienerwurst, washed down by ginger pop.
A friendly nudge prevents the snore that rises to his nose;
He picks his napkin from the floor, and shifts his gouty toes,
Yet still his thoughts will backward flee, and, racked by many
a pain,
He'd give his hard-earned wealth to be that hungry boy again.
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93
CASEY AT THE BAT.
Recited by De Wolf Hopper.
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that
day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to
play;
And so when Cooney died at first and Burroughs did the
same,
A sickly fear came o'er the patrons of the game.
A few got up to go, but on the other hand the rest
Stayed with that hope that springs eternal in the human
breast.
They thought if only Casey could get a whack at that
They'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey and so did Jimmy Blake;
The former was a hoodoo, the latter was a cake;
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.
And when the dust had risen and they saw what had oc-
curred,
There was Blake safe on second and Jimmy hugging third;
Then from the maddened thousands there went up such
a yell,
It thundered on the mountain top, it recoiled upon the
flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his
place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's
face;
POPULAR RECITATIONS.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed
his hat.
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the
bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands
with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on
his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his
hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's
lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hustling through
the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style, said Casey. "Strike one, the
umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a
muffled roar,
Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant
shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire! shouted some one on the
stand,
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey
raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage
shone;
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid
flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike
two!
"Fraud! cried the maddened thousands, and echo an-
swered ' 'Fraud!''
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95
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was
awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his mus-
cles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by
again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clinched
in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the pl^.te;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining
bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are
light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children
shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck
out.