f: y :'■'''%}.,, ::. ■ " 'm''> '..•■>ijr • '^ • . > ' ' ' ' . ' 'It' ■ ' ■•'••.;;it Class _i Book ^ GopyriglitN!* ^L^iL CCHQRIGHT DEPOSm \ OUR FAVORITES OVR FAFORITE POETS AND POEMS OLD AND NEIV THEIR HOMES FULLY DESCRIBED AND ILLUSTRATED POEMS AND SONGS WITH A HISTORY FAVORITE THOUGHTS BEAUTIFULLY TOLD COMPILED BY MRS. GEN. O. C. MAXWELL llUuetrate^ SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION Star Publishing Company NEW YORK CITY V \ Copyright, j8gi By W. T. KIGHTLINGER MANUFACTURED BY STAR PUBLISHING COMPANY New York City t> INTRODUCTION, In " Our Favorites " we have mtrodnced all lovers of lit- erature into a charmed circle of reading that will please, fascinate, and instruct. In the poems nothing that could in the slightest degree prove objectionable has been ad- mitted, while many of them are those that have exhilarated and intoxicated the human family for many years past, and will continue to do so for ages to come. We have also gathered numerous sweet and tender poems, that in a mo- ment of inspu'ation were breathed out from obscure sources into an immortal Uterary life. We have about fifty of these poems that have never been in book form, all pure in language, lofty in sentiment, bright and sparkling. These productions have just as firm a hold on the affections of the people as have the utterances of the old masters. Indeed, a wide scope of " Favorites " of to-day could not be brought together without these selections. Our " Favorites' Homes " take us right into the home life of our writers, and nothing could make their writings of more interest to us than to know their home and sur- roundings. It is an entirely new feature, and one we know win be found as instructive and attractive as it is new. ■». INTBODUCTION. The departmentj " History of Song and Verse," is posi- tively enchanting. Even an ordinary production is set afire with interest when we find hidden behind it a history of love, patriotism, or sacrifice ; then how much greater must be this charm when given a production that is already a favorite. The selections under that head are highly interesting and instructive, and a feature of the book that must please the most skeptical. The closing pages of " Favorite Thoughts " are beautifully adapted for memorizing or album verses. All in all, it has been the aim to make quite complete these different thoughts and thus in one volume give, to those who feel they have not time and means for a more extended research, a comprehensive scope in these different fields of literature. With this introduction we send our work forth upon its mission, coupled with the earnest wish that the pleas- ure of its perusal may equal that resulting from its prep- aration. Dayton, 0., June 1, 1891. CONTENTS HOMES, AND HISTOKIC POEMS. America, 279 Bryant, William Cullen, 31 Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy, . . Joseph Hart, 236 Darling Nellie Gray, Ben R. Haraby, .... 267 Evangeline, 260 Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah, . . William WilHams, . . . 229 Hold the Fort, 291 Holmes, Oliveb Wendell, 59 I Want to be an Angel, Mrs. Sidney P. Grill, . . 243 Jesus, My All to Heaven is Gone, . . . John Cennick, .... 235 Lord, Dismiss Us With Thy Blessing, . Walter Shirley, . . . .238 Longfellow, Henry W., 15 Lowell, James Kussell, 25 Nearer, My God To Thee, Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, 240 ©"Eeilly, John Boyle, 69 Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow, Thomas Ken, 234 Sweet By-and-By, 249 Suwanee Eiver, Stephen C Foster, . . . 250 Taylor, Bayard, 51 Watchman, Tell Us of the Night, . . . Sir John Bowring, . . . 242 Whittieb, John G-, - . 41 OUE FAVOEITES. A Friendly Hand, Constitution, 305 Ain't He Cute, 151 After The Burial, Henry W. Ijongfellow, . . 253 Alone, Robert J. Burdette, . . . 144 All Hallow E'en (Illustrated), 149 All Hail The Power Of Jesus' Name, . . Edward Perronet, . . . 232 An Order, Mrs. Sarah De W. Gamivell, 196 Annabel Lee, Edgar Allen Poe, . . . 206 An Order for a Picture, AU^e Gary, Annie's and Willie's Prayer, 181 t CONTENTS. An August Rime, Sden Chase, 115 A Prisoner for Debt, John G. Wkittier, . . . 256 A Parody, 341 Asleep at the Switch, 343 A Touch of Nature, 271 339 269 94 222 155 Demarest Magazine, A Voice from the Poor-House, . . A Veritable Poem of Poems, Broken Fan, The (Illustrated), .... Anna Stiger Winston, Bravest of Battles, The, Joaquin Miller, . . Blue and Gray, Marietta Libby Slaighf, Brakesman, The Gallant, 336 Bustin' the Temperance Man, . . , . A. F. Harvey, .... 134 Back Where They Used to Be, . . . . J. W. Biley, 394 Burns, Fii^ Green HaUack, . . 404 Cabin Philosophy, J. H. Macon, 114 Cane-Bottomed Chair, The, W. M. Thackeray, . . 328 Christmas-Mght, In the Quarters, . . . Irwin Russell, , , . 174 Christmas Baby, The, Will Carleton, .... 383 Creation, Joseph Addison, .... 131 Creeds of the Bells, The, Geo. W. Bungay, . . .112 Curfew Must Not Eing To-Night, 216 Coming Millions, The, S.W. Foss, 368 Curious Literary Production, 259 Dapple Mare, The, J. G. Saxe, 85 Daniel Gray, J. G, Holland, .... 101 Elegy Written in a Country Church- Yard, Thomas Gray, 218 Father What'er of Earthly Bliss, . . . Mrs. Steele, 239 From Greenland's Icy Mountains, . . . Reginald Heber, .... 245 Fourth of July, The, 342 Fireman's Story, The, 387 Failed, .-213 Four Sunbeams, Wonrnds Magazine, . . 223 Forty Years Ago, 91 Freedom, James Russell LoweU, . . 73 Farewell, , Thmnas Moore, .... 129 Fishing Party, The, J. W. Reilly (in Century), 154 Family Financiering, S.W. Foss (in Blade), . 154 Funeral, The, Will Carleton, .... 88 Grand Army Button, The, J. F. Eaton, 166 Going Away, Thomas Frost (in Herald), 121 Good-Night, 398 Grumbling Old Woman, That, .... Ruth Chesterfield, . . .212 Guilty or Not Guilty, 225 Home Sweet Home, From, John Howard Payne, . . 51 He Sendeth Sun, Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, 241 He Worried About It, S.W. Foss, 310 t CONTENTS. Hannah Jane, . . D. B. Locke, Half- Way Doin's, Irwin Bussell, .... Handful of Earth, A, Celia Thaxter, .... Hit the Nail on the Head, Sidney Dyer, Health to Tom Moore, Byron, Heaven, . Ella Wheeler Wilcox, . . Hunch-Back Jim, Beginald Bametf, . . . Home, In Answer, Bose Sartwick Thome, . . It Snows, Mrs. S. J. Hale, . . . . Inquiry, The, Charles MacJcey, . . . . In the Mining Town, Bose Hartwick Thome, . . Isle of Long Ago, The, B. T. Taylor, It Might Have Been, Jolly Old Pedagogue, The, John Maynard, John Bums of Gettysburg, Bret Harte, Jack's Way, Browne Perriman{jn Blade) Katie Lee and Willie Gray, Kiss in the Tvmnel, The, Free Press, Kings of England, The, Little Meg and I, C T. Murphy, .... Lost Babies, The, Last Hymn, The, Leaving the Homestead, Lightning-Rod Dispenser, The, .... Carleton, Lines on a Skeleton, Little Peddler, The, Watchman, Let By-Gones be By-Gones, Leadville Jim, W. W. Fink, Lady Clare, Mother's Fool, Mrs. Sophia P. Snow, . . Mortality, . . . , Wm. King, Memory J. B. O'Reilly, To the, .... John McCann, .... Milkmaid, The, Jeffreys Taylor, .... Man with the Musket, Milwaukee Sentinel, . . . My Mother-in-Law, Herald, My Mother, Walter Scott, My Early Home, Alexander Clark, .... Mercy to Animals, William Cowper, . . . Married for Love, Harper's Measuring the Baby, Emma Alice Brown, . . Mother's Reproof, The, Mrs. E. P. Bequa, . . . Model Church, The, Make the Best of It, My Boat is on the Shore, Byron, 362 323 375 225 295 84 119 64 152 297 299 301 327 376 305 317 395 303 320 367 268 315 390 330 331 370 265 372 224 207 136 167 199 CONTENTS. No Time Like The Old Time, .... Oliver Wendell Holmes, . 80 Nobody's Child, Phila H. Case, .... 168 New Year's Eve, Eugene Field, 173 No Sects in Heaven, E. H. J. Cleveland, . . . 190 'Ostler Joe, Geo. B. Simms, .... 170 Only a Baby's Hand, Chicago Journal, . . . 201 Our Pattern, Phcebe Gary, 97 Old Man Goes to Town, The, . . . . J. G. Swinexton, .... 103 Old Familiar Faces, Charles Lamb, .... 116 Old Arm-Chair, The, Eliza Cook, 145 Old Times, WiUiam B. Eggleston, . . 147 Our Own, Margaret E. Sangster, . . 151 Old Grandpa's Soliloquy', 835 Our Christmas, Julia Walcott, .... 353 One of the Little Ones, ...*... Geo. L. Cadin, .... 381 Old Ironsides, 274 Plantation Proverbs, 338 Parting, 352 Patrick Dolin's Love-Letter, 360 Pat's Confederate Pig, Emerson Brooks, .... 164 Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, Bobert Browning, . . . 185 Papa's Letter, 193 Paul Eevere's Eide, Henry W. Longfelhw, . . 202 Pegging Away, 215 Philip Barton, Engineer, 307 Price of a Drink, The, 135 Eock of Ages, Augustus Toplady, . . . 230 Eock Me to Sleep, ... * Mrs. Akers, 79 Eeason Why, The, Katharine H. Terry, . . 304 Eoom at the Top, Mrs. A. Gelding Park, . 341 Eepentance, Dora Greenwall, .... 385 Eetrospect, J. D. H, 338 Eide of Great Grandmother Lee, . . . Eben Bexford, .... 356 Eeveries of the Old Kitchen, 296 Sleeping Sentinel, Frarwis De Hoes Janvier, 157 Spelling Down, WUl Gifford, 312 Strange Love, A, H. C. Dodge, 321 Somebody's Mother, Harper's, 333 Song Without Words, A, Mary Elizabeth Blake, . . 377 Snow, The, • . 124 Stray Sunbeam, A, Frank M. Gilbert, . . . 132 Star-Spangled Banner, The, Mr. Key, 247 Starless Crown, The, J. L. H., 227 Sheridan's Eide, L. B. Bead, . . - . . .280 Stage-Driver's Story, The, Wyoming Kit, .... 391 -4 CONTENTS. Snow Storm, The, Shakespeare to Ann Hathaway, .... St. Catharine Borne by Angels, .... That Sweet Story of Old, The Two Angels, The Children's Hour, Told by the Hospital Nurse, The Old Oaken Bucket, The Life I Long For, The Rain Upon the Eoof, The Aged Stranger, Thanksgiving, Thanks The Village Choir, The Round of Life, Thoughts for a Discouraged Farmer, . . Tommy's Prayer, Uncle Ned's Defence, . • Unfinished Still, Unrest (Illustrated) Unseen Greeting, The, Village Blacksmith, The, We Are Not Always Glad When We Smile, Why He Wouldn't SeU the Farm, . . . Whispering Bill, When Sam'wel Led the Singing, . . . Write Them a Letter To-Night, . . . Why Don't He Stop Writing? .... Western Australia, What is Good, You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave, Your House, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Harriet Beecher Stowe, . . Mrs. Jemima Luke, , . . Henry W. Longfellow, . . Henry W. Longfellow, . . McBeaih (in Herald), . . Samuel Woodworth, . . . John G. Whittier, . . . Coats Kinney, . . . . Bret Harte, . . . . . Mrs. Calvin Brice, . . Walt Whitman (in World), Andres Journal, . . . Alexander Lamonf, . . James Whitcomb Riley, Ella Higginson, . . . Henry W. Longfellow, . Henry W. Longfellow, . James Whitcomb Riley, A. Alphonse Dayton, W. Irving BaeheUer, Boston Globe, . . . . Olyeite Ellis, . . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Boyle O'Reilly, . James Boyle O'Reilly, . C. E. L. Holmes, . . N. P. WUlis, . . . 123 266 263 242 251 261 81 87 90 92 96 141 144 346 351 366 378 209 129 131 26 254 146 106 161 309 355 60 75 74 324 126 ILLUSTRATIONS Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Portland Home, 13 '^ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Cambridge Home, . 19 James Kussell Lowell, 23 James Russell Lowell's Home, " Elmwood," . . 271-' William Cullen Bryant, 29 William Cullen Bryant's Home, " Cedarmere," . 33^ William Cullen Bryant's Favorite Seat, . . 37 ►^ John G. Whittier, .39'' John G. Whittier's Birthplace, . , . . 43 1' John G. Whittier's Present Home, . . . . ^1 y Bayard Taylor, 49'' Bayard Taylor's Home, " Cedarcroft," . . . 53'^ Oliver Wendell Holmes, 57 - Oliver Wendell Holmes' Birthplace, . . .61' Oliver Wendell Holmes' Present Home, . . 65'' John Boyle O'Reilly, 67"' John Boyle O'Reilly's Study, . . . . 71 --^ Western Australia, 75'- A Broken Fan, 93 "^ An August Rune, ....... 115 »^ Unrest, 127 All Hallow E'en, 149- PiED Piper of Hamelin, . . . . . . 187 - Lincoln and Tad. 197 Paul Revere's Ride, 203 America, . . . 275 S. T.Smith, 277 Mrs. Rebecca Wright Bonsal, 281 Sheridan's Ride, ....... 285 Miss Rebecca Wright's Home, . . . c . 289 Sheridan's Letter 293 this, books can do; — nor this alone; they give new views to life, and teach us how to live; they soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: their aid they yield to all: they never shun the man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, they fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; nor tell to various people various things, but show to subjects what they show to kings. — George Crabbe. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AND PORTLAND HOME THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. LONGFELLOW. With Longfellow can be associated with interest three homes. Two in Portland, Me., his birth-place and his second home. Of the fii"st httle can be said in connection with his life, more than its being his birth-place, as so short a period of it was spent there. It is a four-story frame of square pattern, and at a glance you see it was built more for room than elegance. To-day it is fulfilling the object for which it was intended, as it is now used as a tenement house and accommodates several families. Quite an amusing incident is told of an answer given one of the Portland teachers when she asked a class where Mr. Longfellow was born. A bright little fellow's hand went up and his answer was " In Patsy Milligan's bed- room." While the boy was correct, as the said Mr. MiUi- gan was at the time occupying part of the house and had as his bedroom the one in which Mr. Longfellow was born, the statement seemed so laughable that it soon became a standing story told to each visitor. It gives us pleasure to present to our readers the cut we have of his Portland home. In this house were spent many of the days of his youth, and in it were written some of his choicest productions. To the right as you face the house, the second-story front room is the one in which the " Rainy Day " was written. That alone makes it THE HOMES OF OUB FAVOBITES. worth quite a pilgrimage to see, and if ever you should be near Portland, Me,, by all means make Ms birth-place and home a visit, and you will be more than repaid. The world of to-day and for all time to come will al- most universally associate Mr. Longfellow with his last home — ^the one at Cambridge, Mass. Our cut gives you a side view of the house, which shows it to better advan- tage than in any other position. Here he spent about forty years of his life and gathered about him those treas- ures and gifts which make his home such an interesting place to visit. " Craigie House," the home of Henry W. Longfellow, stands on Brattle Street, Cambridge, Mass., and has a his- tory dated far back of the time it came into the hands of our poet. Built about the middle of the eighteenth cent- ury, it passed from owner to owner, each of whom was widely noted in his day and way, and has continually been a house of public notice. Possibly more exciting events occurred within its walls while in the possession of its former owners, but the sweetest memories cluster around it since 1843, the time Mr. Longfellow bought it. For he made it what it had never been in all its chang- ing fortunes — a home. The first owner was Colonel John Vassol, a gentleman of some distinction, and it remained in his possession until after the Eevolutionary War, For a time Greneral Washington made the house his headquar- ters, and we read in verse : "Once, ah, once within these walls One whom memory oft recalls, The father of his country dwelt." Mrs. Washington held a number of formal receptions there, and " Lady Washington's Drawing-room " has ever since retained the prominence she gave it ; and you see it to-day with its white satin furniture figured with vines and clusters of flowers. The carpet to match seems a LONGFELLOW. perfect bed of flowers, and a large mirror from floor to ceiling gives a gi-and effect, and you see in reflection the beautiful harmony of this state apartment, with its sofas, arm-chairs, and elegant pictures; the most noted and attractive of which is " The G-randchildren of Sir William Pepprell," by Copley. From Colonel Vassol the house passed into the hands of Thomas Tracy, who gave it the name of Vassol Hall. Mr. Tracy was a man given to the pursuits of pleasure, to the detriment of all business prosperity, and great are the tales that are handed down of the banquets and baUs held there during his time. The gay festivities ran free, and daily hundreds of guests came to enjoy the hospitality of the genial host until bankruptcy overtook him. Then friends were few, and he was compelled to give up his luxurious hfe and seek a home less expensive. For a time the place seems lost to the pubhc eye. When next we hear of it, it was owned by Andrew Craigie. The expense of maintaining the 200 acres, used as they were mostly for pleasure, was too much for his means, and he was forced to seU all but eight acres of the original 200. After his death, his wife took lodgers from Harvard College, and as one of her "roomers" Longfellow first dwelt in the house. Everett, Worcester, and many others, since nationally known, paid room-rent to the dignified Mrs. Craigie. All these associations known to the visitor give the place an air of awe, but no part of the history seems to take precedence over the time it was the home of Mr. Longfellow. All else seems to be mostly forgotten in wishing to know its history as the home of America's sweetest poet. Originally it was a brick house, but in later years it was incased in wood, which is painted in buff. The doors, the balustrade on the roof, and the four pilasters are all of white, which blends into a beautiful relief. It stands upon a quaintly terraced lawn in the shade of the wide-spreading elms, and a broad veranda THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. runs on each side, and upon the door is the old traditional brass knocker. Entering the wainscoted hall with its broad stairway and oddly twisted baluster, the first door on the right opens into a most interesting room, the poet's study. This is indeed a storehouse of rare treasure ; the walls on three sides covered with old-fashioned paper, while the fourth is wholly wainscoted. An excellent view is had from one of the windows, of the beautiful Charles River. Here, there, and everywhere are treasures and presents, many with an interesting history — one of which is a book-case containing original manuscripts of his work, handsomely and appropriately bound. It is one of the most interesting objects to us in the whole house, and we can but hnger a moment in looking it over. We gaze with admiring wonder upon the days, weeks, and months of labor they represent. An inkstand of the poet, Crabbe, which was once owned by Tom Moore; another, once the property of Coleridge. These keep company with Mr. Longfellow's own and the last he used, beside which are his quiUs. These we find on the centre table with many books, photographs, and letters, arranged to our poet's own taste in a " sweet disorder." A chair made from a part of the chestnut tree under which the " Village Smithy " stood, presented to him on his seventy- second birth-day by the children of Cambridge, stands near a writing desk. Several other book-cases filled with handsome and choice volumes are also here. In one are the works of Chatterton, said to be the first fine book the poet bought, and represent the efforts of one year's verse-writing while in Bowdoin College. These, with many other attractions and pictures and tastefully arranged curtains, give the room a home-like as well as attractive appearance. While there are enough books in every room to dominate each a hbrary in the average home, we visit the library proper, and find it one of the most beautiful rooms of the house. LONGFELLOW'S HOME WEST SIDE OF THE CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE LONGFELLOW. with a spacious and home-like elegance. Three sides are lined with books containing complete sets of all the great authors in different languages. With Emerson, Long- fellow could say, "I visit occasionally "the Cambridge Library, and I seldom go there without renewing the con- viction that the best of it all is already within the four walls of my study at home." We find in the dining-room that same pleasant home- like air, but savoring in its furnishing of that taste dis- played all through the house, a love for the antique and memorial. The quaint old china will at once attract your eye, and among the pictures here you see Buchanan Read's painting of '^ Longfellow's Daughters." A fuU description of this picture and its origin is told in the history of poems on another page. The up-stairs rooms are sacred to the memories of the past. Here life and death brought happi- ness and sorrow to the heart of our poet, yet of interest are they to the visitor. In one was written those verses that more than any one production carried Longfellow's name around the globe, "A Psalm of Life." One has been fitted up by Mr. Longfellow's son in regular Japanese style, and is very unique and attractive. In your wanderings through the house you notice in- numerable treasures of much interest to us all. Most of them were presents to Mr. Longfellow by some admiring friend. Among them you will see a cane made from a spar of the ship on which the " Star-Spangled Banner " was written. Another from Arcadia, the home of Evan- gehne ; and a piece of Dante's coffin you find in a cabinet of curiosities. Before leaving we take one glance at the drawing-room, fitted and built in a most pleasing Colonial style; with its cheerful fire-place, deep-set windows, and rich furniture. As you leave and pass down the walk to the street and bring by one hurried glance all before you, and remember the man yourseK as he was, you not only feel that he was the ideal poet, but the ideal father, hus- k THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. band, and host. He never wearied in receiving daily pro- cessions of his admirers. Pilgrims of every degree and from every clime came to pay him homage. Daily with infinite urbanity he gave attention to many letters from admirers who could not call in person. To this some of his near friends remonstrated at the encroachment upon his time. In good humor he answered, " If I do not speak kindly to them, there is not a man in the world who would." On the day he was taken ill, just six days before his death, three school-boys came from Boston on their Saturday holiday to ask his autograph. With a most cordial welcome he showed them a hundred interesting things in his home, then wrote his name for them, and for the last time. He was indeed a " Type of the wise, who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of Heaven and home." JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL LOWELL. A HALO of poetic tastes abounds in the staid old town of Cambridge, Mass. There a lover of Nature can find fit- ting places for a home. James Russell Lowell, deeply in love with. Nature as he was, found his home in Elm- wood as fair a spot for his meditations as heart could wish. Here no skill of the florist's handicraft is seen, but unmolested Nature has had full sway, and well has she done her work. Longfellow's beautiful surroundings, the well-kept lawn, perfectly trimmed hedge and profusion of flowers do not surpass the rural and rustic beauty of Elm- wood. It stands about half a mile west of Harvard Square, on the base line of a triangle, the apex of which almost reaches to the gate of Mount Auburn Cemetery. From the road only the gables and chimneys can be seen, over the shrubbery and through the trees, so closely hemmed in is the stately old mansion. An abundance of sturdy native and Enghsh elms (from which it takes its name) abound over the entire grounds, and so affection- ately do they caress the house on every side as to greatly shelter it from the intrusion of sun and storm. The house is a frame, of three stories, of the old Eevo- lutionary pattern, built just before the breaking out of the struggle for freedom with the mother country, and for a Mr. OHver, the last loyal Lieutenant-Grovernor of the Province of Massachusetts. When war was fairly opened Mr. Oliver retmrned to England, and the house became the property of Elbridge G-erry, who was one of the sign- ers of the Declaration of Independence, and later Governor of Massachusetts and Vice-President of the United States. From Governor Gerry's estate, Rev. Charles Lowell, father of James Russell, bought the place, and here, on the 22d of February, 1819, was born the poet. By Rev. Lowell -^^** THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. ^d^ was most of the elms planted, and by him was it giren its name. Although over a century old, it stands to-day, with no sign of decay. It was erected by honest and masterly hands. The body of the house is painted buff, the balustrade and eaves are white, the shutters are dark green. So unhke the home of Mr. Longfellow, we find it closed, and only a peep through the shutters and the gos- sip of the town teUs us what it is inside. The house has been for some time closed ; in fact, ever since Mr. Lowell was called to the mission of a foreign court; for now while in this country he makes his home and passes most of his time with his married daughter on " Deer Forest Farm," near Southboro, Mass. In beautiful words Long- fellow describes the solitude of the place. ' ' Silent are all the sounds of day : Nothing I hear but the chirp of the crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. " Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate. Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting. Some one hath lingered to meditate And send him unseen this friendly greeting. " If we could visit the interior, we would again see the contrast between the two poets' homes on Brattle Street, in Cambridge — for Mr. Longfellow and Mr. Lowell Hved on the same street — ^we would find a Hbrary weU filled, and a study, the former on the first floor, the latter in the third story, up among the branches of the trees, where best he could see and enjoy Nature while at his work — ^we would miss the many mementoes that add such a charm to Mr. Longfellow's home, for Mr. Lowell has spent much of his time of late years abroad, and has added httle to the attractiveness of Elmwood. He seems much in love with living in England, and is quoted as saying : " I have more personal friends in England now than I have in this country." :^ k J ELMWOOD,' CAMBRIDGE, MASS HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT BRYANT. The home of William CTiUen Bryant, that we associate him with since his death, is " Cedarmere," at Roslyn, L. I., a smaU village of less than 1,000 people, in Queens County, N. Y., on the Sound, about twenty -five miles from New York City, which is most accessibly made by a steamer that daily plies to the great metropohs and re- turn. The birth-place and early home of Mr. Bryant was in Cummington, Mass., a village of about the same size as Eoslyn. His first home was an unpretentious one, with no marked difference from any other of the houses of the town, and Mr. Bryant left it too early in his life to give it much interest as his home, while his poetic genius was given to and appreciated by the public. While he had produced a number of his masterpieces prior to 1825, at that time dated the beginning of his literary ca- reer proper. Previous to that time law had been his am- bition, and much time had he given to it. The first thu-ty- two years of his life was spent in western Massachusetts, and during that time his home was in a number of differ- ent places. Leaving Cummington at sixteen, he entered WiUiams College, in 1810, at Williamstown, Mass. From college he took up study and practice of law at Plainfield, Mass., and of his home there we have no account. In a short time he left Plainfield, and made his home in Great Barrington for ten years. We do not find any particular individuaUty given his home there; in fact, he may have lived in a dozen houses of the town, for all we can learn. But of the general surroundings of the country much can be said in praise ; and Great Barrington is, indeed, a most charming spot for the home of a poet. Monument Moun- t THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. tain looks down from the north. The story of the Indian girl's mad leap from its summit is the subject of one of his finest poems. The placid Housatonic Eiver flows near by and adds charm to the place, and the fine country drives, with an abundance of beautiful elms, makes it a fit paradise for dreamy and poetic thought. AU these no doubt aided the development of that talent which in later years fired his soul to those noble productions of his life. In 1825 law was abandoned, and he comes to New York City and enters the field for which he was only suited. In beginning his career solely in a literary capacity, he took up his residence -at No. 24 "West Sixteenth Street. Any one who is familiar with New York City knows that there is little to distinguish one house from another. Whole blocks will be of the same architectural design, with so similar surroundings and entrances as to make no noticeable individuality one from the other. We must go to the interior to see the differences one house is from its companions. In Mr. Bryant's we find just what one would expect in the home of a poet of his sterling qualities — ^books in- numerable, of the choicest selection that a poet would most naturally gather about him, aU handsomely bound and tastefully arranged. Beautiful paintings adorn the waUs, and the furniture plain but rich, showing good taste and the popular styles of the day. It was as Mr. Bryant intended it should be, a home, with home comforts and a home air — handsome rather than splendid. This was his winter home, presided over after the death of his wife by his daughter Julia, and in it he found many hours of pleasure, and here was done the most work of his Homeric translation. But at his summer home in " Cedarmere " seems the most appropriate place for our beloved and gifted idol. Were you to make it a visit and not know its history, you, of an imaginative turn of mind, would in- stinctively say, " What a grand old place, just the spot for 2; ■n O Pi <^ O CO e4 <; u BETANT. a poet's retreat, from the busy whirl of the outer world, where he can give free rein to his choicest thoughts." In- deed it is the old-fashioned house, buried in a labyrinth of foliage, gives it the ideal charm of the most soaring flights of an intelligent imagination. Having seen the bloom and decay of many summers. Nature, guided by the skilled hand of the landscape gardener, has truly done her work well and made " Cedarmere " the idol of our poet's eye. A lover and studier and writer of Nature as he was, the pleasant days he spent there are proverbial of the love he had for the place. One of his frequent haunts is shown in the engraving of " Mr. Bryant's favorite seat of Cedarmere." Here in his rustic chair, close by the run- ning brook, sheltered from the rays of the sun by the wide-spreading branches that seem to droop affectionately over him, many happy, happy hours were spent. Under such circumstances, do we wonder that poetic inspiration of the highest type was at his command! We who love him are glad to know that under these circumstances that he so much loved, and that gave him such beneficial rest, he was permitted more than thirty years to live, and when " His summons came to join The innumerable caravan that moves To that mysterious realm, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him and lies down to pleasant dreams," Nature folded her poet in her own bosom, and the grass and the leaves, his near neighbors in life, are still the same as he sleeps his long and peaceful rest in the little Rosyln grave-yard. i < w w 2 O > i JOHN G. WHITTIER WHITTIER. John Geeenleaf Whittier, like Longfellow, is associ- ated with three homes — his birth-place, near Haverhill, Mass.; his home at Amesbury, which is the one repre- sented in our cut ; and his last home at " Oak Knoll," near Danvers, Mass., where, in company with his cousins, he now spends most of his time. Descended from an old Quaker family in the early days of the present century, we can well imagine the rude sim- plicity of his birth-place. Averse to all ostentation as the Quakers are to-day, we must know that eighty years ago, before the march of improvement had made such progress, their homes were the type of simphcity, often seasoned with too much rudeness for personal comfort. Whittier, in describing his first home, says : " Within our beds awhile we heard The wind that round the gables roared, With now and then a ruder shock, Which made our very bedsteads rock. We heard the loosened clapboards tost, The brad nails snapping in the frost, And on us through the unplastered wall, Felt the light-sifted snow-flakes fall. But sleep stole on as sleep will do, When hearts are light and life is new." This from his poem " Snow-Bound " gives a faint idea of the home. In that poem Mr. Whittier describes in beautiful language his birth-place. Its great age has brought it somewhat into decay in recent years, yet many of the old familiar landmarks remain to give the visitor who calls pleasant remembrances of our Quaker poet's THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. first home. Leaving home after a fair education had been gained, he spent some years in teaching and some on the editorial staff of two or three papers ; he was also sent once to the Legislature, but his love for quiet home-life surpassed the pleasures of pubhc applause, and the bus- tling hfe of the outer world was forsaken for a quiet home with his mother, sister, and aunt. They moved to the simple, exquisite and neat little house in Amesbury, Mass. Here was spent the best days of his life, and here was written most of those moral, political, and pastoral poems that have made Mr. Whittier known to every family as far as the English language is spoken. Always taking for his theme a subject elevating, he brought out with each production something for good. Then how dear the American people must hold the spot where these results of his labor were accomplished and the great deeds of his life given to the world in verse ! The house, plain and neat, as our engraving shows, is situated in the quiet part of the outskirts of the town, pleasantly surrounded by shrubs and trees, which all poets love to have about them. Near it stands a Quaker meet- ing-house, where Mr. Whittier loved to attend worship. The road leading from town winds by his house, on past the church, close by shady trees, and out into the beauti- ful and boundless country. In the rear roUs the pictur- esque Merrimac through woody hills away to the ocean. All combined form indeed a pretty picture and a lovely spot to caU home. The house is painted a light cream, handsome but not gaudy, in perfect keeping with the every-day hfe of its owner. We enter from the left-hand porch into the study — the room of rooms in all authors' homes. We find it as we expect, and as is all the rest of the house, simply plain and home-like. There is also an inside entrance to the study, and two windows in the rear from which we can look out and see a well-kept garden, with vines and fruit trees, and here and there some beauti- 1 t WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE, NEAR HAVERHILL, MASS. WHITTIEB. ful flowers. We do not find as many books here as we might expect, but upon examination you see that they are the very choicest. You do not criticise the quantity when you become acquainted with the quahty. Some pretty pictures adorn the walls — some of them views along the Merrimac, where so many, many historical and picturesque scenes abound. They are still more interest- ing to us, as Mr. Whittier has made the Merrimac his river of song. One picture attracts our special attention, " Snow-Bound," his birth-place. For the general interior nothing additional of special mention can be said. It is a cozy home, and many visitors can testify to the big, warm, hospitable heart of the host. In years past it was a favorite stopping-place for Quaker preachers, but in later years kind consideration to the declining years and strength of Mr, Whittier has forbade their accepting so hberally his courtesies. The silver crown of more than fourscore years now (1891) rests upon his head, and he has given up writing and entertaining. While the old home is still open, you will find Mr. Whittier the gi'eater part of his time at " Oak KnoU." Soon his journey on earth must end. We know that the reward for the most faith- ful is awaiting him, and that the Master he has served so faithfully waits just a little before calling him to that home of everlasting joy, one not made by hands. A WHITTIER'S PRESENT HOME BAYARD TAYLOR BAYARD TAYLOR. The possession of a home to a man of fine feelings and attainments stands paramount to all earthly desires. To a success in life, the development of his capabilities, he gives his soul, time, and strength, but with it all there is that strong undercurrent of desire that he may success- fully accomplish this and succeed in that, that fortune may smile upon him with a reward of one spot he can call his own : there to enjoy peace, rest, and the love of his dear ones. How forcibly we must believe this when we read those sweet plaintive strains of him who prized Home so highly, yet never had one in which to rest his head. The words of John Howard Payne : " 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world is not met with elsewhere," found a responsive chord in the heart of Bayard Taylor. Through all the struggles of his early life his eyes had been fixed on a piece of ground just opposite the Taylor homestead. It had been his day-dream to possess it, and many were the air-castles he built upon it. At last the dream became a reahty, and the mansion we give in our cut of " Cedar Croft " shows the home of Bayard Taylor, the reward of sixteen years of diligent labor. Beginning life a poor boy, it was that long before he was able to buy the ground and complete the house, but when it was done he could look on it, as he did the other achievements of his life, with pride and contentment. As we have said, it stands opposite his birth-place, which is at Kennett "^^ THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. Square, Chester County, Pa. For a history of his family and his life we refer you to the same given on other pages. It is of his home that we wish this article to speak. The ground is. bordered with tall trees, enclosing a beautiful undulating plot. A piece of ground thus enclosed is often termed in England a croft ; and as many of the trees were cedar, Mr. Taylor christened his home " Cedar Croft." As our illustration shows, it is a large, comfortable country house. The site is on the highest elevation at the upper end of the grounds, which slope away in natural terraces to a beautiful level bordering on the road. The observa- tory, or look-out, enables one to have a magnificent view of the surrounding country, and looking down upon the little village of Kennett Square, the scene is indeed charm- ing. We not only find the house commodious, but with all the improvements that reason could wish to make it pleasant and entertaining. The grounds have all the at- tractiveness of a modern and elegant country-seat. By symmetrical walks you pass tastefully laid out flower- beds, and reach the orchard and grapery. A little farther on the pond at the end of the grounds ; coming on down to the roadside, you can follow in the shade of a belt of trees up to the drive which takes you to the base of the observatory. Take it all in all, the spot seems intended by Nature for a poet's home, and a poet of more than na- tional renown made it one of the fiercest struggles of his life to accept the compliment. The pillars of the piazza are covered with clinging vines, and in season make it most beautiful and attractive. Inside we find all the proper arrangements for the comforts of home. The h- brary, Mr. Taylor's favorite resort, where much of his lit- erary work was done, is all that a library implies. The reception-room, dining-room, and up-stairs rooms are in perfect keeping with what a rational imagination would suggest. When Mr. Taylor had completed the house, true to the enjoyable and old-fashioned country practice, he in- BATABD TATLOB. augurated life in his new home by a "house-warming," unique in its manner, yet most pleasing to his guests. He with a friend conceived the idea of having a parlor enter- tainment ; the play to consist of one of their own produc- tion. A few days were spent in composing and fitting parts to the actors; Mr. Taylor and his friend taking prominent characters. After due rehearsals, the announce- ment was made to the friends and neighbors, and a " full house " paid " compliment " to the kind efforts of their en- tertaining neighbor. The production of " Love in a Ho- tel," as played for the first and last time in Bayard Tay- lor's library, was a pronounced success. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. VmGiNiA has for many years been termed " the mother of Presidents." Rightly too, for of the first twelve Presi- dents of the United States she furnished seven. With more propriety can Massachusetts be called the mother of American poets. Lowell, Whittier, Bryant, and Oliver Wendell Holmes, four of the brightest stars in our literary firmament of the nineteenth century, first saw the light of day in the " Old Bay State." Several other poets of less popularity, but excellent writers, honor the State by their birth. Richard Henry Dana, born at Cambridge, Novem- ber 15th, 1787, with many was a leading favorite. If you wish to make his acquaintance, we suggest " The Little Beach Bird " and another of his fine productions, " The Buccaneer.". Richard Henry Stoddard, born at Hingham more than 250 years ago, was a poet of renown in his time. Many others that we do not take time in this article to enumer- ate are natives of Massachusetts, and a great many have made it their home by adoption. So that you find your- self in a literary habitation as you wander in the shades of Cambridge. Among the poets' homes there you see that of Ohver Wendell Holmes. It stands on historic gTOund, and not alone that it is the birth-place of one of America's sweetest singers and most patriotic citizens, but incidents of centuries old cluster around the place and awaken our patriotism and interest. Across a small com- mon, and just opposite the house shown in our cut, which was once the home of Mr. Hastings, and head-quarters of Greneral Ward, stands a historic tree, the " Washington ^ THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. Elm." Under this tree George WasMngton first drew Ms sword as Commander-in-cMef of the army that made the United States a free and independent country. Of the in- cident, Hohnes in 1875 writes in verse : "Just on this very blessed spot, The summer leaves below, Before his home-spun ranks arrayed In green New England's elm-bough shade, The great Virginian drew the blade, King George full soon should know." Visitors to that historic spot read from the inscription on the granite monument how the " Father of his Coun- try " did honor to the tree and gave it an everlasting and interesting history. Through all the changing fortunes of time it will be known in pleasing and patriotic connec- tion with President Washington. Of the memorial inci- dents connected with "Hastings House" prior to 1807, we find but little interest, while commencing with that date, the time Eev. Abiel Holmes made it his home, begins an era in the history of the old house afire with interest to aU hterary-appreciating Americans. Two years later, on the 29th of August, 1809, was born our beloved, our patriotic, useful, and honored poet and citizen, 0. W. Holmes. His birth-place was his home for thirty years. During that time he attended common schools, and graduated from Harvard at the age of twenty, and later received the de- gree of Dr. of Medicine from that institution. As one of the class of 1829 we already know him, and read with in- terest the poems he has written for their annual reunions. Of this date he jocosely speaks of himself in the follow- ing lines : It's awful to think of — how, year after year, With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here ; No matter who's missing, there always is one To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun. BIRTHPLACE OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES OLIVEB WENDELL HOLMES. ' "Why won't he stop writing ? ' Humanity cries : The answer is, briefly, ' He can't if he tries ; He has played with his foolish old feather so long. That the goose-quill, in spite of him, cackles in song.' " Dr. Holmes is a man of high sentimentality, and in a most appreciative manner he speaks of the home of his youth. He loved the old house, which he describes as " haunted " by sweet recollections. The library and study, where so many hours he spent in deepest thought, have for him remembrances never to be forgotten. The five acres of ground, with its lawn, flowers, shrubs, and trees, are scenes of too many youthful pranks to ever lose a charm for him. What might be termed his second home was at his great- gi'andfather's old estate near Pittsfield, Mass., where he spent the summer of seven years. That same gentle ap- preciative nature beams forth again in his praise of the stay at this home, and he likens the seven summers unto " the seven golden candle-sticks " in the beautiful vision of the holy dreamer. His third and present home is an ele- gant one situated on . Beacon Street, Boston. From his library window he can look across the Charles River, and have a commanding view of Cambridge, Harvard College, and the home of his youth. We feel that the sight to him has often been inspiring, and has called forth some of his cLoicest thoughts. Sentimentally retrospective, it seems fit that that turn in his mind should awake into reality some of his imaginations that have thriUed the land he loved so well. As we would suppose, a man of Dr. Holmes's Uterary attainments would have quite a collection of books. The book-cases in his library cover every available space, and a possessor of his collection would almost feel that it was indeed a complete one. Other educational emblems you will find here. A microscope is on the centre-table ready for use, and to make examination perfectly he has two circular windows so arranged as to throw the light -4 TEE HOMES OF OUB FAVOBITES. direct upon the instrument. Mucli of his time outside of that given to his class recitations (we must here remem- ber that Dr. Holmes occupies the chair of Anatomy and Physiology at Harvard College) is spent in the hbrary, and he has everything made convenient for his work. His taste for the beautiful is shown in some fine paintings that adorn the walls and the general home-like and cheerful appearance of the entire house. It is a beautiful home, and Mr. Holmes is Just the one to enjoy it. That he does we know, for his big warm heart, his daily smile, and the humor and sentiment of his writings tell us so. With a true poetic heart Mr. Holmes beheves that " Home's not merely four square walls, Though with pictures hung and gilded : Home is where affection calls, Filled with shrines the heart hath builded 1 Home ! go watch the faithful dove, Sailing 'neath the heaven above us ; Home is where there's one to love ! Home is where there's one to love us ! " Home's not merely roof and room, It needs something to endear it ; Home is where the heart can bloom. Where there's some kind lip to cheer it ! What is home with none to meet, Fone to welcome, none to greet us ? Home is sweet, — and only sweet — When there's one we love to meet us ! " THE PRESENT HOME OF OLIVER AVENDELL HOLMES LIBRARY BEACON STREET, "BACK BAY," BOSTON JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY t JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. " Strong sense, deep feeling, passion strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong. Of coward and of slave. " A kind, true heart, a spirit high. That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. " "Well liatli the poet, in Ms innocent musing on some loved ideal, described the hero of our sketch. In giving the description of the homes of John Boyle O'Reilly, we win vary some from the course with which we have han- dled the preceding chapters on this subject, and to give in a clearer and more appreciative manner the history of his homes, we will at the same time weave in briefly his life. His birth-place was at a Government institution in the county of Meath, Ireland, known in history as Castle Dowth, and was at the time governed by his father, Wm. DaAdd O'EeiUy, who had superintendency of the institu- tion for about thirty years. John Boyle was born there in the year 1844, and there, under the instruction of his father and mother, he received his early education, and from their love of Ireland was planted in his heart that spark of patriotism which gradu- ally flamed his whole soul in an earnest devotion to the cause of his oppressed and beloved country. Having learned type-setting and mastered short-hand early in hf e, he went to England and did printers' and reportorial work on various papers. In 1863 he became a member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and in the same year joined the THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. Tenth Prince of Wales Huzzars, at that time one of the pride cavahy regiments of the EngUsh army. He was stationed at Dublin, and in his company were many of the Emerald Isle's noble sons. O'Eeilly became a member of the regiment not so much to fight for England as to con- spire for Ireland. His work and ability as a soldier soon brought him promotion from the ranks to Sergeant, and his devotion and patriotism for Ireland's cause were pur- sued with such zeal that his efforts were soon discovered. He was tried for high treason, and, with a number of his comrades, was found guilty and sentenced to be shot. This extreme penalty was commuted to imprisonment for life, and before that was put into execution it was further reduced to twenty years at penal servitude. At that time aU Ireland was in a state of terror, and arrests by the score were daily made. AU the prisons were soon full, and our hero, with some 350 other criminals, was sent in 1867 to West Australia. The beautiful and strange country soon had a fascination for him, and under other circumstances he might have been more contented, possibly enjoyed a life there. He expressed his opinion of the country as "A land blessed by God and blighted by man." His noble spirit of manhood soon began to assert itself again, and when less than a year of prison life had passed, he had per- fected plans to escape. His work in Australia was help- ing to make public roads, which gave him the opportunity to make acquaintances with the native Australians. Among them was a beautiful and young Maori girl who had fallen in love with him. To her he communicated his intentions, and she, at the risk of her own life, and know- ing that whether he escaped or not she would never see him again, secured and hid for him an old boat, which he succeeded in reaching, and in it put to open sea. " For- tune will favor the brave," and he was picked up, first by a vessel bound for Calcutta, but stopped at Java for fear of recapture on British soil. By many hardships and ex- JOHN BOYLE O'BEILLY. citing adventures, he was finally landed at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, from Java by the American whaler " Ga- zelle," from which he was transferred to the " Sapphire," of Boston, which took him to Liverpool, From there he escaped to Philadelphia on the " Bombay,-" of Bath, Maine, and landed in the city of " Brotherly Love " on November 23d, 1869, friendless and penniless, but a free man — free with that freedom whose magic touch kindled the rays of his genius, the enthusiasm of his poetry, and the flame of his eloquence. What happiness must have thriUed his every nerve ! The trials and vicissitudes of his young and eventful life must have passed like a vision before him. The home of his birth, the scene of those sweet and tender ties that all hold so dear. His struggle in England — the army — ^the plot — the discovery — banishment to Australia, and the long but successful struggle for liberty. Here and there scattered in the path of the twenty-five years past were no doubt an occasionally remembered and cherished oasis on the desert of his troubles. Home and mother must have filled his heart, and perchance pleasant visions of the sweet Maorian maiden away in sunny Austraha oc- casionally flittered across his mind. But now he was in free and beloved America. Not to comfort and pleasure himself, but to give his aid to his oppressed brothers, for " Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt ? t *' Ko ! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And with heart and hand to be Earnest to make others free." His life in the new world was pursued with that same vehemence which characterized him throughout all his changing fortunes. His ability soon gained him the THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. prominence in literary circles tliat was due him. Success- ful step after step found him ere many years editor and one-fourth owner of the Pilot, of Boston ; his sole partner being Archbishop Williams, of the same city. He held the position for a number of years, and up to the time of his death. With his countrymen the paper had much influ- ence, and its power was ever exerted in behaK of their be- coming good American citizens. His writings are rich in thought and highly prized in literary circles. Some of his best productions are " Moon- dyne," published in 1879 ; " The Three Queens," given to the public in 1881 ; " Song Legends and Ballads," " The Statues in the Block," and the "Amber Whale." As a beautiful souvenir to admirers of Mr. O'Reilly, we have at considerable expense and trouble obtained a short poem in his own handwriting, which we give at the close of this article. One of his poems, short, but so expressive of the man, was written in 1886, which we give. WHAT IS GOOD? ' ' What is the real good ? " I ask in musing mood. "Order," said the law court ; " Knowledge," said the school ; " Truth," said the wise man ; " Pleasure," said the fool ; " Love," said the maiden ; " Beauty," said the page ; " Freedom," said the dreamer ; "Home," said the sage ; " Fame," said the soldier ; "Equity," the seer. Spake my heart full sadly : "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard : ' ' Each heart holds the secret ; ' Kindness ' is the word." ^^V^'feto* ch OtOf,^ Ot*J^ /JOfAl- -4 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. Mr. O'Reilly was very popular with his neighbors and associates, and many social honors were conferred upon him. As success in life came on, he shared his joys with a congenial and most charming wife. Loving children added beauty and pleasure to the day-dream of our warm- hearted and generous-spirited poet. It is most fitting that a man of his sentiment, surrounded with these earthly blessings, should have a home, and a most enjoyable one. His is in the Charleston district of Boston, facing Winthrop Park. His study occupies one- half the first floor, and is a model place, and shows the handiwork in its fui'nishing of a companionable wife. The mouldings are finished in crimson, with upholstering and curtains to match, which makes it indeed beautiful and cozy. A fine collection of books, with paintings, vases, and statuettes, adorn the walls. Prominent among the pictures is a small one of Dowth Castle. Of the rest of the house, we can say it is modern, with every convenience, and the merry roguish prattle of their children testify that it is a happy home, enjoyed by all. In conclusion we will take a peep into his editorial room. This is a small one in the fourth story of the Pilot Building. The love of an author for " sweet disorder " is hardly an in- troduction to the confusion indulged in by Mr. O'Reilly in his sanctum. Nothing above the floor was seldom molested by the office boy, especially since an event which happened some three years ago. During Mr. O'Reilly's absence some of the help thought it would be an excellent idea and op- portunity to clean up his office. Things were accordingly put " in order," to the satisfaction of aU but Mr. O'Reilly. To him the dismay could not have been much greater had fire consumed the place. In speaking of it he says : " And what do you think ! They had the paint washed. And I had a lot of valuable memoranda scribbled on my window frame, and they had them aU washed off, and I haven't the least idea what they were." THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. Mrs. O'Eeilly is also quite a literary lady, and helped lier husband by conducting a department in the Pilot. The death of Mr. O'Eeilly, Sunday, August 10th, 1890, closed a most remarkable career, and took from us a noble man, a loving and devoted father and husband. We wih close with the beautiful verse written on his death by John McCann : L ' ' To reach this world you broke your prison bars ; Since then the years have numbered three times seven ; And now your soul has gone beyond the stars To break into but never out of heaven." OUR FAVORITES. ROCK ME TO SLEEP. MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS. Backward, turn backward, Time ! in your fligM, Make me a child again, just for to-night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore. Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of years ! I am weary of toU, I am weary of tears ; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, Take them, and give me my childhood again ! I have grown weary of dust and decay. Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Tired of the hoUow, the base, the untrue, Mother, mother ! my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has gi-own gi-een. Blossomed and faded, oui- faces between ; Yet Avith strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again ; Come from the silence so long and so deep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! OUR FAVORITES. Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone. No other worship abides and endures Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours ; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brain ; Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy Hds creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just Ughted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it fall over my forehead to-night. Shielding my eyes from the flickering light ; For oh ! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly its bright biUows sweep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother ! the years have been long Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song ; Sing then again, — to my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, With your soft, Hght lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. There is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed and the birds of springtime sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But 0, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first ! TOLD BT THE HOSPITAL NUESE. There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born, "Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the mom From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore. Where the dear eyes ghstened o'er us that will look on us no more ! There is no friend hke the old friend, who has shared our morning days, No greeting hke his welcome, no homage like his praise ; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold ; But Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love hke the old love, that we courted in our pride ; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side ; There are blossoms all around us, with the colors of our dawn. And we live in borrowed sunshine when our day-star is withdrawn. There are no times like the old times — ^they shall never be forgot ! There is no place like the old place — ^keep green the dear old spot ! There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong their lives ! There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving wives ! TOLD BY THE HOSPITAL NURSE. O. B. MCBEATH. " Often have strange eases ? " Yes, sir ; frequently a case lies here With a story interesting, oft pathetic, sometimes queer — Novel-like, were not the heroes flesh and blood, as I and you. Such a one I well remember — ^patient Number Fifty-two. In the road a toddhng child, a mothei-'s agonizing scream — And thundering down the roadway speeds a carter's frightened team. All imnerved stares each bystander, seems there's nothing can be done; A sudden rush, a hasty clutch, and the child from death is won. ^ OVB FAVORITES. But a horrid sight lies in the road for the gathering crowd to view — A brave man crushed by the cruel wheels — ^he filled bed Fifty-two. Through that night he suffered greatly, bravely bore it, Fifty-two ; But the morning, breaking gently, saw his hours on earth were few, So I sat me down beside him, hinting with a bated breath Life to all was so uncertain ; had he ever thought of death ? Would he hear the Bible woman tell the tale of heavenly love. Of the calm and peacef vd haven far beyond the stars above ? Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Might I bring her to his bedside just to tell the story blest ? " Yes," he whispered, " bring her to me ; let me hear the good old Book." Quickly came the Bible woman, by his bed her seat she took. Noble httle woman was she, gentle mannered in her ways ; Rumor said her life was bhghted, crossed in love in bygone days, And her life from thence devoted to the needs of sick and poor, Soothing with her sweet attentions stricken souls at death's dark door. Quietly I stole away then, leaving her by Fifty-two, Gently telling in her own way story old yet ever new. But ere long the Bible woman beckoned me to come again, Fifty-two was fast succumbing, death's cold creeping numbed his pain. This I saw and whispered softly, "Ask him if we cannot send Anywhere that he might mention, anywhere he has a friend." Then the httle Bible woman, in a voice as sweet as low. Put the question gently to him, to receive his answer, " No." Once again did she address him, with her soft hand on his brow. Smoothed the burning, throbbing temples, " Fifty-two, you'll tell me now. Let me take a cherished message, let me tell your conduct brave. How you dashed into the roadway, risked your life a child's to save." " P'r'aps it's best," then came his answer ; " let them know the news at home. No need now to struggle further, for I feel my time has come. Years ago, when but a youngster, nothing but a country lad, Life to me seemed bright and joyous, just a round of promise glad. ^ TOLD BY THE HOSPITAL NVBSE. For I loved the squire's daughter, and she loved me as I loved. With amaze her father heard this, hot with anger her reproved For such waywardness in stooping after hands by him employed. Said 'twas but a pack of nonsense ; if again she him annoyed By such folly he would stop it. For her sake I had to go, Quit the old folk and my sweetheart — ^hard to do, as lovers know. Yet I felt a kind of Ughtsome — country lads they hear so much Of the fortunes in the big towns — God knows there are few of such; For I've labored, hoped and struggled, while the old folk home they died. Long I worked on with a stout heart, picturing with honest pride That one day when I might venture to redeem the vow I'd made To my cherished one that evening when we met in twilight shade. Ere we parted, I remember, being seized by lover's whim, Pleading for some trifling token her own Jack could take with him 'Midst the mighty city's throbbing while he strove in Fortune's race — Something he could dearly treasure, something he would ne'er dis- grace. Years roUed on, I wore her token with a saeredness of heart ; As a knight of old I'd promised ' Death her charm and me should part.' And it's coming, creeping on me — God, how tme the words are now! ' Death her charm and me should pai-t,' " gasped he, " but I've kept my vow." Sinking fast, he feebly whispered, " TeU her I've been loyal, true ; Nm-se, you'll say a good word, won't you, for youi* patient, Fifty- two? Give her this," and then he laid bare with a trembling, nervous hand. Round his neck a slender coU of dark brown hair in plaited band. "TeU my Maggie I have worn it since she placed it there that night." Here the Bible woman trembled, while her face turned ghastly white. " Take it off, nurse, let me kiss it ; say in heaven I wait for her." But ere I could raise a finger, with excitement all astir ^A—- OUR FAVORITES. Sank the little Bible woman on her knees beside his bed, '■ Jack, my own Jack ! here's your Maggie ! " Sir, I had to turn my head. Painter ne'er could paint the picture round the bed of Fifty-two, And it's useless my attempting to describe the scene to you. How he feebly murmured "Maggie!" How she sobbed in an- guished joy. While the old love leapt within her as she kissed her country boy, " Strange if true, sir ? " ' 'Tis indeed a story true as it is queer, And the httle Bible woman since his death still visits here. This in strictest confidence, sir. That's the httle lady there By the table tending flowers. " What about the plait of hair ? " " Nurse," said she, " hke him, I'll wear it, sacred now to me is this, Consecrated by the ritual of my brave Jack's dying kiss." HEAVEN. BY BliLA WHEELER. I DOUBT not but to every mind of mortal, That Heaven in a different form appears, And every one who hopes to pass the portal. Where God shall wipe away all bitter tears, Seeth the mansion in a separate guise. And there are many heavens to many eyes. To me, it seems a world where all the sweetness That I have in my wildest dreams conceived ; The subtle beauty and the rare completeness That I have missed in life, and, missing, grieved ; The things that I have sought for all my hf e, And if I found, found mixed with pain and strife. That rest, that mortal mind can never measure ; That peace, that we can never understand ; The keen delights that fill the soul with pleasure ; These, these I deem are what that blessed land Lying beyond the pearly gates doth hold, — Where the broad street is paved with shining gold. THE DAPPLE MABE. A total putting off of care and sorrow, As we put by old garments. Rest so deep That 'tis not marred by thoughts of the to-morrow, Or pained by tears, for never any weep. The love, unchangeable, unselfish, strong, — That I have craved, with heart and soul, so long. All these I hope, in that vast Forever, Of which we di'eam, nor mortal eye hath seen, When death's pale craft shall bear me o'er the river. To find in waiting on the shores of green. And in that haven, how my soul shall raise Unceasing songs of gratitude and praise. THE DAPPLE MARE. J. G. SAXE. " Once on a time," as ancient tales declare, There lived a farmer in a quiet dell In Massachusetts, but exactly where, Or when, is really more than I can tell — Except that, quite above the pubhe bounty. He lived within his means, and Bristol county. By patient labor and unceasing care. He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread ; Contented always with his frugal fare. Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head ; And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth. He flourished long in comfort, peace, and health. The gentle partner of his humble lot. The joy and jewel of his wedded life. Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot Like a true woman and a faithful wife ; Her mind improved by thought and useful i*eading, Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding. OUB FAVORITES. Grown old at last, the fanner called his son, ' The youngest, (and the favorite, I suppose. And said — " I long have thought, my darling John, 'Tis time to bring my labors to a close ; So now to toil I mean to bid adieu, And deed, my son, the homestead farm to you." The boy embraced the boon with vast delight. And promised, wlule their precious lives remained, He'd till and tend the farm from mom tUl night. And see his parents handsomely maintaiaed ; God help him, he would never fail to love, nor Do aught to grieve his generous old gov'nor ! The farmer said — " Well, let us now proceed, (You know there's always danger in delays,) And get 'Squire Robinson to write the deed ; Come — Where's my staff ? we'U soon be on the way." But John repHed with tender, filial care, " You're old and weak — I'U catch the Dapple Mare." The mare was saddled, and the old man got on, The boy on foot trudged cheerfully along. The while, to cheer his sire, the duteous son Beguiled the weary way with talk and song. Arrived at length, they found the 'Squire at home, And quickly told him wherefore they had come. The deed was writ in proper form of law. With many a " foresaid," " therefore," " and the same," And made throughout without mistake or flaw. To show that John had now a legal claim To all his father's land — conveyed, given, sold. Quit-claimed, et cetera — to have and hold. Their business done, they left the lawyer's door. Happier, perhaps, than when they entered there ; And started off as they had done before — The son on foot, the father on the mare. But ere the twain a single mile had gone A brilliant thought occurred to Master John. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. Alas for truth ! — alas for filial duty ! Alas ! that Satan in the shape of pride, (His most bewitching form save that of beauty,) Whispered the lad : " My boy, you ought to ride ! " " Get off ! " exclaimed the jounker, " 'tisn't fair That you should always ride the Dapple Mare." The son was lusty, and the sire was old, And so, with many an oath and many a frown, The hapless farmer did as he was told, — The man got off the steed, the boy' got on, And rode away as fast as she could trot. And left his sire to trudge it home on foot ! That night, while seated round the kitchen fire, The household sat, cheerful as if no word Or deed provoked the injured father's ire. Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred — Thus spoke he to his son : " We quite forgot, I think, t' include the little turnip lot ! " I'm very sure, my son, it wouldn't hurt it," Calmly observed the meditative sire, " To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it." Here the old man inserts it — ^in the fixe ! Then cries aloud with most triumphant air : " Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare ! " THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWOBTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — The wide-spreading pond, and the null that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; OUB FAVOBITES. The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it a source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth ovei'flowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, arose fi'om the well. How sweet from the gi'een, mossy brim to receive it. As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my hps ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively sweU, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. THE FUNERAL. WILL CARLETON. I WAS walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn; And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a Uttle negro pew. Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild ; On the altar was a cof&n, in the cofftn was a child. THE FUNERAL. I could picture >iim when living — curly hair, protruding lip — And had seen, perhaps, a thousand, in my hurried Southern trip. But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of Death That had fanned more flames of soitow with his little fluttering breath ; And no ftmeral ever ghstened with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of tear-drops that enclasped those mourners round. Eose a sad old colored preacher at the httle wooden desk — With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque ; "With simphcity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face ; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed vmdying race. And he said : " Now don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay — For de httle boy who hved dere, he done gone an' run away ! He was doia' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love ; But his sure 'nufl Father want him in de large house up above. " Now he didn't give you dat baby, by a hundred thousan' mile ! He just think you need some sunshine, an' he lend it for awhile ! An' he let you keep an' love it tUl your hearts was bigger grown, An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jes de interest on de loan. " Here's yer oder pretty chilrun ! — don' be makin' it appear Dat yom' love got sort o' 'nop'Hzed by dis httle fellow here ; Don' pile up too much your sorrow on deir httle mental shelves, So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves. " Just you thiak, you poor deah mounahs, creepia' long o'er Sor- row's way. What a blessed httle picnic dis yere baby's got to-day ! Your good f aders and good moders crowd de httle f eUow round In de angel-tented garden of de Big Plantation Ground. "An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ? ' an' take off his httle shoes, An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say, ' Now, what's de news ? ' An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose ; den de Httle feUow say, 'All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.' OUE FAVORITES. "An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty tings he view ; Den a tear come, an' he whisper, ' But I want my pa'yents, to ! But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song ; Says, ' If only dey be f ait'f ul dey will soon be comin' long.' "An' he'U get an education dat will proberbly be worth Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth ; He'U be in de Lawd's big school house, widout no contempt or fear ; WMle dere's no end to de bad tings might have happened to him here, " So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An' don' go ter criticisin' dat ar One w'at knows de best ! He have sent us many comforts — He have right to take away — To de Lawd be praise an' glory, now and ever ! — Let us pray." THE LIFE FOR WHICH I LONG. JOHN G. WmTTIER. "When on my day of light the night is faUing, And in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown. Thou who hast made my home of Ufe so pleasant, Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; love divine, O Helper ever present, Be Thou my help and stay ! Be near me when all else is from me drifting, Earth, sky, home's picture, days of shade and shine. And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love which answers mine. 1 have but Thee, Father ! Let Thy spirit Be with me, then, to comfort and uphold ; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit. Nor street of shining gold. THE RAIN UPON THE BOOF. Suffice it if, my good and ill unreekoned, And both forgiven through Thy 'bounding grace, I find myself by hands familiar beckoned Unto my fitting place — Some humble door among Thy many mansions, Some sheltering shade where sia and striving cease, And flows forever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace. There, from the music round about me stealing, I fain would learn the new and holy song, And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, The life for which I long. THE RAIN UPON THE ROOF. COATES KINNEY. When the himiid shadows hover Over aU the starry spheres. And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears. What a joy to press the pUlow Of a cottage chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead. Every tinkle on the shingles Wakes an echo in the heart. And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start ; And a thousand recollections Weave their bright hues into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in fancy comes my mother. As she used, long years agone, OUB FAVORITES. To regard her darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn. Oh ! I see her bendrag o'er me, As I Ust to the refrain, Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister. With her wings and wavy hair. And my bright-eyed cherub brothei* — A serene, angehc pair — Ghde around my wakeful pillow, With their smile, or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmurs Of the rain upon the roof. And another comes to thriU me With her eyes delicious blue ; I forget while gazing on her That her heart was all untrue. I remember but to love her, With a rapture kin to pain. While my heart's quick pidses vibrate To the patter of the rain. There is naught in art's bravuras That can work with such a speU In the spirit's pure, deep fountains Whence the holy passions well, As that melody of Nature, That subdued, subduing strain WMch is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. ;^ A BROKEN FAN. Ancestress mine, in the gilded frame, From your time-dimmed canvas smiling down, This fan I hold is the very same. As that on the breast of your satin gown. II. Quaint in vaporous ruff you stand, And your fan of sillc and ivory liold. Do you wonder to see it within my hand. With its grievous break of a century old ? III. How came your ivory fan to break ? And why did you keep it broken so? Was it for periwigged gallants' sake. Who crumbled to ashes, long ago ? IV. Small beautiful head, erect and proud, On slender neck, like a lily set, Did you furtive turn, as he walked and bowed, With some one else in the minuet.? V. Did you fan more fitfully as he spoke. And your Heaven-blue eyes grow strangely dim ? Did you fail to see when the ivory broke, Though you looked at the spangles — not at him ? VI. Great-great-grandfather, near her hung. With antique coat and powdered hair. Was it you, I wonder, gay and young. Who whispered then beside her chair? VII. Or was it another — false or dead ? Was there a story you never knew ? For why should she care, when you were wed. To treasure the fan — when she had you ? VIII. She's wearing her cool patrician stare, Forbidding my eyes her face to scan : — But you had your tremors, lady fair. When you laid away this broken fan! Annie Steg^er Winston. FORTY TEARS AGO. FORTY YEARS AGO. I've wandered to the village, Tom ; I've sat beneath the tree Upon the school-honse playgi'ound, which sheltered you and me ; But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know, That played with us upon the green, some forty years ago. The grass was just as green, Tom, barefooted boys at play. Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay, But Master sleeps upon the hiU, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding place, just forty years ago. The school-house has altered some — the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen-knives had defaced ; But the same old bricks ai*e m the wall — the beU swings to and fro, Its music just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath the same old tree, I do forget the name just now — you've played the same with me — On that same spot, 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so. The leader had a task to do — there forty years ago. The river's ininning just as still, the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide ; But the gi'ape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau. And swung our sweethearts, pretty girls, just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech. Is very low — 'twas once so high, that we could almost reach ; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I startled so. To see how much I've changed, since forty years ago. Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name. Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as that one, whose name you cut, died forty years ago. OUB FAVORITES. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes, I tbought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties ; I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some forty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid — some sleep beneath the sea, But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'U lay us where we played, just forty years ago. I THE AGED STRANGER. BRET HAETE. " I WAS with Grant " — the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " Say no more. But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore." " I was with Grant " — the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, — I prithee sit at my frugal board. And eat of my humble store. " How fares my boy, — my soldier boy. Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " " I know him not," said the aged man, "And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant " — " Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, " say no more ; " He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er — Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core. OUR PATTERN. How fell he, — with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag 'he bore? O say not that my boy disgraced The uniform, that he wore ! " " I cannot teU," said the aged man, "And should have remarked before, That I was with Grant — in lUinois — Some three years before the war." Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist f uU sore That aged man who had worked for Grrant Some three years before the war. OUR PATTERN. PHEBE GARY. A WEAVER sat one day at his loom Among the colors bright. With the pattern for his copying Himg fair and plain in sight. But the weaver's thoughts were wandering Away on the distant track. As he threw the shuttle in his hand "Wearily forward and back. And he turned his dim eyes to the ground And tears fell on the woof. For his thoughts, alas ! were not with his home Nor the wife beneath its roof. When her voice recalled him suddenly To himself, as she sadly said ; "Ah, woe is me ! for your work is spoiled. And what wiU we do for bread ? " OUB FAVORITES. And then the weaver looked and saw His work must be undone ; For the threads were wrong, and the colors dimmed Where the bitter tears had run. "Alack ! alack ! " said the weaver, "And this had all been right If I had not looked at my work, but kept The pattern in my sight." Ah, sad it was for the weaver. And sad for his luckless wife ; And sad it will be for us if we say, At the end of our task of hf e : " The colors that we had to weave Were bright in our early years ; But we wove the tissues wrong and stained The woof with bitter tears. " We wove a web of doubt and fear — Not faith, and hope and love — Because we looked at our work, and not Our pattern above." AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. O GOOD painter, teU me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of thiags that you never saw ? Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — The picture must not be over-bright, Yet aU in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sim is down. Alway and alway, night and morn. Woods upon woods, with fields of com AN ORDEB FOB A PICTUBE. Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. When the wind can hardly find breathing room Under their tassels, — cattle near. Biting shorter the short, green grass. And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. With bluebirds twittering all around, — (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) These, and the house where I was bom, Low and httle, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide, — Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush : Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self -same way. Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveUest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me aU the while, I need not speak these foolish words : Yet one word teUs you aU I would say, — She is my mother : you wiU. agree That aU the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir ; one hke me. The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise : At ten years old he went to sea, — God knoweth if he be living now ; OUB FAVORITES. He sailed in the good sMp " Commodore," — Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck : I watched him tiU he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me aU the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown. The time we stood at onr mother's knee : That beauteous head, if it did go down. Carried sunshine into the sea ! Out in the fields one siimmer night, We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and the shade Of the high hiUs, stretching so stiU and far, — Loitering till after the low httle Mght Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the haystack's pointed top. All of a tremble and ready to drop, The first half hour, the great yeUow star. That we with staring, ignorant eyes. Had often and often watched to see, Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree. Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,- Dead at the top, — ^Just one branch fuU Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool. From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow day after day. Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore A nest f uU of speckled and thin-shelled eggs ; • The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat : The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her stiU. DANIEL GRAY. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie ? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me. I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : But that's no matter — ^paint it so ; The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs. But straight through our faces down to our lies, And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! I felt my heai't bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it. You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — The mother, — ^the lads, with their bird, at her knee : But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. DANIEL GRAY. In all of the late Dr. Holland's writings we know of nothing which equals in pathos and tenderness the following beautiful poem, and its value is en- hanced when it is known that the author described his own father in "Old Daniel Gray " : If I shall ever win the home in heaven, • For whose sweet rest I humbly pray. In the great company of the forgiven, I shaU be sure to find old Daniel Gray. Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted On ready words his weight of gratitude, OUB FAVORITES. And was not called among the gifted, In the prayer-meeting of his neighborhood. He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes, And I suppose that in his prayers and graces I've heard them at least a thousand times. I see him now — ^his form, his face, his motions. His homespun habit and his silver hair. And hear the language of his trite devotions, Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. I can remember how the sentence sounded — " Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint ! " And how the " conquering and to conquer " rounded The loftier inspirations of the saint. He had some notions that did not improve hiTn : He never kissed his children — so they say. And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him Less than a horse-shoe picked up on his way. He had a hearty hatred of oppression. And righteous word for sin of any kind : Alas, that the transgressor and transgression Were linked together in his honest mind. He could see naught but vanity in beauty. And naught but weakness in a fond caress. And pitied men whose views of Christian duty Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. Yet there were love and tenderness within him, And I am told that when his Charley died. Nor nature's needs nor gentle words could win him From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. And when they came to bury little Charley, They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair ; And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early. And guessed, but did not know, who put it there. THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. Honest and faithful, consistent ia Ms calling, Strictly attendant on the means of grace, Instant in prayer, and fearful most of failing, Old Daniel Gray was always in. his place. A practical old man and yet a dreamer. He thought in some strange, unlooked-for way. His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, "Would honor him with wealth some golden day. This dream he carried iu a hopeful spirit, Until iu death his patient eye gi*ew dim, And his Redeemer called him to inherit The heaven of wealth long gathered up for him. So if I ever win the home ia heaven, For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, In the great company of the forgiven, I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. Well, wife, I've been to 'Frisco, an' I called to see the boys ; I'm tired, an' more'n half deafened with the travel and the noise ; So I'U sit down by the chimbley, and rest my weary bones, And teU how I was treated by our 'ristocratic sons. As soon's I reached the city, I hunted up our Dan — Ye know he's now a celebrated wholesale business man. I walked down from the depo' — ^but Dan keeps a country seat — An' I thought to go home with him, an' rest my weary feet. All the way I kep' a-thinMn' how famous it 'ud be To go 'round the town together — ^my grown-up boy an' me, An' remember the old times, when my httle " curly head " Used to cry out " Good-night, papa ! " from his httle trundle-bed. I never thought a minute that he wouldn't want to see His gray an' worn old father, or would be ashamed of me ; OUB FAVORITES. So when I seen his office, with a sign writ out in gold, I walked in 'thout knockin' — ^but the old man was too bold. Dan was settin' by a table, an' a-writin' ia a book ; He knowed me in a second ; but he gave me such a look ! He never said a word o' you, but axed about the grain, An' ef I thought the vaUey didn't need a Httle rain. I didn't stay a great while, but tnquii^ed after Rob ; Dan said he lived upon the hill — I think they caU it Nob ; An' when I left, Dan, in a tone that almost broke me down, Said, " Call an' see me, won't ye, whenever you're in town?" It was rather late that evenin' when I found our Robert's house ; There was music, lights, and dancin', and a mighty big carouse. At the door a nigger met me, an' he grinned from ear to ear, Sayin' " Keerds ob invitation, or you nebber git in here." I said I was Bob's father ; an' with another grin The nigger left me standin' and disappeared within. Bob came out on the porch — ^he didn't order me away ; But he said he hoped to see me at his office the next day. Then I started fur a tavern, fur I knowed there, anyway, They wouldn't turn me out so long's I'd money fur to pay. An' Rob an' Dan had left me about the streets to roam, An' neither of them axed me if I'd money to git home. It may be the way o' rich folks — I don't say 'at it is not — But we remember some things Dan and Rob have quite forgot. "We didn't quite expect this, wife, when, twenty years ago, We mortgaged the old homestead to give Rob and Dan a show. I didn't look fur Charley, but I happened just to meet Him with a lot o' friends o' his'n a-comin' down the street. I thought I'd pass on by him, for fear our youngest son Would show he was ashamed o' me, as Rob and Dan had done. But as soon as Charley seen me, he, right afore 'em aU, Said : " God bless me, there's my father ! " as loud as he could bawl Then he introduced me to his frien's, an' sent 'em all away, TeUin' 'em he'd see 'em later, but was busy for that day. THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. Then he took me out to dinner, an' he axed about the house, About you, an' Sally's baby, an' the chickens, pigs an' cows ; He axed about his brothers, addin' that 'twas ruther queer. But he hadn't seen one uv 'em fur mighty nigh a year. Then he took me to his lodgin', in an attic four stairs high — He said he liked it better 'cause 'twas nearer to the sky. An' he said : " I've only one room, but my bed is pretty wide," An' so we slept together, me an' Charley, side by side. Next day we went together to the great Mechanics' Fair, An' some o' Charley's picters was on exhibition there. He said if he could sell 'em, which he hoped to pretty soon, He'd make us all a visit, an' be richer than Muldoon. An' so two days an' nights we passed, an' when I come away. Poor Charley said the time was short, an' begged fur me to stay. Then he took me in a buggy, an' druv me to the train. An' said in just a little while he'd see us all again. You know we never thought our Charley would ever come to much ; He was always readin' novels an' poetry and such. There was nothing on the farm he ever seemed to want to do. An' when he took to paintin' he disgusted me clear through ! So we gave to Rob and Dan all we had to call our own, An' left poor Charley penniless to make his way alone ; He's only a poor paiuter ; Rob and Dan are rich as sin ; But Charley's worth a pan* of 'em with all their gold thrown in. Those two grand men, dear wife, were once our pratthng babes — an' yet It seems as if a mighty gulf 'twixt them an' us is set ; An' they'll never know the old folks till hfe's troubled journey's past. And rich and poor are equal underneath the sod at last. An' maybe when we all meet on the resuiTCction morn, With our eaiihly glories fallen, like the husks from the ripe corn, — When the righteous Son of Man the awful sentence shall have said. The brightest crown that's shining there may be on Charley's head. OUB FAVORITES. WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. A. ALPHONSE DAYTON. Here, John ! you drive the cows up, while your mar brings out the pails ; But don't ye let me ketch yer hangin' onter them cows' tails, An' chasin' them acrost that lot at sich a tarin' rate ; An', John, when you cum out, be sure and shet the pastur" gate. It's strange that boy will never larn to notice what I say ; I'm 'fraid he'U git to rulin' me, if things goes on this way ; But boys is boys, an' wlU be boys, tiU. ther grown up to men, An' John's 'bout as good a lad as the average of 'em. I'U teU ye, stranger, how it is ; I feel a heap o' pride In thet boy — ^he's our only one sence little Neddy died ; Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eye-sight 's gittin' dim ; But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him. Jes' set down on the door step, Squar, an' make yerself to hum ; While Johnny's bringin' up the cows, I'U teU ye how it cum Thet all our boys has left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, And I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share. Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the oldest of them aU, He was the smartest little chap, so chipper, pert, an' small. He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to seen the little spark. An' thar was Tom, " a han'sum boy," his mother aUus said, He took to books, and I'arned so spry, we put the sprig ahead — His skoolin' cleaned the httle pile we'd laid by in the chest, But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his "level best." Our third one's name was Samuel ; he grow'd up here to hum. An' worked with me upon the farm tiU he was twenty-one ; Fur Benjamin had I'arned a trade — ^he didn't take to work ; Tom, mixin' up in poUtics, got 'lected County Clerk. WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. We ken all remember, stranger, the year of sixty-one, When the spark thet tetched the powder off in that Conf ed'ret gxin Flashed like a streak o' lightnin' up acrost from East to West, An' left a spot thet burned like fire in every patriot's breast. An' I tell ye what it was, Sqnar, my boys cum up to the scratch. They all had a share o' the old man's grit, with enough of their own to match — They show'd ther colors, an' set ther flint, ther names went down on the roll. An' Benjamin, Thomas, an' Sam was pledged to preserve the old flag whole. They all cum hum together at the last, rigged up in soldier's clothes ; It made my old heart thump with pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose. Fur she'd been " down in the mouth " sum what, sence she'd heard what the boys had done, Fui- it took aU three, an' it's hard enough fur a mother to give up one. But therwam't a drop of coward's blood in her veins, I ken tell you first. Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, too, if worst had come to worst ; I shall never forgit the last night, when we all kneeled down to pray, How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in the hush of the twilight gray. An' then, when morning broke so clear — not a cloud was in the sky— The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us their last good-bye ; I didn't 'spect she would stand it aU with her face so firm and calm. But she didn't break nor give in a peg till she cum to kissin' Sam. An' then it all cum out at onst, like a storm from a thunder-cloud — She jest sot down on the kitchen-floor, broke out with a sob so loud *^ OVB FAVORITES. Thet Sam give up, an' the boys cum back, and they aU got down by ber tbere, An' I'm thinkin' 't would make an angel ciy to bev seen tbet partin', Squar ! I think she bad a f orewamin', fur when they brought back poor Sam, She sot down by his coffin there, with her face so white an' cahn, An' the neighbors thet cum a-pourin' in to see our soldier dead. Went out with a hush on their trembUn' bps, an' the words in ther hearts unsaid. Stranger, perhaps you heerd of Sam, how be broke thro' thet Secesh Une, An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where its dear old stars could shine; An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a-gatherin' up the dead, They found our boy with his brave heart still, and the flag above his head. An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the hottest of the fray — They said thet he led his gallant boys like a hero thro' thet day ; But they brought him back with his clear voice hushed in the sUent sleep of death. An' another grave grew grassy green 'neath the kiss of the Sum- mer's breath. An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last, but it made my old eyes ache To see Mm lay with thet patient look, when it seemed thet his heart would break With his pain an' wounds ; but he lingered on tiU the flowers died away, An' then we laid him down to rest, in the calm of the Autumn day. Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house where my boys were bom? Jes' look down thro' the orchard, Squar, beyond that field o' com — Ken ye see them four white marble stuns gleam out thro' the orchard glade ? Wall, all thet is left of our boys on arth rests under them old trees' shade. MY EARLY HOME. But there eums John with the cows, ye see, an' it's 'bout my mUkin'- time; If ye happen along this way agin, jes' stop in at eny time. Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm would ever be sold : Wall ! may be, Squar, but I'll teU ye plain, 'twill be when the old man's cold. MY EARLY HOME. t ALEXANDER CLARK. Love, Peace, and Repose ! the tenderest trio Of musical words ever blended in one — That one word is Home — 'mid the hiUs of Ohio — Dear home of my childhood in years that are gone. There, father and mother, two sisters, one brother. With hopes, like their hearts, united, abide. Their treasures in this world are few ; in another, A heritage holy and glory beside. In fancy I wander, this sweet summer morning. Away to the wheat-field, just over the hUl ; 'Tis harvest-time now, and the reapers are coming To gather the waiting grain, golden and still. Many harvests have passed, many summers have ended, Since here I oft toiled, with glad reapers, before, And felt the great bounty of Heaven extended. Giving joy to the worker, and bread to the poor. Long ago, I remember, when thirsty and tiring, The harvesters came to the old maple shade, How they quaffed the pure water, so cool and inspiring, That gushed from the fountain that Nature had made. And I think of the orchard, and the apples that yellowed. Half hidden by leaves in the' " big early tree : " Ah, the apples, how luscious, when ripened and mellowed, Then dropped in the clover for sisters and me ! OUB FAVORITES. Old home of my youth, so humble, so cherished, Thy haUowfed memory cheers me to-day ; When all other thoughts of the past shall have perished, Remembrance of thee shall illumine my way. Sweet home in Ohio, now farewell for ever ! I've wandered afar from thy dear cottage door ; m visit thee, love thee ; but never, oh, never, WiU thy charms, or my childhood, return any more. MY MOTHER. The feast was o'er. Now brimming wine, In lordly cup, was seen to shine Bef oi-e each eager guest ; And silence filled the crowded hall As deep as when the herald's caU Thrills in the loyal breast. Then up arose the noble host, And, smiling, cried : "A toast ! a toast ! To all our ladies fair ; Here, before aU, I pledge the name Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame, The Lady Gundamere." Quick to his feet each gallant sprang, And joyous was the shout that rang. As Stanley gave the word ; And every cup was raised on high. Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry Tin Stanley's voice was heard. " Enough, enough," he, smUiag, said. And lowly bent his haughty head ; " That aU may have their due. Now each in turn must play his part And pledge the lady of his heart. Like a gallant knight and true." MY MOTHER. Then, one by one, each guest sprang up, And drained in turn the brimming cup, And named the loved one's name ; And each, as hand on high he raised. His lady's grace and beauty praised, Her constancy and fame. 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise ; On him are fixed these countless eyes j A gaUant knight is he ; Envied by some, admired by all. Far famed in lady's bower and hall. The flower of chivalry. St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And held the sparkling cup on high : " I drink to one," he said, " Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart. Tin memory be dead ; " To one whose love for me shall last When Hghter passions long have past. So deep it is, and pure ; Whose love hath longer dwelt, I ween, Than any yet that pledged hath been By these brave knights before." Each guest upstarted at the word And laid a hand upon his sword With fury-flashing eye ; And Stanley said : " We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame. Whose love you count so high." St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus hghtly to another ; Then bent his noble head, as though To give that word the reverence due, And gently said, " My mother." OUB FAVORITES. THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! Each one its creed in music tells, In tones that float upon the air As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime ; My happy heart with rapture swells Eesponsive to the beUs, sweet bells ! " In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " Chimed out from ivied towers a beU ; " This is the church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands ; Its forms and sacred rites revere ; Come worship here ! Come worship here ! In rituals and faith excel ! " Chimed out the Episcopalian beU, " Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well ! " In solemn tones exclaimed a bell. " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just, eternal plan ; With God there can be nothing new ; Ignore the false, embrace the true, WhUe all is well ! is well ! is well ! " Pealed out the good old Dutch church "beU. " Ye purifying waters, swell ! " In mellow tones rang out a beU ; " Though faith alone in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave, To show the world unfaltering faith In what the Sacred Scriptures saith : Oh, swell ! ye rising waters, swell ! " Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist beU. TEE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. " Not faith alone, but works as well, Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; " Come here and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road, With faith in Grod, and faith in man, And hope in Christ where hope began ; Do well ! do weU ! do well ! do weU ! " Eang out the Unitarian beU. " Farewell ! farewell ! base world, forever ! " In touching tones exclaimed a beU. " Life is a boon to mortals given To fit the soul for bhss in heaven ; Do not invoke the avenging rod. Come here and learn the way to Grod ! Say to the world. Farewell ! farewell ! " Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. " To aU the truth we tell ! we teU ! " Shouted in ecstasies a beU ; " Come, all ye weary wanderers, see ! Our Lord has made salvation free ! Repent, believe, have faith, and then Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! Salvation's free, we teU ! we tell ! " Shouted the Methodistic beU. " In after hf e there is no heU ! " In raptures rang a cheerful beU ; " Look up to heaven this holy day, Where angels wait to lead the way ; There are no fires, no fiends to bHght The future hf e ; be just and right. No heU ! no heU ! no hell ! no heU ! " Rang out the Universalist beU. " The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well My cheerful voice," pealed forth a beU OUB FAVORITES. " No fetters here to clog the soul ; No abitrary creeds control The free heart and progressive mind, That leave the dusty path behind. Speed well ! speed weU ! speed well ! speed weU ! " Pealed forth the Independent beU. "No pope, no pope, to doom to heU ! " The Protestant rang out a beU ; " Great Luther left his fiery zeal Within the hearts that truly feel That loyalty to God will be The fealty that makes men free. No images where incense f eU ! " Rang out old Martin Luther's beU. "AH hail, ye saints in heaven that dweU Close by the cross ! " exclaimed a beU ; " Lean o'er the battlements of bhss, And deign to bless a world like this ;' Let mortals kneel before this shrine — Adore the water and the wine ! All hail, ye saints, the chorus swell ! " Chimed in the Roman CathoHc beU. " Ye workers who have toiled so well To save the race ! " said a sweet beU ; " With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, Each brave heart beatiag hke a drum ; Be royal men of noble deeds, For love is hoHer than creeds ; Drink from the well, the well, the well ! " In rapture rang the Temperance beH ^.•■ AN AUGUST RUNE. Tones of turquoise, bronze and gray — Tawny meadow and winds astray — • Lambent night and slumb'rous day, August comes dreamily by ; Mystical petals of white and red, Floating where bloomed the roses dead, (After love's end meet is slumber's bed — Lo ! poppies gleam out from the rye.) Fitful chants from the hidden thrush — (Magic rifts in the dreamy hush) — Gorse's gold, and lilies' flush, August comes tranquilly by ; Questioning heart of mine, though thou see Summer depart, yet again to thee foy shall return, jocund, blithesome, free, Unfreighted by plaint or by sigh ! Helen Chase. CABI2^ PHILOSOPHY. CABIN PHILOSOPHY. Jes' tiim de back log ober, dar — an' pull your stools up nigber, An' wateb dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet by de fire : Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to make my f eelin's fl^ow, An' I'U grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' you go. Now, in dese busy wuMn' days, day's changed de Scripter fashions, An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish ybu wid rations : Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, you got to go an' fetch 'em, An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your wums an' ketch 'em. For you kin put it down as sartin dat de time is long gone by, When sassages an' taters use to rain fum out de sky ! Ef you think about it keerfuUy, and put it to the tes', You'U diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'uUy de bes' ; Ef you stumble on a hornets'-nes' an' make de critters scatter. You need't stan' dar like a fool an' argerfy de matter ; An' when de yaUer fever comes an' settles all aroun', 'Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out of town. Bar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' fiddle ; A ripe an' meUow apple may be rotten in de middle ; De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' fool ; Bar's a lot o' solid Mckin' in de hvimbles' kind o' mule ; De preacher ain't de hoHes' dat w'ars de meekes' look, An' does de loudes' bangin' on de Mver of de Book ! De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots an' lan's ; Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut stan's ; De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf deir rents, But Heben an' de organ-grinder gits de copper cents. I nebber Ukes de cullud man dat thinks too much o' eaten ; Dat frohcs froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de meetin' ; Dat jines de Temp'rance 'Ciety, an' keeps a gettin' tight. An' pidls his water-millions in de middle ob de night ! OUR FAVORITES. Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han's, Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's, Had better drop deir guns an' go to marcbin' wid deir boes An' git an bonest bbbia' as dey cbop de cotton rows, Or de State may put 'em arter wbile to drilbn' in de ditcbes, Wid more'n a single stripe a-nmnin' across deir breeches. Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'taU is mighty sof an' nice, But it busted up de renters in de lubly paradise ! ~ You see, dey bofe was human beia's, jes' like me an' you, An' dey couldn't reggerlate deiselves wid not a thing to do ; Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to make, Dey'd nebber thofight o' loafin' 'roun' an chattin' wid de snake, OLD FAMILIAR FACES. CHAELES LAMB. I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days, All, aU are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, aH are gone, the old famiUar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, aU. are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate, I left my fi-iend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old famihar faces. Grhost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. HUNCHBACK JIM. Friend of my bosom, thou more tlian a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling ? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me : all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. T HUNCHBACK JIM. When aU things seem quite against me, and I deem my life a curse; When, for fancied wrongs or real, thoughts of discontent I nurse ; Then I turn with softer feehngs to a memory far and dim. And again, through mist and shadow, stands before me Hunch- back Jim. Pale and ghostly, weak and ailing, never feeling free from pain, Oh ! how bitter were his sufferings, yet who heard him e'er com- plain? Though his sorrows grew around him, he was meek and patient still. Ever gentle in his troubles and resigned to Heaven's will. I could understand his trials, for he was my friend and mate, And we worked for years together, coming early, going late ; And he often would, whilst toUing, pause in pain to gasp for breath. Whilst his hands grew hot and fevered, and his face as pale as death. And when I turned round to hold him, and to cool his burning brow, " Thank you. Jack," he'd smile and murmur, " thank you. Jack, I'm better now ; " And while he stiU was speaking, he would stagger, fall, and faint — Oh ! what agony of suffering — yet not one word of complaint. OUB FAVORITES. He went working on in sickness, when h.e should have been ia bed, But he had a feeble mother who looked up to him for bread. And so on and on with patience, looking forward to the day Which should make an end to sorrow with the broken mould of clay. Fate condemned him to a city, far from pleasant grove and rill ; But he nursed, with mother's worship, flowers on liis window-sill ; And he held each mom communion, ia a language strangely sweet. With the little birds that fluttered, picking crumbs upon the street. He had never known the music of a wife's soft loving tone, Nor the clasp of baby-fingers he could fondly call his own ; But the children all around us used to gladly run to him, For they knew the loving-kindness of poor childless Hunchback Jim. But at length there came the morning when I missed him at his place ; On the bench his tools lay listless, motirning for the wonted face ; Shadowed by a dark foreboding, drearily the dayhght passed, Till uneasy, fearing, doubting, I could go to him at last. There he lay — ^his cheek grown hollow — on his narrow Httle bed. And my footsteps broke the stillness with a solemn ghostly tread; Yet he sweetly smiled upon me, and he tried to rise and speak, But his tongue could give no utterance, and he fell back faint and weak. Through the night the lamp burnt dimly, flick'ring with the throes of death. And I sat and grieved, and watched him, in the dull smoke of my breath When his voice the silence startled : " It's a snuling land," he said "And she's coming! Yes, she's coming! Jack, it's Freedom- she's ahead ! " GOma A WAT. Sure, no purer life did Heaven ever summon unto rest ; Patience, faith, and sweet contentment dwelt within that gentle breast ; Soaring happy with the angels, do I love to think of him. And I always feel the better for my thoughts of Hunchback Jim. I GOING AWAY. THOMAS FROST. So youVe come here to ask me for Susie — don't stand there a-hangin' your head ; Leave the shame for them chaps as goes eourtin' and ne'er has a penny to wed. You've an eye on the duties of life, John ; you're earnest, God- fearin' and true. And I can't say as Susie's been f oohsh in givin' her heart up to you. Since harvest I've knowd what was comin' ; I'm gi'ay, but my eye- sight is fair, And I've seen quite a bit of your aetin', at times when you least was aware ; I have seen how she'd blush at your footstep, like her mother at mine, long ago, When the whole world of hope lay afore me — ^my world, that's now buried in snow. And I'd made up my mind, John, to tell you, as I've no objections to bring, For the Book says it's nat'ral for children to leave the old home and to cling To the new ties as crops up around 'em — ^it's a draught we must all swaUer down ; So I wish you good luck. Yes, I'm hoarse, boy ; caught cold driv- ing in from the town. OUB FAVORITES. Shut the door — bring that cheer to the chimley — the storm's pretty heavy to-night; I was thinMn' just now of a Christmas when the snow lay as heavy and white On the fields and the pond and the bushes — over aU 'cept one sol- it'ry spot "Where the sexton had worked since the dayhght — our family burial plot. 'Twas a poor kind of Christmas for me, boy, I came from the church-yard that day With a heart just as dead as that dear one we'd left 'neath the cover of clay ; And I hoped and I prayed that the Master would soon break my hfe's heavy chain. And open the gateway of heaven, and give me my loved one again. That eveniii' we sat, me and Susie, and whispered of her we had lost, While the firelight got lower and lower, and the snow on the winders was tossed, And the wind, that seemed full of our trouble, moaned over the desolate farm, Untn — weU, worn out with my sorrow — I dropped off, her head on my arm. When I woke it was daylight and clearin', and Susie was singin' so gay The song of the " Old Oaken Bucket," that mother would hum all the day ; The kitchen was cozy and tidy — the teapot a puf&n' like mad ; The shells all peeled off o' my eggs, too — an old-fashioned way mother had. And, bless her, she wore mother's apron ; to this day, though, she ha'n't no idea That I saw her a-usin' that apron to wipe off a poor httle tear. As she stood in the light of that winder every line of her face and her hair Was a joy of the past acted over — 'twas her mother, not Susie, stood there ! ^ -^ THE SNOW STORM. Her mother, when I was like you, John, the wide world around me in bloom, Then I knew that while I had been sleepin' her soul had come into this room With a message from God to our Susie — a plan to reheve all my pain ; For my heart could not break with its sorrow while I lived my hfe over again. She has growed more and more like her mother, in face and in voice and in ways, A sweet bit o' gladness and simshine from out of my happiest days. I have watched her like misers their treasure ; but to His holy will I must bow. And — ^bless me, what's this ? I am faint, John — I've not felt my loss until now ! So you've come here to ask me for Susie ; well, boy, you're Grod- f earin' and true, And I can't say she's been over hasty in givin' her heart up to you. It is hard, but the Book says it's nat'ral, so I'U try to live sehlsh- ness down ; ^ Dear me; why, how hoarse I'm gettin' — caught cold drivin' in from the town ! 1 THE SNOW STORM. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Anives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come, see the north wind's masonry ! Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof OUB FAVORITES. Eound every windward stake, or tree, or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-Kke form invests the hidded thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate A tapering turret o'ertops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is aU his own, retiring as he were not. Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. Built in an age, the mad wind's night- work. The froUc architecture of the snow. THE SNOW. Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow. Filling the sky and earth below ; Over the house-tops, over the street. Over the heads of the people you meet ; Dancing, flirting, skimming along ; Beautiful snow ! it cannot do wrong, Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek. Clinging to Mps in a frohcsome freak, Beautiful snow from the heaven above. Pure as an angel, gentie as love ! Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow. How the flakes gather and laugh as they go Whirling about in the maddening fun. It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, laughing, hurrying by ; It lights on the face, and it sparkles the eye And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around : The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. THE SNOW. How wildly the crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges, like meteors, pass by. Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye — Ringing, swinging, dashing they go, Over the emst of the beautiful snow ; Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by, To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet, Tin it blends with the filth in the horrible street. Once I was pure as the snow — ^but I fell ! Fell, hke the snow-flakes, from heaven to hell ; Fell, to be trampled as filth in the street ; Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat, Pleading, cursing, dreading to die. Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Deahng in shame for a morsel of bread. Hating the Uving, and fearing the dead ; Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? And yet I was once hke the beautiful snow ! Once I was fair as the beautiful snow. With an eye hke a crystal, a heart like its glow ; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, Flattered and sought for the charms of my face ! Father, mother, sisters, all, God and myself, I've lost by my fall ; The veriest wretch that goes shivering by, "Will make a wide swoop lest I wander too nigh ; For all that is on, or above me, I know. There is nothing that's pure as the beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! How strange it should be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain, Fainting, freezing, dying alone. Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan OUB FAVORITES. To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down ; To be, and so die, in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. YOUR HOUSE. Be true to yourself at the start, young man. Be true to yourself and God ; Ere you build your house mark well the spot, Test well the ground, and build you not On the sand or the shaking sod. Dig, dig the foundation deep, young man. Plant firmly the outer waU ; Let the props be strong, and the roof be high. Like an open turret toward the sky. Through which heavenly dews may fall. Let this be the room of the soul, young man. When shadows shall herald care, A. chamber with never a roof or thatch To hinder the Ught, or door or latch To shut ia the spirit's prayer. Build slow and sure ; 'tis for life, young man — A life that outlives the breath ; For who shall gainsay the Holy Word ? " Their works do foUow them," saith the Lord, " Therein there is no death." Build deep, and high, and broad, young man. As the needful case demands ; Let your title-deeds be clear and bright, TUl you enter your claim to the Lord of Light, For the " House not made with hands." XJNRKSX. " I stood to-day within my lowly door, And heard my blue sea breaking on the shore ; A lady, rich and beautiful, whirled by In her low, velvet carriage, and a sigh L,eaped upward from my aching heart : 'Ah, me ! That I as rich and beautiful might be ! ' And then my husband's smile broke my unrest. My child's red lips were pressed against my breast. And their dear love, my home, and my blue sea Are quite enough for my true heart — and me." II. "I saw a woman in her doorway stand Beside her husband : while his toil-rough band Upon her shoulder he had kindly laid ; I am not selfish — yet I am afraid. As I whirled by in costly silk and lace ; I envied her that glad, contented face ; Yea, envied her, with burning, fierce unrest. That husband's love, those babe-lips at her breast ! Then I looked out across the glad blue sea, And smiled — so none might dare to pity me." «. ■ Ella Higginson. UNFINISHED STILL. UNFINISHED STILL. A baby's boot and a skein of wool Faded, and soiled and soft ; Odd things, you say, and no doubt you're right, Eound a seaman's neck this stormy night, Up in the yards aloft. Most hke it's f oUy ; but, mate, look here : When first I went to sea, A woman stood on the far-off strand, "With a wedding-ring on the small, soft hand. Which clung so close to me. My wife — Grod bless her ! The day before, She sat beside my foot ; And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair. And the dainty fingers, deft and fair, Knitted a baby's boot. The voyage was over ; I came ashore ; What, think you, found I there ? A grave the daisies had sprinkled white, A cottage empty and dark as night. And this beside the chair. The little boot, 'twas unfinished stiU ; The tangled skein lay near ; But the knitter had gone away to rest, With the babe asleep on her quiet breast, Down in the church-yard di'ear. T FAREWELL. Farewell ! — ^but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of nurth in your bower. Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too. And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. OUB FAVOBITES. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of tlie few that have brightened his pathway of pain ; But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup. Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles — Too blest, if he tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he were here ! " Let Fate do her worst ; there are rehcs of joy. Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy ; "Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care. And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled — You may break, you may shatter the vase if you wiU, But the scent of the roses will hang round it stUl. MERCY TO ANIMALS. I WOULD not reckon on my hst of friends, (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets his foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snaU That crawls at evening in the public path ; But he that has humanity, forewarned, WiU tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, CREATION. The chamber, or refectory, may die ; A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so wben, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air. Or take their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileged ; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong. Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm. Who, when she formed, designed them an abode, The sum is this : If man's convenience, health. Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramoTint, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all — ^the meanest things that are — As free to Kve, and to enjoy that hfe, As Grod was free to form them at the first, "Who in his sovereign wisdom, made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. CREATION. The spacious firmament on high. With all the blue ethereal sky And spangled heavens, a shining frame. Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied Sim from day to day Does his Creator's power display, And pubhshes to every land The works of an Almighty Hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wondrous tale. And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth ; Whilst all the stars that round her bum, And all the planets in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roU, And spread the truth from pole to pole. OUR FAVORITES. What, though in solemn silence aU Move round this dark terrestrial baU ? What, though nor real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found I In Reason's ear they aU rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice ; Forever singing, as they shine, " The Hand that made us is Divine." A STRAY SUNBEAM. My story is a simple one, its moral I don't know ; 'Tis not a tale of iacidents that happened long ago, But a simple Uttle story, put iuto simple rhyme. That is a temperance lesson just suited to this time. My hero was a wayward boy, big-hearted, full of fun, Of brightest braiu and iateUect, a widow's only son ; For his father was a soldier, who fell in our late strife, And left the widow with this babe to fight her way through life. Oh, how she fairly worshipped him and hved for him alone. And waited fondly for the day her darUng would be grown, And be her strong protector through her dechning years ; Yes, she worshipped him and watched him, filled alike with hopes and fears ; For no father Hved to govern the strong and wayward cMld, And as he grew up older, he also grew more wild. Till with drinking, gambling, everything that makes a downward start. He made her Uf e a torture and broke her loving heart. One night, with boon companions, his braiu was aU afire. When a message from a minister came speeding o'er the wire. He took it without thiokuig — ^he read it and was dumb ; 'Twas short, but oh, how awful: "Your mother's dying. Come ! " How quickly sped he homeward, how crazed at every wait, Tin he reached that mother's bedside. Alas ! he came too late. For the gentle voice was stOled, and, folded on her breast Were the patient, loving hands that oft had laid her boy to rest. -^ A STRAY SUNBEAM. And the lips that kissed the clustering curls from off his boyhood's brow Were pale, and cold, and lifeless ; no words of love came now, And the heart that he had tortured, which every throb made sore. Was touched by death's cold, icy hand, to beat for him no more. He sank beside that bedside and smote his half -crazed brain, And cried : " Come back, my mother ! " Too late — ^he cried ia vain ; And his kisses brought no love-light fo-om the eyes that death had sealed. Then with choMng sobs of anguish down by her side he kneeled, And from his heart that just before had known no thought of care. There went up to his Maker this simple earnest prayer : '' O God, look down in pity upon a humbled one ; Forgive, O God, forgive me, for what my deeds have done ; And give, oh give, to aid me, thine arm, Mighty One, And let my mother's spirit watch o'er her wa;y'ward son." And did He hear that prayer ? Ah, yes. A newer hfe began. The headstrong, reckless youth was changed iato a noble man, Whose deeds were aU of kindness, of honor, and of love, Protected by that spirit that hovered up above, The spirit of his mother, whom death had claimed before, And who waited, patient waited, for him at heaven's door. And hquor did not touch the lips that fervent did appeal, When by that mother's corpse her son a suppUant did kneel. A year was gone, he stood beside the gi-ave of that loved one, And twihght came and darkhng clouds shut out the setting sun ; And he murmured " Mother, darling, I'm standing by thy gi-ave ; Thy spirit, ever near me, has made me strong and brave. Be near me, angel mother, protect me by thy love, And guide me ever onward, untU we meet above." He stopped, and lo, from through the gloom that marked the clos- ing day There came a Uttle sunbeam, a Httle silvery ray, And it lingered there a moment with a soft caressing air Upon the broad white forehead, 'neath the clustering curls of hair. Oh, do the souls of loved ones watch ? They do. Deny not this ; That httle straying sunbeam was his angel mother's kiss. 1 OUR FAVORITES. BUSTIN' THE TEMPERANCE MAN. Hoarsely demanding " Gimme a di-ink ! " He sidled up to the bar, And he handled his glass with the air of one Who had often before " been thar." And a terrible glance shot out of his eyes, And over his hearers ran. As he muttered, " I'm hangin' around the town Fer to bust that temp'rance man ! " iVe heerd he's a-comin' with singin' and sich, And prayin' and heaps of talk ; And allows he'U make all f eUers what driak Toe square to the temp'rance chalk. I reckon " — and he pulled out a knife That was two feet long or more, And he handled his pistols familiarly, While the crowd made a break for the door. The good man came, and his voice was kind, And his ways were meek and mild ; " But I'm goin' to bust him," the roarer said — " Jess wait tiU he gits me riled." Then he playfuUy felt of his pistol belt, And took up his place on the stage, And waited in wrath for the temperance man To further excite his rage. But the orator didn't ; he wasn't that sort, For he talked right straight to the heart, And somehow or other the roarer felt The trembling tear-drops start. And he thought of the wife who had loved him well. And the children that climbed his knee. And he said, as the terrible pictures were drawn, " He's got it kerrect — that's me ! " THE PRICE OF A DRINK. Then his thoughts went back to tlie years gone by Wlien his mother had kissed his brow, As she tearfully told of the evils of drink, And he made her a solemn vow, That he never should touch the poisonous cup Which had ruined so many before ; And the tears fell fast as he lowly said : " He's ketchin' me more and more ! " He loosened his hold on his pistols and knife, And covered his streaming eyes ; And though it was homely, his prayer went ujt — Straight up to the starUt skies. Then he signed his name to the temperance pledge, And holding it high, said he, " I came here to bust that temp'rance chap. But I reckon he's busted me." THE PRICE OF A DRINK. Five cents a glass, does any one think That that is reaUy the price of a drink ? Five cents a glass, some one might say, " Why ! that isn't very much to pay." The price of a drink, let him. decide Who has lost his courage and his pride. And who lies a grovelling heap of clay, Not far removed from a beast to-day. The price of a drink ? let that one tell Who sleeps to-night in a murderer's cell Honor and virtue, love and truth, All the glory of pride and youth. Hope of manhood, the wealth of fame, High ambition the noble aim ; These are the treasures thrown away As the price of a dt-ink from day to day. OUB FAVOBITES. " Five cents a glass ! " How Satan laughed, As o'er the bar the young man chaffed ; And before the morning the victim lay With his life-blood ebbing swiftly away ; And that was the price that he paid, alas, For the pleasure of taking a social glass. The price of a drink, if you want to know What some are willing to pay for it, go To that wretched hovel over there, With its dingy window, and broken stair, Where poverty dwells with its hungry brood, Wnd-eyed as demons for lack of food, Where innocent ones are thus accursed, To pay the price for another's thirst. Five cents a glass, oh ! if that were all. The sacrifice would indeed be small ; But the money's worth is the least amount You pay ; whoever wiU keep an account Will learn of the terrible waste and bhght That foUows that ruinous appetite. Five cents a glass, does any one think That that is really the price of a drink ? LADY CLARE. It was the time when lihes blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn ; Lovers long betrothed were they ; They two will wed the morrow morn ; -God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; LABT CLARE. He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare ; " To-morrow he weds with me." " Oh, God be thanked ! " said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of aU your lands. And you are not the Lady Clare." "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth ; you are my child. " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I bm-ied her hke my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done. Oh, mother," she said, " if this be true. To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life, And aU you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." " If I'm a beggar bom," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not He. PuU off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Ahce the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so ; but I will know If there be any faith in man." OUB FAVOBITES. " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse ; " The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Tho' I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child ! I sinned for thee." " Oh mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. My mother dear, if this be so ; And lay your hand upon my head. And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown. She was no longer Lady Clare ; She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had bought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. And followed her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest hke a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? " " If I come drest hke a vOlage maid, I am but as my fortunes are ; I am a beggar bom," she said, "And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, For I am yours in word and iu deed ; Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " Yoiu- riddle is hard to read." Oh, and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail ; MABRIED FOB LOVE. She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him aU her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; He turned, and kissed her where she stood, " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the next in blood, " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir. We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall stiU be Lady Clare." MARRIED FOR LOVE. " Yes, Jack Brown was a splendid fellow, But manied for love, you know j I remember the girl very well — Sweet little Kitty Duffau. Pretty, and loving, and good. And bright as a fairy elf, I was very much tempted indeed To marry Kitty myself. *' But her friends were all of them poor, And Kitty had not a cent ; And I knew I should never be "With '■ love in a cottage ' content. So Jack was the lucky wooer. Or unlucky — anyway You can see how shabby his coat, And his hair is turning gray. " But I'm told he thinks himself rich With Kitty and homely joys ; A cot far away out of town, FuU of noisy girls and boys. OUB FAVORITES. Poor Jack ! I'm sorry, and aU that, But of course he very well knew That fellows who marry for love Must drmk of the Mquor they brew." And the handsome Augustus smiled, His coat was in perfect style. And women still spoke of his grace, And gave him their sweetest smile. But he thought that night of Jack Brown, And said, " I'm growing old ; I think I must really marry Some beautiful girl with gold." Years passed, and the bachelor grew Tiresome, and stupid, and old ; He had not been able to find The beautiful girl with gold. Alone with his fancies he dwelt. Alone in. the crowded town, TUl one day he suddenly met The friend of his youth, Jack Brown. " Why, Gus ! " " Why, Jack ! " What a meeting ! Jack was so happy and gay ; The bachelor sighed for content, As he followed his friend away To the cot far out of town. Set deep in its orchard trees. Scented with lilies and roses. Cooled with the ocean breeze. " Why, Jack, what a beautiful place ! What did it cost ? " " Oh, it grew. There were only three rooms at first, Then soon the three were too few. So we added a room now and then ; And oft in the evening hours, Kitty, the children and I Planted the trees and fiowers. THANKSGIVING. "And they grew as the children grew (Jack, Harry, and Grace and Belle)." "And where are the youngsters now ? " "All happy and doing well. Jack went to Spain for our house, — His road is level and clear, — And Harry's a lawyer in town, Making three thousand a year. "And Grace and BeUe are weU married, — They married for love, as is best ; But often our birdies come back To visit the dear home nest. So my sweet wife Kitty and I From labor and care may cease ; We have enough, and age can bring Nothing but love and peace." But over and over again The bachelor thought that night, " Home, and wife, and children ! Jack Brown was, after all, right. Oh ! if in the days of my youth I had honestly loved and wed ! For now when I'm old there's no one eai*es Whether I'm living or dead." THANKSGIVING. Amid the groanings of the dying year A sudden stillness falls upon the air, As if time held his breath and paused in sad and silent contemplation ; Nature is wrapped in solitude, as in a pall. Hushed is the song of merry woodland birds ; The rills but faintly murmur as they flow, The forest trees have dropped their crown Of scarlet, gold and russet brown, OUB FAVORITES. And now they stand, like sentinels tmplumed, To see their sire, the year, entombed ; The sere and withered leaves unrustled lie — No passing breeze to voice their monmiag sigh For the bright, transient glow that fled When fell from heaven the fatal autumn frosts j The barren earth is ready for the robe That hides alike her beauty and decay. Ere winter comes to break this perfect calm With the wild storms that mark his cruel sway, The earth and sea and air await man's voice To lead their song of love and gratitude. Raise high the anthem, oh ! ye hills, and you, Ye mountaia-tops, reply with joyous shouts, As from the temples reared by human hands Now mouldered back to common dust. By holy prayer and praise so consecrate, That sunbeams fallen aslant upon the floor Seem golden pathways leading to the skies, Ascends this hymn of loving thankfulness : " Praise God, who blest and brought us to this hour. Praise Him that plenty crowns our Harvest Home, Praise Him that by the fulness of His love Grim death hath walked with conscious steps and slow Amid the accustomed haunts of men. Praise Him that His kind hand hath kept aU plagues. And wasting sickness, and distress of war From this our weU-beloved and happy land.'" The circling echoes die upon the air. All heads are bowed, and words of benediction fall From Him whose trembling hands the bread of life Hath broke, since these, who now in manly grace Before Him stand, laughed in their childish glee. As, dripping with the consecrated flood, He laid His hand in blessing on their heads, With kindly words and parting clasp, each turns From friend and neighbor on this day of days. For sire and dame have called the children home To the dear spot that gave them birth, THANKSGIVING. Around one hearth, the hearts whose warm life- stream Forth from the self -same fountain glowed ; Within the ruddy glow from cheerful fire Which gleams out on the frosty air, and teUs Of joys and comforts boimteous and rich, Prepared to crown this glad Thanksgiving Day. Here baskets heaped with luscious fruits, and there The sparkling cider brims the generous cup Within the hearth-nook, stored by gTandma's care ; The nuts for little ones to crack, as round The ring flies joke, and song, and merry tale. And spicy odoi"S rise and mingle with The genial warmth that glows and thriUs Each life-drop in its course to rvm more swift, The welcome summons comes, " Partake," and soon Each guest is placed beside the generous feast. The gray-haired sire sits in the place where he The honor of his house maintained when two Made all the household band, though years have fled, And many winters turned his locks to snow, He still presides with courteous ease and grace. And she who crowns his life with joy, and shares Alike his blessings and his cares, as they The rugged path of life together walk. Smiles on the scene, as if no hour of grief Had marred her girhsh dream of wedded bUss ; "All, aU are here, who hold each other dear." Where other eyes behold an empty space. To her the place is filled with unseen guests. Whose presence brings such peace and rest As falls upon the souls of those who look Up to the golden throne, where He who reigns In love and wisdom perfect guides and solves The chaos and the doubts of this, our world, And in His own divinely chosen hour Will turn our sorrow into joy. And fill our mouths with songs of praise. OVB FAVORITES. THANKS. Thanks in old age — ^thanks ere I go, For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life. For precious ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother dear — you, father — ^you, brothers, sisters, friends), For all my days — ^not those of peace alone — the days of war the same, For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands. For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown — or young or old — countless, unspeci- fied, readers belov'd. We never met, and ne'er shall meet — and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long ;) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books — for colors, forms. For aU the brave strong men — devoted, hardy men — who've for- ward sprung in freedom's help, all years, aU lands. For braver, stronger, more devoted men — (a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought — the great artillerists — the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:) As soldier from an ended war retum'd — As traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective, Thanks — ^joyful thanks ! — a soldier's, traveller's thanks. ALONE. I MISS you, my darhng, my darling, The embers burn low on the hearth ; And still is the stir of the household. And hushed is the voice of its mirth ; The raiu plashes fast on the terrace. The wiad past the lattices moan. The midnight chimes out from the minster, And I am alone. THE OLD ABM CHAIB. I want you, my darling, my darling ; I am tired with care and with fret ; I would nestle in sUenee beside you, And all but your presence forget. In the hush of the happiness given To those who through trusting have grown To the fulness of love in contentment ; But I am alone. I caU you, my darling, my darhng ! My voice echoes back on the heari ; I stretch my arms to you in longing. And, lo ! they fall empty apart ; I whisper the sweet words you taught me. The words that we only have known. Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter. For I am alone. I need you, my darling, my darling ! With its yearning my very heart aches ; The load that divides us weighs harder ; I shrink from the jar that it makes. Old sorrows rise up to beset me ; Old doubts make my spirit their own, Oh, come through the darkness and save me, For I am alone. THE OLD ARM CHAIR. I LOVE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs, 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you know the speU ? A mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. OUR FAVORITES. In childhood's hour I Hngered near That hallowed seat with a listening ear, To the gentle words that mother would give," To fit me to die, and teach me to hve. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earhest pi-ayer, As I knelt beside that old arm ehau*. I sat and I watched her many a day When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, And I almost worshipped her when she smiled And tm'ned from her Bible to bless her child : Years roUed on, but the last one sped, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! I felt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died. And memory still flows with the lava tide. Say it is foUy, and deem me weak. As the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear My soul from my mothei-'s old arm chair ! WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE. J. W. RILEY. We are not always glad when we smile, For the heart in a tempest of pain May Uve in the guise of a laugh in the eyes, As the rainbow may live in the rain ; And the stormless night of our woe May hang out a radiant star, Whose light in the sky of distress is a lie As black as the thunder clouds are. OLD TIMES. We are not always glad when we smile, For the world is so fickle and gay, That our doubts and our fears, and our griefs and oiu- teai'S, Are laughingly hidden away ; And the touch of a frivolous hand May oftener wound than caress, And the kisses that drip from the reveller's hp May oftener blister than bless. We are not always glad when we smUe, But the conscience is quick to record That the sorrow and the sin we are holding within Is pain in the sight of the Lord ; Yet ever — O ever till pride And pretence shall cease to revile. The inner recess of the heart must confess We are not always glad when we smile. OLD TIMES. WILLIAJH G. EGGLESTON. How I wish I had lived when creation Knew nothing of sin nor of woe, When each man was in life's highest station, And no one was above nor below ; When the world had a roseate glow And customs and fashions were new — Then the earth was an Eden — But no ; Old times were too good to be true. In old times no foreign migration Turned poHtical cakes into dough ; No man had a wife's poor relation To take in pecuniary tow ; OUB FAVORITES. Then every man hoed his own row, And hfe had a leaf -tinted hue, For each mortal was happy — But no ; Old times were too good to be true. Time was when a nightly libation To Bacchus and Pan was " the go," When the cerebral exacerbation "Was yet undiscovered, although Men surely should reap what they sow. Then a pauper a princess could woo, And Uve with her parents — But no ; Old times were too good to be true. In old times some sHght deviation From the right didn't lay a man low, And a sinner's eternal salvation Could be bought for a chapel or so. Then men didn't go to and fro, TeUing other folks what they should do ; Each minded his business — But no ; Old times were too good to be tine. ENVOI. The worry, the sad tribulation Of the present is past computation. Once the question was " What do you know ? " But now 'tis " How much do you owe ? " Shall we rub out ? Begin aU anew ? — Old times were too good to be true. Flickering, weird, in that dim place Gleams my dark-eyed pallid face Oh, — and what if I should see Deathshead grinning over me ? — Or a white ghost, fiery-eyed, Leaning dreadful at my side ? Spirits of All Halloween, Let my true love now be seen. Heaven ! (and down the garret stair Rolls the apple.) What is there ? Phantom shadows change and swim, Ah, the lovely visage dim ! Glistening eyes and lips apart, — Fades the picture. Ah, my heart ! Spirits of All Halloween, Have I then my true love seen ? OUR OWN. AIN'T HE CUTE? Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest And other raiment fair to view, I stood before my sweetheart Sue, — The charming creature I love best. " Tell me, and does my costiune suit ? " I asked that apple of my eye. And then the charmer made reply — " Oh, yes, you do look awful cute ! " Althongh I frequently had heard My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, I must confess I did not know The meaning of that favorite word. But presently at window side We stood, and watched the passing throng, And soon a donkey passed along, With ears like sails extending wide. And gazing at the doleful brute My sweetheart gave a merry cry, — I quote her language with a sigh, — " O Charlie, ain't he awful cute ? " OUR OWN. If I had known in the morning How wearily all the day The words unkind Would trouble my mind I said when you went away ; I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain ; But we vex " our own " With look and tone We may never take back again. OUB FAVORITES. For though in the quiet evening You may give us the Mss of peace, Yet it might be That never for me The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning That never come home at night ! And hearts have broken For harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right ; "We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest ; But oft for " our own " The bitter tone, Though we love "our own" the best. Ah ! hps with the curve impatient ! Ah ! brow with that look of scorn ! 'Twere a cruel fate "Were the night too late To undo the work of the mom. IN ANSWER. ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. " MADAJf , we miss the train at B ," " But can't you make it, sir ? " she gasped " Impossible ; it leaves at three. And we are due a quarter past." " Is there no way ? Oh, tell me then, Are you a Christian ? " "I am not." "And are there none among the men Who rxm the train ? " " No — I forgot — I think this f eUow over here. Oiling the engine, claims to be." She threw upon the engineer A fair face white with agony. IN ANSWER. "Are you a Christian ? " " Yes, I am." " Tiien, sir, won't you pray with, me, All the long way, that Grod will stay, That God will hold the train at B ? " " 'Twin do no good, it's due at three And " " Yes, but Grod can hold the train ; My dyiug child is calling me. And I must see her face again. Oh, won^t you pray ? " "I wiU," a nod Emphatic, as he takes his place. When Christians grasp the arm of God They grasp the power that rules the rod. Out from the station swept the train. On time, swept on past wood and lea ; The engiaeer, with cheeks aflame. Prayed, " O Lord, hold the traia at B- Then flung the throttle wide, and like Some giant monster of the plain. With panting sides and mighty strides. Past Mil and valley swept the train. A half, a minute, two are gained ; Along those burnished lines of steel. His glances leap, each nerve is strained. And still he prays with fervent zeal. Heart, hand and brain, with one accord. Work while his pray'r ascends to Heaven, " Just hold the train eight minutes. Lord, And rU make up the other seven." With rush and roar through meadow lands. Past cottage homes, and green hillsides. The panting thing obeys his hands. And speeds along with giant strides. They say an accident delayed The train a little while ; but He Who hstened while his children prayed. In answer, held the train at B . OUR FAVORITES. THE FISHING PARTY. WuNST we went a-flshing — ^me An' my Pa an' Ma — aU titiree, When there was a picnic, way Out to Haneh's woods, one day. An' there was a crick out there, "Where the fishes is, an' where Little boys 't ain't big and strong Better have their folks along. My Pa he jist fished an' fished ! An' my Ma she said she wished Me an' her was home ; an' Pa Said he wished so wors'n Ma. Pa said if you talk, er say Anythin', er sneeze, er play, Hain' no fish, aHve er dead, Everlgo' to bite, he said. Purt' nigh dark in town when we Got back home ; and Ma, says she, Now she'U have a fish fer shore ! — An' she buyed one at the store. Nen, at supper. Pa he won't Eat no fish, an' says he don't Like 'em. An' he pounded me When I choked !— Ma, didn't he ? FAMILY FINANCIERING. " They teU me yoii work for a doUar a day ; How is it you clothe your six boys on such pay ? " " I know you will think it conceited and queer, But I do it because I'm a good financier. BLUE JND GRAY. " There's Pete, John, Jim, and Joe, and William and Ned. A half dozen boys to be clothed up and fed. "And I buy for them all good, plain victuals to eat ; But clothing — I only buy clothing for Pete. "When Pete's clothes are too small for him to get on, My "wife makes 'em over and gives 'em to John. " When for John, who is ten, they have grown out of date, She just makes 'em over for Jim, who is eight. " When for Jim they've become too ragged to fix, She just makes 'em over for Joe, who is six. "And when little Joseph can wear 'em no more, She jiist makes 'em over for Bill, who is four. "And when for young BUI they no longer will do, She just makes 'em over for Ned, who is two. " So you see if I get enough clothing for Pete, The family is furnished with clothing complete." " But when Ned has got through with the clothing, and when He has thrown it aside — what do you do with it then ? " Why, once more we go round the circle complete, And begia to use it for patches for Pete." •t y BLUE AND GRAY. 5IARIETTA LILLY SLAIGHT. On a lovely mom in April, In the year of Sixty-one, A startled cry ran through the land — Hostilities begun ! On Sumter's browj the Stars and Stripes, OUB FAVORITES. The nation's pride and boast, Had fallen ! and a brother's blood Been shed by rebel host. It rolled o'er hill and valley ! It echoed from each crag ! TlU three hundred thousand freemen Went forth to save their flag ! Full many a woman's heart grew sad, And sank in deep dismay, When she saw her loved ones going To the battles far away ; For well they knew that some brave hearts, So loyal, and so tme, Wonld soon be stilled forever, 'Neath their shrouds of Union blue. 'Twas duty called, and they obeyed — They knew their cause was just, So they yielded up their dear ones. For in Heaven they put their trust. Ah ! not alone were they in suffering. They, who struggled with the foe ; For the hearts they left behind them Bore a fearful weight of woe. In many a lowly cottage. In many a grander home, Fond hearts grew weary watching For the one who ne'er would come. Not only at the hearthstone Where the soldier boy so true. Went out for country's honor, Great things to dare and do — But other, anxious, loving hearts, As they kneeled down to pray. Remembered at the throne of grace. Their gallant Boys in Gray. TiU, from one common brotherhood, North, East, and South, and West, The prayer arose, — " Eternal King, Do what Thou deemest best." THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. And the God of Battles stretched His hand To stay the tide of blood, For a mighty wi-ong, which He'd condemned, Had perished in that flood. The strife is o'er, the victory ours, And the Stars and Stripes again O'er North and South triumphant wave, Cleansed of this blot — ^this stain. No soHd North, no soUd South, Let sectional strivings cease. Our brothers' blood was freely spilled, Let it be a bond of peace. In many a quiet church-yard. On many a battle-ground, Through our re-united country. These sleepers pale, are found. Question not, ye that stand above them, On which side did they fight ; Enough to know they perished For what they deemed was right. They're brothers now, Grod willed it so, And in the last great day, He will not ask them if, on earth. They wore the " Blue or Gray." THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER. [The incidents "woven into the following beautiful verses relate to William Scott, a young soldier from Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his Ufe at home and in the field, and of his glorious death in defence of the Union.] 'TwAS in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet, a fratricidal foe ; When from the North, and East, and West, like the upheaving sea, Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. OUR FAVORITES. Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay, In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay ; Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath, He waited but th' appointed hour to die a culprit's death. Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care. He roamed at wUl, and freely drew his native mountain air — Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a wood- land font, And waving elms and grassy slopes give beauty to Vermont ; — Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soO, Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil — Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die. Then left he all : — a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed, A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field — The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's hot breath. Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman is Death ! Without a murmur he endured a service new and hard ; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard. He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning f oimd His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground ! So, in the silence of the night, aweary on the sod, Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God ; Yet Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes, And, though betrayed to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise ! But God is love — and finite minds can faintly comprehend How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stem Justice blend ; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify. While war's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 'Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread and slow, A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro. THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; On brothers armed ia deadly strife : — ^it was the President ! The woes of thirty nuUions filled his burdened heart with grief ; Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief ; And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry Of that poor soldier, as he lay m prison, doomed to die ! 'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated haze. Plashed back, fi-om hnes of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blaze ; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face. In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place. A youth — ^led out to die ; — and yet it was not death, but shame. That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame! Still on, before the marshalled ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay — His coffin ! And, with reeling brain, despairing, desolate — He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate ! Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air : He saw his distant mountain home ; he saw his parents there ; He saw them bowed with hopeless grief, through fast declining years ; He saw a nameless grave ; and then, the vision closed — in tears ! Yet once agaia. In double file, advancing, then, he saw Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law — But saw no more : — ^his senses swam — deep darkness settled round — And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound ! Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels ap- proach, — And, roUing through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. OUB FAVOBITES. On, past the guards, and tlirough the field, its rapid course was bent, Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President ! He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair ; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air ! The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubilee, And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him free! 'Twas Spring. — ^Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal tide Eeflected o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side : Where birds and flowers combine to cheer a sylvan solitude, Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood ! Two threatening armies ! One invoked by injured Liberty — Which bore above its patriot ranks the symbol of the Free ; And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaimting flag of bars, A fragment, torn by traitorous hands fi'om Freedom's Stripes and Stai-s! A sudden burst of smoke and flame, from many a thundering gun. Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fmy sped, To strew among tlie living lines the dying and the dead ! Then, louder than the roaring stonn, pealed forth the stern com- mand, " Charge ! soldiers, charge ! " and, at the word, with shouts, a fear- less band. Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood. And upward, o'er the rising ground, they mai'ked their way in blood ! The smitten foe before them fled, in terror from his post — While, unsustarued, two hundi-ed stood, to battle with a host ! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide ! WHISPEBIN' BILL. The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claimed his lif< The pai'doned soldier ! And, while yet the conflict raged around- While yet his Mf e-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound- While yet his voice gi'ew tremulous, and death bedimmed his eye- He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die ! And, in his last expu'ing breath, a prayer to Heaven was sent, That Grod, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President ! WHISPERIN' BILL. So you're taldn' the census, mister ? There's three of us Uvin' stiU, My wife, an' X, an' our only son, that folks call Whisperin' Bill ; But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, an' so it's hardly worth givin', For ye see a bullet killed his miad, an' left his body livin'. Set down for a minute, mister ; ye see Bill was only fifteen At the time o' the war, an' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen ; An' what with the news of battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise, I guess eveiy farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' boys. 'Twas harvest-time when Bill left home ; every stalk ia the fields o' rye Seemed to stand tip-top to see him off an' wave him a fond good- bye; His sweetheart was here with some other girls — the sassy little Miss! An' pretendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she gave him a rousiu' kiss. Oh, he was a handsome feller, an' tender an' brave an' smart, An' tho' he was bigger than I was, the boy had a woman's heart. I couldn't control my feeHn's, but I tried with all my might. An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till BiU was out o' sight. OVB FAVORITES. His mother she often told him when she knew he was goin' away, That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't forgit to pray; An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets whizzed in the air, An' Bill was a-flghtin' desperit, he used to whisper a prayer. Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit, When every second a gap in the ranks told where a ball had hit. An' one night when the field was covered with the awful harvest o' war. They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was fightin' for. His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass — oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead. But he lay sort of helpless an' crazy with a rifle-baU in his head ; An' if BUI had really died that night I'd give aU I've got worth givin'; For ye see the bullet had killed his mind an' left his body hvin'. An officer wrote an' told us how the boy had been hurt ia the fight. But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him round all right. An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern HiU, That he thought ia the coiirse of a week or so he'd be comiti' home with BiU. t We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the north- em lights ; We waited an' watched for a month or more, an' the Summer was nearly past. When a letter came one day that said they'd started for home at last. I'U never forgit the day BiU came — 'twas harvest-time again — An' the air-bloom over the yellow fields was sweet with the scent o' the grain; t WmSPERIN' BILL. The door-yard was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share oiir joy, An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy. An' all of a sudden somebody said : " My God ! don't the boy know his mother ? " An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' starin' from one to another : " Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat o' blue, " Why, God'U take care o' you. Bill ; God'U take care o' you." He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act like a man who hears The awf id roar o' the battle-field a-soundin' in his ears ; I saw that the buUet had touched his brain an' somehow made it bhnd, With the picture o' war before his eyes an' the fear o' death in his mind. I grasped his hand, an' says I to BiU, " Don't ye remember me ? I'm yer father — don't ye know me ? How frightened ye seem to be!" But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew, " God'U take care o' you. Bill ; God'U take care o' you." He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an' never wiU: Father an' mother an' sweetheart are aU the same to BUI. An' many's the time his mother sets up the whole night through, An' smooths his head, and says : " Yes, BUI, God'U take care o' you." Unf ortunit ? Yes, but we can't complaiQ. It's a Uvin' death more sad When the body cUngs to a life o' shame an' the soul has gone to the bad; An' BiU is out o' the reach o' harm an' danger of every kind. We only take care of his body, but God takes care of his mind. OUB FAVORITES. PAT'S CONFEDERATE PIG. "When the war broke out Pat was fii'st to enlist He'd fight wid shillaly or fight wid his fist. Now Patrick was fresh from the otild, ould, sod, And carried a gun as he'd carry a hod. He'd soon learn to shoot it, he said, without doubt, If they'd put in the load phile he'd watch it conae out. But when he had shot it he said he had ruther Be pricked wid the one end than kicked wid the other ! His rations of whisky he'd drink at one swig, And never mark time but he'd end wid a jig. They went to the front. Pat thought it was hard, The very first night to be put upon guard. Yet he paced back and forth, out in the night air, Rehearsing his " Halt " and " Who goes there ? " " I'm to shoot at the rebels, and aim at the heart — But how is a stranger to teU 'em apart ? " I'm to know Mr. Rebel, the oflBlcers say, By the clothes he has on, supposed to be gray ! " Is a gintleman judged by the cut of his clothes. As a toper is tould by the tint of his nose ? " But how can I tell if he come in the dark? Must I judge of the tree by feelin' the bark ? " I'U be sure of his wardrobe, bedad, ere I shoot ! To be the right man he must wear the wrong suit ! " Oi think I'll surround him, the first thing I say ; Then axe him this question : Your coat, is it gray ? " But I swear by the phiskey that's iu my canteen " I'll not throuble him if he's wearin' the green ! " PAT'S CONFEDERATE PIG. Tis late in the night — all the camp is asleep — When Pat hears a noise that makes his flesh creep ! Something crawls through the brush ! Pat halooes out " Halt ! " And "Who goes there? If ye're deaf, it's yer fault ! " All he heai's is : r-r-ruf£ ! r-r-ruff ! that sounds like a grunt — " He's a rough, sure ! " says Pat, " for his language is blunt ! " March here and suiTender me Reb, or ye die ! Come ! oud wid yer business ! I'U bet yer a spy " U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! " Holy mvirther ! Phat language is that ? 'Tis some foreign tongue, PU be blowed ! " muttered Pat. "An of&cer, sure — ^but betwixt you and me, Is the whole army wid ye ? " U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! " We ? We ? " muttered Pat. " Surely that's Frinch for yes ! I'U captur an army ! Hold aisy, I guess. " I'd bether have help — so I'U eaU up the crowd. The rebels are on us ! " he cries out aloud. " The rebels are on us ! " Out rush the whole corps. Surrounding the woods, which they quickly search o'er — They sweep through the brush on a double-quick jog. But all they can find is a dirty white hog ! They ciirsed tiU they laughed and laughed tUl they cried, For rousing the army next day Pat was tried. " Court-martialed ! " said Pat. " My offinse is not big ! Phy not try the army for rousin' the pig ? " But, since I've no lawyer to fix up me case Wid fiction I'U give the truth in its place. " He came in the night wid a he in his mouth. Just loike a Confederate, straight from the South ! " I axed him this question, fur I couldn't see, Are you, sir, a spy ! Then he answered — We ! We ! OVB FAVORITES. 'As I am a soldier, I ne'er dance a jig, But he was a rebel disguised as a pig ! " I've brought into court, to confirm phat Oi say, These bristles, that prove he was wearin' the ' gray ! ' " 'Twas an that was left me, I'm sad to relate, Fur the rest of the pig, sirs, you officers ate ! " I'U spake out me moiad — sire I'll die but it's true — There's many a pig here that's wearin' the ' blue ! ' " THE GRAND ARMY BUTTON. How dear to my heart are the comrades I cherish, Who stood by my side in the battle's dark hour ; Who offered their lives that the land should not perish. The nation oui' fathers had left us for dower ; Who stayed not to question the right to defend her. The mother who bore them, when enemies pres'd. But, foremost in battle, scorned coward surrender, And earned there the signet that shines on their breast — The little bronze button, the veteran's button, The Grand Army button that shines on their breast ! 'Tis the token of deeds of true patriot daring ; 'Tis the pledge of high com*age in battle's affray ; There earned they the right to the honor of wearing The symbol whose glory grows brighter each day. No jeweUed insignia, with diamonds entwining. No cross of the Legion, by princes possess'd, Can ennoble the bosom on which it is shining Like the httle bronze button they wear on their breast— The eloquent button, the deed-teUing button, The Grand Army button that shines on their breast. Wherever I see one, 'mid plainness or splendor. In the garments of wealth or of poverty dres'd, I know that the heart of a soldier is under If the little bronze button but shines on the breast. MOTHEB'S FOOL. So in life will I cherish, aU honors exceeding, And when, the march past, they shaU lay me to rest. Like a soldier I'U slumber, earth's tumult unheeding. And the little bronze button shall sleep on my breast — The Grand Army button, the heart cherished button, The battle won button shall sleep on my breast. MOTHER'S FOOL. " 'Tis plain to me," said the farmer's wife, " These boys wiU make their marks in life. They never were made to handle a hoe. And at once to college they ought to go. Yes, John and Henry, — 'tis clear to me, — Great men in this world are sure to be ; But Tom, he's little above a fool. So John and Henry must go to school." " Now, reaUy wife," quoth Farmer Brown, As he set his mug of cider down, " Tom does more work in a day, for me. Than both of his brothers do in three. Book leamin' will never plant beans or corn. Nor hoe potatoes — sure as you're bom — Nor mend a rood of broken fence ; For my part give me common sense." But his wife the roost was bound to rule, And so " the boys " were sent to school ; While Tom, of course, was left behind. For his mother said he had no mind. Five years at school the students spent. Then each one into business went. John learned to play the flute and fiddle, And parted his hair (of course) in the middle ; OUB FAVORITES. Though his brother looked rather higher than he, And hung out his shingle, — " H. Brown, M. D." Meanwhile at home, their brother Tom Had taken a " notion " into his head ; Though he said not a word, but trimmed his trees. And hoed his com and sowed his peas. But somehow, either " by hook or crook," He managed to read f iiU many a book. Well, the war broke out, and " Captain Tom " To battle a hundred soldiers led ; And when the rebel flag went down, Came marching home as " General Brown." But he went to work on the farm again, Planted his com and sowed his grain, Repaired the house and broken fence ; And people said he had common sense. Now, common sense was rather rare, And the state house needed a portion there. So our " family dunce " moved into town, And people called him " Grovemor Brown " ; And his brothers, that went to the city school. Came home to Uve with mother's fool. NOBODY'S CHILD. [The following poem was written by Miss Phila H. Case, and originally appeared in the Schoolday Magazine, in March, 1867. It has been noticed and copied and sung and spoken almost everywhere, even finding its way into more than one English publication, and has really become a little "no- body's child, " so far as its authorship and due credit are concerned. Two years ago the poem was set to music and published, in St. Louis, ascribed to " E. D." Later it appeared in books of selections under the name of " Phila H. Child," but has very often appeared without credit whatever.] Alone in the dreary, pitUess street. With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, All day I have wandered to and fro. Hungry and shiveiing, and nowhere to go ; NOBODY'S CHILD. The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? Is it because I am nobody's child ? Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair. Are caroUing songs in their rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor Little beggar like me, "Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat ? Oh ! what shaU I do when the night comes down, In its terrible blackness all over the town ? ShaU I lay me down 'neath the angry sky. On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die. When the beautiful children their prayers have said. And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed ' For no dear mother on me ever smUed, — Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child ? No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me, e'en the Httle dogs run When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see. How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes, when I He Gazing far up in the dark blue sky. Watching for hours, some large, bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, And a host of white-robed nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings ; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair. And a voice like the carol of some wild bird — The sweetest voice that was ever heard — Calls me many a dear, pet name. Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. OUB FAVORITES. They tell me of sucli unbounded love, And bid me come up to their home above ; And then with such pitiful, sad svtrprise, They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, I am going up to that world of Hght ; And away from the hunger and storm so wild, I am sure I shall then be somebody's cMld. 'OSTLER JOE. I STOOD at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies, Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin with the Hght of her wanton eyes, Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurely height, Whose face was as fair as a summer day, and whose heart was black as night. Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust ; Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust, But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot In the arid desert of Phyrne's life, where all was parched and hot. * * * * * * * In the summer when the meadows were aglow with blue and red, Joe, the 'ostler of the Magpie, and f au* Annie Smith were wed. Plump was Annie, plimip and pretty, with a cheek as white as snow; He was anything but handsome, was the Magpie's 'ostler, Joe. But he won the winsome lassie. They'd a cottage and a cow, And her matronhood sat Hghtly on the village beauty's brow. 'OSTLER JOE. Sped the months and came a baby — such a blue-eyed baby boy ! Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy. He was rubbing down the horses, and gave them then and there, All a special feed of clover just in honor of the heir ; It had been his great ambition, and he told the horses so, That the Fates might send a baby who might bear the name of Joe. Little Joe the child was christened, and Kke babies, grew apace ; He'd his mother's eyes of azure and his father's honest face. Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky ; Love was lord of that small cottage, and the tempests passed them by. Passed them by for years, then swiftly bm'st in fury o'er their home ; Down the lane by Annie's cottage chanced a gentleman to roam ; Thiice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her chUd, And he nodded to the baby, and the baby laughed and smiled. So at last it grew to know him — ^Httle Joe was nearly four ; He would call the pretty " gemplun " as he passed the open door. And one day he ran and caught him, and in child's play pulled him in^ And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother's sin. 'Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung ; 'Twas a woman weak and wanton and a viUain's tempting tongue ; 'Twas a picture deftly painted for a silly creature's eyes Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies. Annie Hstened and was tempted ; she was tempted and she fell. As the angels f eU from Heaven to the blackest depths of Hell ; She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of guilty sloth, Yellow gold for child and husband — and the woman left them both. Home one eve came Joe the 'ostler with a cheery cry of " Wife," Finding that which blurred forever all the stoiy of his Ufe. She had left a silly letter — ^through the cruel scrawl he spelt ; Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and knelt. if OUB FAVOBITES. "■ Now, O Lord, Grod, forgive her, for she ain't to blame ! " he cried, " For I owt t'a seen her trouble, and 'a gone away and died. Why, a wench Kke her — Grod bless her ! — 'twasn't likely as her'd rest. With that bonny head forever on a 'ostler's ragged vest. " It was Idnd in her to bear me aU this long and happy time, So for my sake please forgive her, though you count her deed a crime ; If so be I don't pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you see I can talk aU right to 'osses, but I'm nervous like with Thee." Ne'er a line came to the cottage fxom the woman who had flown, Joe, the baby, died that winter, and the man was left alone ; Ne'er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod. Saving what he told his horses ; saving what he told his God. Far away in mighty London rose the woman into fame. For her beauty won men's homage, and she prospered in her shame ; Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each pri2;e she won, And her rival paled beside her as the stars beside the sun. Next she made the stage her market, and she dragged art's temple down To the level of a show-place for the outcasts of the town. And the kisses she had given to poor 'Ostler Joe for naught With their gold and costly jewels rich and titled lovers bought. Went the years by with flying footsteps while her star was at its height. Then the darkness came on swiftly, and the gloaming turned to night. Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow; Of the thousands who had worshipped never one came near her now. Broken down in health and fortune, men forgot her very name, Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame. And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an " actress " lay Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day. NSW TEAR'S EVE. One there was "vrh.o read the story in a far-off couiitry pla«e, And that night the djdng woman woke and looked upon his face. Once again the strong ai-ms clasped her that had clasped her long ago, And the wearied head lay pillowed on the breast of 'Ostler Joe. All the past had been forgotten, all the soitow and the shame ; He had found her sick and lonely, and his wife he now could claim ; Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away, He could clasp his long lost darhng and no man would say him nay. In his arms death found her lying, in his arms her spirit fled ; And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside her dead. Never once his love had faltered through her base, unhallowed life : And the stone above her ashes bears the honored name of wife. * * * * * * * That's the blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust ; Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust : But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in one gi'een spot In the arid desert of Phyme's life, where all was parched and hot. I NEW TEAR'S EVE. GrOOD old days — dear old days When my heart beat high and bold — When the things of earth seemed full of mirth And the future a haze of gold ! Oh, merry was I that winter night, And gleeful our httle one's din. And tender the gi*ace of my darling's face As we watched the New Year in. But a voice — a spectre's, that mocked at love — Came out of the yonder hall ; " Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " 'twas the solemn clock That ruefully croaked to aU. OVB FAVORITES. Yet what knew we of the griefs to be In the year we longed to greet ? Love — love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream I fancied might never fleet ! But the spectre stood in. that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake : " Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — and they seemed to mock A heart about to break. 'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place. And Pm thinking again, of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a Uttle one hugs my knee. And I hear no gleeful shout — I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, "Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me : " Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — ^for so the clock TeUs of a life to be ; " Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — 'tis so the clock TeUs of eternity. CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. mWIN RUSSELL. When merry Christmas-day is done. And Christmas-night is just begun ; While clouds in slow procession drift To wish the moon-man " Christmas gift," Yet linger overhead, to know What causes all the stir below ; At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball The darkeys hold high carnival. CEBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUABTEBS. From all the country-side they tlirong, With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song — Their whole deportment plainly showing That to THE FROLIC they are going. Some take the path with shoes m hand, To traverse muddy bottom-land ; Aristocrats their steeds bestride — Pour on a mule, behold them ride ! And ten great oxen draw apace The wagon from " de oder place," With forty guests, whose conversation Betokens glad anticipation. Not so with him who drives : old Jim Is sagely solemn, hard, and grim. And frolics have no joys for him. He seldom speaks, but to condemn — Or utter some wise apothegm — Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing, Talk to his team, as now he's doiug : Come up heah. Star ! Yee-bawee ! You alluz is a-laggia' — Mus' be you think I's dead. And dis de huss you's draggiu' — You's mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref, Let lone drawin' de waggin. Dis team — quit bel'rin, sah ! De ladies don't submit 'at — Dis team — ^you ol' fool ox, You heah me tell you quit 'at ? Dis team's — des Kke de 'Nited States j BaVs what I's tryin' to git at ! De people rides behind De poUytishners haulin' — Sh'u'd be a weU-bruk ox, To foUer dat ar caUin' — An' sometimes nuf&n won't do dem steers, But what dey mus' be stallin' ! OUR FAVORITES. Woo bahgh ! Buck-kannon ! Yes, sah. Sometimes dey will be stickiii' ; An' den, fus thing dey knows, Dey takes a rale good Hckin ' — De folks gits down ; an' den wateh out For hommerin' an' kickin'. Dey blows upon dey hands, Den flings 'em wid de nails up. Jumps up an' cracks dey heels. An' pruzntly dey sails up. An' makes dem oxen hump deysef, By twistin' aU dey tails up ! In this our age of printer's ink, 'Tis books that show us how to think — The rule reversed, and set at naught. That held that books were bom of thought ; We form our minds by pedant's rules ; And all we know, is from the schools ; And when we work, or when we play. We do it in. an ordered way — And Nature's seK pronounce a ban on, Whene'er she dares transgress a canon. Untrammelled thus, the simple race is, That " works the craps " on cotton-places ! Origiual ia act and thought, Because unlearned and untaught, Observe them at their Christmas party. How unrestraiued their mirth — ^how hearty ! How many things they say and do. That never would occur to you ! See Brudder Brown — whose saving grace Would sanctify a quarter-race — Out on the crowded floor advance. To " beg a blessin' on dis dance." O Mahsr ! let dis gath'rin fin' a blessiu' in yo' sight ! Don't jedge us hard for what we does — ^you know its Chrismus night; CHBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. An' all de balunce ob de year, we does as right's we kin — Ef dancin's wrong — oh, Mahsr ! let de time excuse de sin ! We labors in de vineya'd — ^workin' hard, an' workin' tiii' Now, shorely yon won't notns, ef we eats a grape or two, An' takes a leetle hoHday — a leetle restin'-speU — Bekase, nex' week, we'U start in fresh, an' labor twieet as well. Remember, Mahsr — min' dis, now — de sinfulness ob sin Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in ; An' in a righehis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing ; A-feeUn' like King David, when he cut de pigeon- wing. It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be wrong — That people raly cynght to dance, when Chrismus comes along ; Dey dance bekase dey's happy — ^hke de birds hops in de trees ; De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze. We has no ai-k to dance afore, hke Isrul's prophet king ; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing ; But 'cordin' to de gif s we has we does de bes' we knows — An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it aint de rose. You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night ; Kase den we'U need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right ; An' let de blessin' stay wid us, unteU. we comes to die. An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky ! Yes, teU dem preshis anjuls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon ; Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune ; We's ready when you wants us, an' it aint no matter when — Mahsr ! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home ! Amen. The reVrend man is scarcely through, When aU the noise begins anew. And with such force assaults the ears. That through the din one hardly hears Old Fiddling Josey " sound his A" — Correct the pitch — ^begin to play — Stop, satisfied — ^then, with the bow. Rap out the signal dancers know : OUR FAVORITES. Git ycf pardners fust Jcwattilion ! Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; Tune is : " Oh ! dat water-million ! Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 8'lute yo' pardners ! — scrape perlitely — Don't be bumpin' gin de res' — Balance all ! — now, step out rightly, Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. Fdwa'd foaJi ! — ^whoop up niggers ! BacTc agHn ! — don't be so slow — Swing cornahs ! — ^min' de figgers ; When I hollers, den yo' go. Top ladies cross oher ! Hoi' on, till I takes a dram — Gemmen solo ! — ^yes Ps sober — Kaint say how de fiddle am — Sands around ! — ^hol' up yo' faces, Don't be lookia' at yo' feet ! Suing yo' pardners to yo' places ! Dat's de way — dat's hard to beat. Sides fo'w'd ! — when you's ready — Make a bow as low's you Mn ! Swing acrost tvid opposite lady ! Now we'll let you swap agin : Ladies change ! — shet up dat talkin' ; Do yo' talkin' arter while — Right an' lef! — don' want no walMn' — Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style ! And so the " set " proceeds — ^its length Determined by the dancers' strength ; And all agree to yield the pahn For grace and sMll, to " Grcorgy Sam," Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, " Des watch him ! " is the wond'ring cry- De nigger mus' be, for a fac'. Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack." On, on, the restless fiddle sounds — Still chorused by the curs and hoxmds — CHBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. Dance after dance succeeding fast, Till SUPPER is announced at last. That scene — ^but why- attempt to show it ? The most inventive modern poet, In fine new words whose hope and trust is Could form no phrase to do it justice ! When supper ends — that is not soon— The fiddle strikes the same old tune ; The dancers pound the floor again, With all they have of might and main ; Old gossips, almost turning pale, Attend Aunt Cassy's gruesome tale Of conjurors, and ghosts, and devils. That ia the smoke-house hold their revels Each drowsy baby droops his head, Yet scorns the very thought of bed : — So wears the night ; and wears so fast. All wonder when they find it passed, And hear the signal sound, to go, From what few cocks are left to crow. Then, one and all you hear them shout : " Hi ! Booker ! f otch de banjo out. An' gib us one song 'fore we goes — One ob de berry bes' you knows ! " Responding to the welcome call. He takes the banjo from the wall. And tunes the strings with skill and care — Then strikes them with a master's air ; And tells, in melody and rhyme. This legend of the olden time : Go way, fiddle ! — folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. Keep silence fur yo' betters — don't you heah de banjo talkin' ? About de 'possum's taU, she's gwine to lecter — ladies, Hsten ! — About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin' : " Bar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, looldn' solemn — For Noah tuk the " Herald," an' he read de ribber column — An' so he sot his hands to work a-el'ai'in' timber patches. An' 'lowed he's orwine to buUd a boat to beat de steamah " Natchez." OUR FAVORITES. OP Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-ehippin', an' a-sawin' ; An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin' ; But Noah didn't min' 'em — ^knowin' whnt wuz gwine to happen ; An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappiu'. Now, Noah had done cotehed a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es — Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle — An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee ; De people aU wuz drownded out — 'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix de bitters. De Ark she kep' a-saihn', an' a-sailin', a»' a-sailin' ; De hon got his dander up, an' hke to bruk de palin' — De sarpirits hissed — de painters yeUed — teU, what wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossia' 'roun' an' cussin.' Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet. Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket ; An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it. An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretched it on ; made bridge an' screws, an' apron ; An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' tap'rin' ; He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble for to ring it ; An' den de moighty question riz : how wuz he gwine to striag it ? De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; De ha'rs so long, an' thick, an' strong, — des fit for banjo stringin' ; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces ; An' sorted ub 'em by de size, from little E's to basses. He strung her, tuned her, stmck a jig, — twuz " Nebber min' de wedder " — She soun' like f orty-lebben bands a playin' all togedder ; Some went to pattin' ; some to dancin' ; Noah called de Aggers, An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers. ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PBAYEB. Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ; An' euri's, too, — dat nigger's ways : his people nebber los' 'em — For whar yon finds de nigger — dor's de banjo an' de 'possum ! The night is spent ; and as the day Throws up the first faint flash of gray, The guests pursue their homeward way ; And through the field beyond the gin. Just as the stars are going in. See Santa Claus departing — grieving — His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. His work is done — ^he fain would rest, Where people know and love him best- He pauses — listens — looks about — But go he must ; his pass is out ; So, coughing down the rising tears, He cHmbs the fence and disappears. And thus observes a colored youth — (The common sentiment, in sooth) ; " Oh ! what a blessin' tw'u'd ha' been, Ef Santy had been born a twin ! We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah — Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah ! " ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PEAYER. 'TwAS the eve before Christmas ; " Good-night " had been said. And Annie and WiUie had crept into bed ; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes. And each little bosom was heavy with sighs. For to-night their stem father's command had been given That they must retire precisely at seven Instead of eight ; for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before. 182 OUR FAVOBITES. He told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such a thing as " Santa Claus " ever had been, And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year, And this is the reason why two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock in the steeple tolled ten — Not a word had been spoken by either till then ; When WiUie's sad face from the blanket did peep. And whispered, " Dear Annie, is you fast asleep ? " " Why no, brother WiUie," a sweet voice replies, " I've tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes ; For somehow it makes me so sorry because Dear papa had said there is no ' Santa Claus ; ' Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died ; But then I've been thinMng that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say. And perhaps she asked Hitn to send Santa Claus here With his sacks fuU of presents he brought every year." " Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did then. And ask Him to send him with presents aden ? " " I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more Four bare little feet bounded out on the floor. And four Uttle knees the soft carpet pressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. " Now, WiUie, you know we must firmly believe That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive. You must wait just as still tiU. I say amen. And by that you will know that your turn has come then.— Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, And grant xis the favor we're asking of Thee : I want a nice book fuU of pictures, a ring, A writing desk, too, that shuts with a spring. Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see That Santa Claus loves us as much even as he ; Don't let him get fretful and angry again At dear brother WiUie and Annie, amen ! " ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. " Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tome down to-night, And bring us some presents before it is 'igbt. I want he souLd dive me a bright Uttle box, Full of ae'obats, some other nice blocks, And a bag fuU of tandy, a book, and a toy. Amen, and then, Desus, I'U be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads. And with hearts hght and cheerful agaia sought their beds ; They were soon lost in slumber — ^both peaceful and deep, And with fairies in. dream-land were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the httle French clock had struck ten Ere the father had thought of his children again ; He seems now to hear Annie's half -smothered sighs, And to see the big tears standing in Willie's blue eyes. " I was harsh with my darHngs," he mentally said, "And should not have sent them so early to bed ; But when I was troubled — my feehngs found vent. For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. But of course they've forgot their troubles ere this. But then I denied them the thriee-asked-for kiss ; But just to make sure I'U steal up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darhngs before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. And arriving at their door heard both of their prayers. His Annie's " bless papa " draws forth the big tears, And WiUie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. " Strange, strange, I've forgotten," said he, with a sigh, " How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh, I'U atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, " By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down, Threw off velvet sHppers and sUk dressing-gown, Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street — A miUionaire facing the cold winter sleet ; He first went to a wonderful " Santa Claus " store (He knew it, for he'd passed it the day before), And there he found crotvds on the same errand as he, Making purchase of presents, with glad heart and free, 184 OUR FAVORITES. Nor stopped lie until lie had bought everything From a box full of candy to a tiny gold ring. Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store That the various presents outnumbered a score ! Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, By the side of a table spread out for a tea ; A writiug desk then in the centre was laid, And on it a ring for which Annie had prayed ; Four acrobats painted in yellow and red Stood with a block house on a beautiful sled ; There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, And birds of all colors were perched in the tree ; "While Santa Glaus, laughing, stood up in the top. As if getting ready for more presents to drop ; And as the fond father the picture surveyed He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid. And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, " I'm happier to-night than I have been for a year. I've enjoyed more time pleasure than ever before. "What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent, more 1 Hereafter I'U make it a rule, I believe. To have Santa Glaus visit us each- Ghristmas eve." So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. And tripped down-stairs to retire for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight and the stars one by one. Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide. And at the same moment the presents espied. Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound. And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found ; They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee. And shouted for papa to come quick and see "What presents old Santa Glaus had brought iu the night (Just the things they had wanted) and left before Ught. "And now," said Annie, in a voice soft and low, " You'll beheve there's a Santa Glaus, papa, I know ; " THE PIED PIPES OF MAMELIN. WMle dear little "Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between tbem should be ; And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said. That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago dead. Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair. And that God, up ia heaven, had answered her prayer ! " Then we dot up and prayed dust as weU as we tould. And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't He dood '? " " I should say that He was if He sent you all these. And knew just what presents my children would please. (Well, weU, let him think so, the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to teU him I did it myself.") Bhnd father ! who caused your stem heart to relent ? And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent ? 'Twas the Beiag who bade you steal softly up-stairs, And made you his agent to answer their prayers. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. Hamelin town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city ; The river Weser, deep and wide, "Washes its waU on the southern side ; A pleasanter spot you never spied ; But, when begins my ditty. Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity. Eats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Spht open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. And even spoiled the women's chats. OVR FAVOBITES. By di-owning their speaMag With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different shai-ps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town HaU came flocking : " 'Tis clear/' cried they, " onr Mayor's a noddy ; And as for our Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin ! You hope, because you're old and obese. To find in the furry civic robe ease ? Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking. Or, sure as fate, we'U send you packing ! " At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in council, At length the Mayor broke silence, " O for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap ! "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that? Only a scraping of shoes on the mat f Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-arpat ! Come in ! " — ^the Mayor cried, looking bigger : And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yeUow and half of red ; And he himself was tall and thin. With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, He advanced to the Council-table : And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run." (And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing thp: pied piper of hamelix THE PIED PIPES OF MAMELIN. Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over Ms vestui'e so old-fangled.) " If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " " One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept, To blow the pipe his Ups he wiinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, And ere three shi-iU notes the pipe uttered, You heai'd as if an army muttered ; And out of the house the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives. Until they came to the river Weser, "Wherein all plunged and perished — Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, _ Swam across, and lived to carry To Rat-land home his commentary. Which was : "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards. And a leaving ajar of consei-ve cupboards, And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out : ' O rats, rejoice ! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! ' " You should have heard the Hamehn people Ringing the beUs tiU they rocked the steeple. " Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! Consult with carpenters and buHders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place. With a "First, if you please, my thousand guild, ers ! " OUB FAVORITES. A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; So did the Corporation too. To pay this sum to a wandering f eUow With a gipsy coat of red and yeUow ! Besides," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, " Our business was done at the river's brink ; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " The Piper's face fell, and he cried : "No trifling ! I can't wait : beside, With you, don't think I'U bate a stiver ! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." " How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'U brook Being worse treated than a cook ? You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst ; Blow your pipe there till you burst." Once more he stept into the street : And to his Hps again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air), There was a rusthng, that seemed Kke a bustling Of merry crowds justhng, at pitching and hustling. Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scatter- Out came the children running. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood. And could only foUow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. However lie tumed from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill Ms steps addressed, " He never can cross that mighty top ! And we shall see our children stop ! " When lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern were suddenly hoUowed ; And the Piper advanced and the childi-en followed. And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all f No ! one was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way ; And in after-years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say : " It's dull in our town since my playmates left ; I can't forget that I'm bereft Of aU the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me ; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the tovra, and just at hand. My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped, and I stood still. And found myself outside the hill." The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south, To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him. Silver and gold to his heart's content. If he'd only retui'n the way he went, And bring the childi'en aU behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever. They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away. And there it stands to this veiy day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe OUR FAVORITES. The outlandish ways and dress, On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison, Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamehn town in Brunswick land. But how or why they don't understand. So, WiUy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men — especially pipers : And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. Talking of sects till late one eve. Of the various doctrines the saints beUeve, That night I stood, in a troubled dream. By the side of a darkly flowing stream. And a " Churchman " down to the river came ; "When I heard a strange voice caU his name : " Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide. You must leave your robes on the other side." But the aged father did not mind. And his long gown floated out behind. As down to the stream his way he took. His pale hands clasping a gUt-edged book. " I'm bound for heaven ; and when I'm there, Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; And, though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown." Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track. But his gown was heavy and held him back ; NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. And the poor old father tried in vain A single step in the flood to gain. I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide ; And no one asked, in that blissful spot, Whether he belonged to the " church " or not. Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; His dress of a sober hue was made : " My coat and hat must aU be gray — I cannot go any other way." Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly waded in. And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white. But a strong wind carried away his hat, A moment he silently sighed over that ; And then, as he gazed to the farther shore. The coat shpped off, and was seen no more. As he entered heaven his suit of gray Went quietly sailing, away, away ; And none of the angels questioned him About the width of his beaver's brim. Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms. And hymns as many, a very wise thing. That the people ia heaven " all 'round " might sing. But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, As he saw that the river ran broad and high ; And looked rather surprised as one by one The psalms and hymns ia the wave went down. And after him, with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godhness ; But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? The water has soaked them through and through." OUB FAVORITES. And there on the river far and wide, Away they went down the swollen tide ; And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the stream together came ; But as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink. " Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, friend. How you attained to hf e's great end ? " " Thus, with a few drops on my brow." " But I have been dipped as you see me now. "And I really think it will hardly do. As I'm ' close commimion,' to cross with you. You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. But you must go that way, and I'll go this." Then straightway plunging with all his might, Away to the left — ^his friend to the right. Apart they went from this world of sin, But at last together they entered in. And now, when the river was rolling on, A Presbyterian church went down ; Of women there seemed an innumerable throng. But the men I could count as they passed along. And concerning the road they never could agree, The old or the new way, which it could be. Nor never a moment stopped to think That both would lead to the river's brink. And a sound of murmuring, long and loud. Came ever up from the moving crowd ; " You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; That is the false, and this is the true " — Or "I'm in the old way, and you're ia the newj That is the false, and this is the true." PAPA'S LETTER. But the brethren only seemed to speak : Modest the sisters walked and meek, And if ever one of them chanced to say What trouble she met on the way, How she longed to pass to the other side, Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, A voice arose from the brethren then, " Let no one speak but the holy men ; For have ye not heard the words of Paul, ' Oh, let the women keep silence all ? '" I watched them long in my curious dream, Till they stood by the borders of the stream ; Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; But all the brethren were talking yet. And would talk on till the heaving tide Carried them over side by side — Side by side, for the way was one ; The toilsome journey of hfe was done ; And all who in Christ the Sa\'iour died. Came out alike on the other side. No forms, or crosses, or books had they, No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; For all had put on Christ's righteousness. PAPA'S LETTER. I WAS sitting in my study, "Writing letters, when I heard, " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed ; " But I's tired of the Mtty, Want some ozzer fing to do ! Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma ? Tan't I wite a letter, too ?" OUR FAVORITES. " Not now, darling, mamma's busy ; Run and play "with Mtty, now." " No, no, mamma, me wite letter — Tan i£ 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darhng's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face- Hair of gold and eyes of azure. Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head. Till I said, '' I'll make a letter Of you, darling hoy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden hght. Then I said, " Now, httle letter. Go away, and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the Httle shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee : " Mamma's witing lots of letters ; I's a letter, Mary — see ? " No one heard the Uttle prattler As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his httle cap and tippet. Standing on the entry chair. No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Down the street the baby hastened Till he reached the office door. PAPA'S LETTEB. " I's a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for any more ? " 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa : Papa lives with Grod, 'on know. Mamma sent me for a letter ; Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ? " But the clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man." " Den I'U find anuzzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan." Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the Uttle feet were hastening — By the busy crowd swept on. Suddenly the crowd was parted. People fled to left and right As a pair of maddened horses At the moment dashed in sight. No one saw the baby figure — No one saw the golden hair, Tin a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air. 'Twas too late — a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there. Then the Httle face lay lifeless. Covered o'er with golden hair. Reverently they raised my darUng, Brushed away the curls of gold. Saw the stamp upon the forehead, Growing now so icy cold. Not a mark the face disfigured. Showing where a hoof had trod ; But the little life was ended — " Papa's letter " was with God. OUB FAVORITES. AN ORDER. MBS. SAEAH DE W. GAMWELL. " You heard my order, painter, The very words I said : All in your finest colors, Vermilion and Indian red ! And those wonderful eombitiations An artist only knows, Like moonlight on the water, Like dewdrops on a rose. " From the top to the bottom, painter, The very words I said ! And up from the sure foundations To the arches overhead ; Make them like things of beauty, Grarnish and decorate all ; Each room, each frieze and ceiling. Each balustrade and hall. '' But there's one exception, painter, (I spoke of it before), A little mark on a panel Behind a closet door ! Only a mark on a panel Behind a closet door. And the pencUled words below it Are * Mabel, aged four.' " You have my order, painter. You know my secret, too ! No hand may touch that panel TUl ' heaven and earth are new,' And I go to meet my darhng, Not lost, but gone before ; I shall know her when I see her, My ' Mabel, aged four.' " LINCOLN AND TAD MORTALITY. MORTALITY. [This was President Lincoln's favorite poem. He knew every word and line of it, and it is said that he often took great pleasure in his meditative moods in repeating the poem. The words in themselves are weU worth any- one's attention, but since having been the favorite poem of our martyred President it finds a warmer spot in all our hearts.] Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid ; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall he. The child that a mother attended and loved. The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, aU, ai-e away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye. Shone beauty and pleasure, — ^her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread. Have faded away hke the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, OUB FAVOBITES. The wise and tlie foolisli, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones m. the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed. That wither away to let others succeed ; So the mtdtitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same that our fathers have been ; We see the same sights that oui- fathers have seen, — "We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun. And we run the same course that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink ; To the hf e we are clinging to, they too would cling ; But it speeds from the earth hke a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no waU from their slumbers may come ; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died, — ay ! they died ; and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that Hes over their brow. Who make in their dwellings a transient abode. Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; And the smUe and the tear and the song and the dirge Still foUow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? ONLY A BABY'S HAND. ONLY A BABY'S HAND. " Big time to-niglit," the drummers said, As to supper they sat them down ; " To-morrow's Sunday, and now's our chance To illuminate the town." " Grood ! " cries Bill Barnes, the j oiliest — The favorite of aU ; " Yes ; let's forget our troubles now And hold high carnival." The supper done, the mail arrives ; Each man his letters seanniag, With fresh quotations — ^up or down — His busy brain is cramming. But BlU — " why, what's come over him — Why tiu'n so quick about ? " He says — ^just as his pards start forth, " I guess I won't go out." His letter bore no written word. No prayer from vice to flee ; Only a ti'aciug of a hand — A baby's hand — of three. What a picture comes before his mind — What does his memory paint ? A baby at her mother's knee — His Httle white-robed saint. What cares a man for ridicule Who wins a victory grand ? Bill slept ia peace, his brow was smoothed By a shadowy little hand. Naught like the weak things of the world The power of sin withstand ; No shield between man's soul and wrong Like a little baby hand. OUR FAVORITES. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his fiiend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night. Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North Church tower, as a signal Hght,- One i£ by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore wiU be. Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the coimtry-fblk to be up and to arm." Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Tin in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door. The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church. Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. To the belfry-chamber overhead. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. Booted and spuiTcd, with a heavy stride. On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, PAUL REVERE'S RIDE PAVL REVERE' S BIDE. As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and stiU. And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height A ghmmer, and then a gleam of Ught ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till f uU on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet, — That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the Hght, The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village clock. When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. It was one by the village clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare. As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for baU, From behind each fence and f armyard-waU, Chasing the red-coats down the lane. Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — OUB FAVORITES. A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and Usten to hear The hurrying hoof -beat of that steed. And the midnight message of Paul Revere. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, — With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago, In this Idngdom by the sea. That her high-born kinsman came. And bore her away from me. To shut her up in a sepulchre. In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy ia heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as aU men know) In this kingdom by the sea. That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killi ng my Annabel Lee. LEABVILLE JIM. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in. heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, aU the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my dai'ling, my darhng, my life, and my bride. In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. LEADVILLE JIM. He came to town one winter day ; He had walked from Leadville all the way ; He went to work in. a lumber yard, And wrote a letter that ran : " Dear Pard, Stick to the claim, whatever you do, And remember that Jim will see you through." For, to quote his partner, " they owned a lead Mid der shplendidest brospects, und nodings to ead." When Sunday came he brushed his coat, And tied a handkerchief round his throat. Though his feet ia hob-nailed shoes were shod, He ventured to enter the house of Grod. When, sharply scanning his ill-clad feet, The usher gave him the rearmost seat. By chance the lovehest girl in town Came late to the house of Grod that day, And, scorning to make a vain display OUR FAVOBITES. Of her brand new, beautiful Sunday gown, Beside the tkreadbare man sat down. When the organ pealed she turned to Jim, And kindly offered her book to him. Held half herself, and showed hiTn the place, And then, with genuine Christian grace. She sang soprano, and he sang bass. While up in the choir the basso growled. The tenor, soprano, and alto howled. And the banker's son looked back and scowled. The preacher closed his sermon grand With an invitation to " join the band." Then quietly from his seat uprose The miner, dressed in his threadbare clothes, And over the carpeted floor walked down. The aisle of the richest church in town. In spite of the general shudder and frown. He joined the church and went his way ; But he did not know he had walked that day O'er the sensitive corns of pride, rough-shod ; For the miner was thinking just then of God. A Httle lonely it seemed to him In the rearmost pew when Sunday came ; One deacon had dubbed him " Leadville Jim," But the rest had forgotten quite his name. And yet 'twas never more strange than true, God sat with the man in the rearmost pew. Strengthened his arm in the lumber yard, And away in the mountains helped his " Pard." But after awMle a letter came Which ran : " Dear Yim — I haf seU our claim, Und I send you a jeck for half der same. A million, I dought, was a pooty good brice, Und my heart said to sell, so I took its advice — You know what I mean if you lof e a fraulein — Good-bye. I am going to marry Katrine." UNCLE NED'S DEFENCE. The hob-nailed shoes and rusty coat Were laid aside, and another note Came rippling out of the public throat, The miner was now no longer " Jim," But the deacons " Brothered " and " Mistered " him ; Took their buggies and showed him round. And, more than the fact of his wealth, they found Through the papers which told the wondi-ous tale, That the f eUow had led his class at Yale. Ah ! the maidens admired his splendid shape. Which the tailor had matched with careful tape ; But he married the loveliest gul ia town, The one who once by his side sat down. When up in the choir the basso gi'owled. Then tenor, soprano, and alto howled. And the banker's son looked back and scowled. UNCLE NED'S DEFENCE. My breddren and sisters, I rises for to splaia Dis matter what ye's talkin' 'bout ; I hopes to make it plain. I'm berry sony dat de tiag hab come before de church, For when I splains it you will see dat it am nuf&n' much. My friends, your humble speakah, while trabbUn' heah below. Has nebber stopped to hoard up gold and silber for to show, He's only stoppia' heah a speU ; we aU hab got to die. And so I always tried to lay my treasure up on high. Da's just one ting dat pesters me, and dat am dis, you see, De rabens fed old Lijah, but de ereturs won't feed me ; Da's got above dar business, and just go swoopin' 'round. And nebber stop to look at me, awaitin' on de ground. I waited mighty sartin Hke, my faith was powerful strong. I reckoned dat dem pesky birds would surely come along ; But oh, my friendly hearers, my faith hes kotched a fall, Dem aggravatin' fowls went by and never stopped at all. t -4 OUB FAVORITES. De meal and flour was almost gone, de pork barrel gettin' low, And so one day I 'eluded dat I had better go To brudder Johnson's tater patch to borrer just a few. 'Twas evening 'fore I got a start — I had so much to do. It happened dat de night was dark, but dat I didn't mind, I knowed de way to dat dah patch — ^'twas easy nuff to find, And den I didn't care to meet dat Johnson, for I knowed Dat he would sass me 'bout de mess ob taters dat I owed. I got de basket full at last, and tuck it on my back. And den was goin.' to tote it home, when somethin' went kerwhack, I tot it was a cannon ; but it just turned out to be Dat Johnson's one-hoss pistol a-pointin' straight at me. I tried to argufy wid him, I 'pologized a heap, But he said dat stealin' taters was as mean as steahn' sheep ; Ob course I could not take dat dar, it had an ugly sound, So de only ting for me to do was just to knock him down. And now, my friendly hearers, de story all am told, Ob course I pounded Johnson till he yeUed for me to hold ; An' now I hopes you 'grees wid me, dat dis yer case and such Am herry triflin' matters to fotcJi before de church. THE MILKMAID. A MTLKMAID, who poised a fuU pail on her head. Thus mused on her prospects m. life, it is said : " Let me see, — I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. " Well then, — stop a bit, — ^it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten But if twenty for accident should be detached. It wiQ leave me just sixty soimd eggs to be hatched. " Well, sixty sound eggs, — ^no, soimd chickens, I mean : Of these some may die, — ^we'll suppose seventeen, THE MILKMAID. Seventeen ! not so many, — say ten at the most, WMch "wiU leave fifty cliickens to boil or to roast. " But then there's their barley ; how much will they need ? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, — So that's a mere trifle ; now, then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there'll be. " Six shillings a pair — five — ^four — ^three-and-six. To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix ; Now what will that make ? fifty chickens, I said, — Fifty times three-and-sixpence, — ril ask Brother Ned ! " Oh, but stop, — ^three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em ! WeU, a pair is a couple, — ^now then let us teU 'em. A couple in. fifty will go (my poor brain !), Why, just a score times, and five pair wiU remain. " Twenty-five pair of fowls, — now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this ! WeU, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess, — 'U say twenty pounds, and it can te no less. " Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys, — eight pigs and a sow ; Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear. " Forgetting her burden, when this she had said. The maid superciliously tossed up her head ; When, alas for her prospects ! her milk-pail descended. And so all her schemes for the future were ended. This moral, I think, may be safely attached, — " Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched." OUB FAVOBITES. THAT aRUMBLING OLD WOMAN. There was an old woman, and — ^what do you think ? — She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink ! But though victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, Yet this grumbling old woman never was quiet. — ^Mother Goose. She had a nice cottage, a hen-house and bam, And a sbeep whose fine wool furnished blankets and yarn ; A cow that supplied her with butter and cheese, A large flock of geese, and a hive full of bees. Yet she grumbled and grumbled from morning till night. For this foolish old woman thought nothiag went right ; E'en the days of the week were all wrong, for on Sunday She always declared that she wished it was Monday. If cloudless and fair was the long summer day, And the sun smiled down on the new-mown hay, " There's a drought," she said, " as sure as you're born ! If it don't rain soon, it will ruin the corn ! " But when descended the gentle rain. Blessing the bountiful fields of grain. And briaging new life to flowei: and bud, She said there was coming a second flood. She never gave aught to the needy and poor ; The outcast and hungry she turned from her door. " Shall I work," she said, with a wag of the head, " To provide for the idle and lazy their bread ? " But the rich she regarded with envy and spite ; She said 'twas a shame — 'twasn't decent nor right, — That the haughty old squire, with his bow-legged son. Should ride with two horses, while she rode with one. And the crabbed old fellow, — to spite her, no doubt, — Had built a new bam like a palace throughout, "With a cupola on it, as grand as you please. And a rooster that whirled head and tail with the breeze. FAILED. I wish, so I do," she said, cocking her eye, " There'd come a great whirlwiiid, and blow it sky-high ! " And e'en as she spoke, a loud rushing was heard, And the bam to its very foundations was stirred. It stood the shock bravely, but — pitiful sight ! — The wind took the old woman up like a kite ! As she sailed up aloft over forest and hill, Her tongue, so they say, it kept wagging on stUl. And where she ahghted, no mortal doth know, Or whether she ever ahghted below. MORAL. My moral, my dears, you will find if you try ; And if you don't find any, neither can I. FAILED. Yes, I'm a ruined man, Kate — everything gone at last ; Nothing to show for the trouble and toil of the weary years that are past ; Houses and lands and money have taken wings and fled ; This very morning I signed away the roof from over my head. I shouldn't care for myself, Kate ; I'm used to the world's rough ways ; I've dug and delved and plodded along through aU my manhood days; But I think of you and the children, and it almost breaks my heart ; For I thought so surely to give my boys and girls a splendid start. So many years on the ladder, I thought I was near the top — Only a few days longer, and then I expected to stop. And put the boys in my place, Kate, with an easier life ahead ; But now I must give the prospect up 5 that comforting dream is dead. OUE FAVORITES. " I am worth more than my gold, eh ? " You're good to look at it SO; But a man isn't worth very much, Kate, when his hair is turning to snow. My poor little girls, with their soft white hands, and their innocent eyes of blue. Turned adrift in the heartless world — ^what can and what will they do? "An honest failure ? " Indeed it was ; dollar for dollar was paid ; Never a creditor suffered, whatever people have said. Better are rags and a conscience clear than a palace and flush of shame. One thing I shall leave to my children, Kate ; and that is an hon- est name. What's that ? " The boys are not troubled, they are ready now to begin And gain us another fortune, and work through thick and thin ? " The noble fellows ! already I feel I haven't so much to bear ; Their courage has lightened my heavy load of misery and despair. "And the girls are so glad it was honest ; they'd rather not dress so fine. And think they did it with money that wasn't honestly mine ? " They're ready to show what they're made of — quick to earn and to save — My blessed, good little daughters ! so generous and so brave ! And you think we needn't fret, Kate, while we have each other left, No matter of what possessions our lives may be bereft ? You are right. With a quiet conscience, and a wife so good and true, rU put my hand to the plough again j and I know that we'U pull through. i FEGGING AWAT. PEGGINa AWAY. There was an old shoemaker, sturdy as steel, Of great wealth and repute in liis day, Who, if questioned his secret of luck to reveal, Would chirp like a bird on a spray, " It isn't so much the vocation you're in. Or your liking for it," he would say, "As it is that forever, through thick and through thin. You should keep up a-pegging away." I have found it a maxim of value, whose truth Observation has proved in the main ; And which well might be vaunted a watchword by youth In the labor of hand and of brain ; Por even if genius and talent are cast Into work with the strongest display. You can never be sure of achievement at last Unless you keep pegging away. There are shopmen who might into statesmen have grown, Pohticians for handiwork made. Some poets who better in workshops had shone. And mechanics best suited in trade ; But when once in the harness, however it fit, Buckle down to your work night and day. Secure in the triumph of hand or of wit. If you only keep pegging away. There are times in all tasks when the fiend Discontent Advises a pause or a change, And, on field far away and in-elevant bent, The purpose is tempted to range ; Never heed, but in sound recreation restore Such traits as are slow to obey. And then, more persistent and stanch than before. Keep pegging and pegging away. OUB FAVORITES. Leave fitfiil endeavors for such as would cast Their spendthrift existence in vain. For the secret of wealth in the present and past, And of fame and of honor, is plain ; It hes not in change, nor in sentiment nice, Nor in wayward exploit and display, But just ia the shoemaker's homely advice To keep pegging and pegging away. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling aU the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with step so slow and weaken'd, she with sunny, floating hair; He with sad, bowed head, and thoughtful, she with hps so cold and white, Strugghng to keep back the mui-mur, " Curfew vaw&t not ring to- night." " Sexton," Bessie's white Hps faltered, pointing to the prison old, "With its walls so dark and gloomy — walls so dark and damp and cold — " I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring to-night." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart — "Long, long y^ars I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower ; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right. Now I'm old, I win not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to-night ! " -^ CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. Wild iter eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And Avithin her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow ; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright — One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring to- night ! " She with Hght step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door. Left the old man coming slowly paths he'd trod so oft before ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow. Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the beU swung to and fro ; Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of Hght, Upward still, her pale lips saying : " Curfew shall not ring to-night." She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark beU, And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to heU ; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now. And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! her eyes flash with sudden Hght, As she springs and grasps it firmly — " Curfew shall not ring to- night ! " Oxit she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below ; There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the beU swung to and fro; And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heai'd the beU), And he thought the twiHght Curfew rang young Basil's funeral kneU; StHl the maiden cHnging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, StiUed her frightened heart's wild beating — " Curfew shall not ring to-night." It was o'er — ^the beU ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before OUR FAVOBITES. Human foot had not been planted ; and what she this night had done Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting sun Light the sky with meUow beauty, aged sires with heads of white TeU the children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hUls came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now; At his foot she told her story, showed her hands all braised and torn; And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity — ^lit his eyes with misty light ; " Go, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not riag to-night." ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THOMAS GRAY. The curfew toUs the kneU of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. And drowsy tinkhngs luU the distant folds ; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged ehns, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the tui-f va. many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. ELEGY WBITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHUBCH-YABD. The breezy call of incense-breatliitig morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-bmlt shed. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to Hsp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toU, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And aU that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await ahke the inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the gi-ave. t Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these a fault. If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, "Wliere through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : OUB FAVOBITES. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er imroll ; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial CTirrent of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark unf athomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some CromweU guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of Hstening senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their gTowing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. The strvigghng pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shi*ine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Then* sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial stiU erected nigh "With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; -4 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic morahst to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul rehes, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. Some kindi'ed spirit shall inquire thy fate ; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say ; " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His hstless length at noontide would he stretch, And pour upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woeful, wan, Uke one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. " One mom I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree ; Another came ; nor yet beside the riU, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne ; Approach and read — for thou canst read — the lay Grraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." OUB FAVORITES. THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to Misery aU he had — a tear ; He gained from Heaven — ^'twas aU he wished- No further seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode- There they alike iu trembling hope repose — The bosom of his Father and his G-od. -a friend. THE BRAVEST OF BATTLES. JOAQUm MnJiER. The bravest battle that ever was fought. Shall I teU you where and when ? On the maps of the world you'll find it not ; 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot. With sword or nobler pen ; Nay, not with eloquent word or thought From mouth of wonderful men. But deep in a walled-up woman's heart — Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently bore her pai-t — Lo ! there is the battle-field. No marshalling troop, no bivouac song. No banner to gleam and wave ! But oh, these battles, they last so long — From babyhood to the grave. FOUR SUNBEAMS. FOUR SUNBEAMS. Four little sunbeams came earthward one day, Shining and dancing on their way, Resolved that their course should be blest, " Let us try," they all whispered, " some kindness to do, Not seek our own pleasure all the day through, Then meet in the eve in the west." One sunbeam ran in a low cottage door, And played " hide-and-seek " with a child on the floor, Till the baby laughed loud ia his glee. And chased iu delight his strange playmate so bright, The Httle hands grasping ia vain for the hght That ever before them would flee. One crept to the couch where an invaUd lay. And brought him a dream of the sweet summer day, Its bird song, and beauty, and bloom, Till pain was forgotten, and weary unrest, And in fancy he roamed through the scenes he loved best, Far away from the dim darkened room. One stole in the heart of a flower that was sad. And loved and caressed her until she was glad. And lifted her white face again ; For love biings content to the lowliest lot, And finds something sweet in the dreariest spot, And hghtens aU labor and pain. And one, where a little blind gul sat alone. Not sharing the mirth of her playfellows, shone On hands that were folded and pale, And kissed the poor eyes that had never known sight, That never would gaze on the beautiful light TUl the angels had lifted the veil. At last when the shadows of evening were falling, And the sun, their father, his children was calling. Four sunbeams passed into the west. OUB FAVORITES. All said : " We have found in seeking the pleasure Of others, we find to the fuU our own measure." Then softly they sank to their rest. LET BY-GONES BE BY-GONES. Let by-gones be by-gones. If by-gones were clouded By aught that occasioned a pang of regret, O, let them ia darkest obhvion be shrouded ; 'Tis wise and 'tis Idnd to forgive and forget. Let by-gones be by-gones, and good be extracted From ill over which it is folly to fret ; The wisest of mortals have foohshly acted — The kindest are those who forgive and forget. Let by-gones be by-gones. O, cherish no longer The thought that the sun of affection has set ; Echpsed for a moment, its rays will be stronger, If you, hke a Christian, forgive and forget. Let by-gones be by-gones. Your heart will be Hghter "When kindness of yours with reception has met ; The flame of your love will be purer and brighter. If, God-hke, you strive to forgive and forget. Let by-gones be by-gones. O, purge out the leaven Of mahce, and try an example to set To others, who, craving the mercy of Heaven, Are sadly too slow to forgive and forget. Let by-gones be by gones. Remember how deeply To Heaven's forbearance we all are ia debt ; They value God's infinite goodness too cheaply Who heed not the precept, " Forgive and forget." HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD. HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD. The wcarld is no hive where the drone may repose, While others are gleaning its honey with care ; Nor will he succeed who is dealing his blows At random, and recklessly hits everywhere. But choose well your purpose, then breast to the strife, And hold to it firmly, by rectitude led ; Give your heart to that duty, and strike for your life, And with every stroke, hit the nail on the head. If Fate is against thee ne'er falter nor fret, 'Twill not mend your fortunes, nor Ughten your load ; Be earnest, stiU earnest, and you will forget You e'er had a burden to bear on the road. And when at the close, what a pleasure to know. That you, never flinching, however life sped, Gave your heart to your duty, your strength to each blow. And with every stroke, hit the nail on the head. GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. She stood at the bar of justice, A creature wan and wild, In form too small for a woman. In features too old for a child ; For a look so worn and pathetic "Was stamped on her pale young face, It seemed long years of suffering Must have left that silent trace. " Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her With a Idndly look, yet keen ; " Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." "And your age ? " " I'm turned fifteen." OUB FAVORITES. Well, Mary," — and then from a paper He slowly and gravely read. You are charged here — ^I'm sorry to say it — With stealing three loaves of bread. " You look not hke an offender, And I hope that you can show The charge to be false. Now, tell me Are you guilty of this, or no ? " A passionate burst of weepiug Was at first her sole reply. But she dried her eyes in a moment And looked in the judge's eye. " I will tell you just how it was, sir ; My father and mother are dead, And my little brother and sisters Were hungry, and asked me for bread. At first I earned it for them By working hard all day, But somehow times were bad, sir. And the work all fell away. " I could get no more employment ; The weather was bitter cold ; The young ones cried and shivered — Little Johnny's but four years old ; So, what was I to do, sir ? I am guilty, but do not condemn, I took — oh, was it stealing ? — The bread to give to them." Every man iu the court-room — Grraybeard and thoughtless youth — Knew, as he looked upon her, That the prisoner told the truth. Out of their pockets brought 'kerchiefs, Out from then* eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years. THE STARLESS CBOWN. The judge's face was a study, The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured Something about the law ; For one so learned in such matters, So wise in dealing with men, He seemed on a simple question Sorely puzzled just then. But no one blamed him, or wondered. When at last these words they heard : " The sentence of this young prisoner Is, for the present, deferred." And no one blamed him, or wondered When he went to her and smiled. And tenderly led from the court-room Himself, the " guilty " child. THE STARLESS CROWN. Wearied and worn with earthly care, I yielded to repose. And soon before my raptured sight a glorious vision rose. I thought, while slumbering on my couch in midnight's solemn gloom, I heard an angel's silvery voice, and radiance filled my room. A gentle touch awakened me ; a gentle whisper said, "Arise, sleeper, follow me ! " and through the air we fled ; We left the earth so far away that like a speck it seemed. And heavenly glory, calm and pui"e, across our pathway streamed. Still on he went ; my soul was wrapped in silent ecstasy ; I wondered what the end would be, what next would meet my eye. I knew not how we journeyed through the pathless fields of hght When suddenly a change was wrought, and I was clothed in white. We stood before a city's walls, most glorious to behold ; We passed through streets of glittering pearl, o'er streets of purest gold. OUE FAVORITES. It needed not the sun by day, nor silver moon by night ; The glory of the Lord was there, the Lamb Himself its Hght. Bright angels paced the shining streets, sweet music filled the air, And white-robed saints, with gUttering crowns, from every cUme were there ; And some that I had loved on earth stood with them round the throne. "All worthy is the Lamb," they sang, " the glory His alone." But, fairer far than all beside, I saw my Savioujr's face, And as I gazed. He smiled on me, with wondrous love and grace. Slowly I bowed before His throne, o'er joyed that I at last Had gained the object of my hopes, that earth at length was past. And then in solemn tones. He said, " Where is the diadem That ought to sparkle on thy brow, adorned with many a gem f ' I know thou hast beheved on Me, and life, through Me, is thine, But where are aU those radiant stars that in thy crown should shine ? Yonder thou seest a glorious throng, and stars on every brow ; For every soul they led to Me, they wear a jewel now ; And such thy bright reward had been, if such had been thy deed, If thou hadst sought some wandering feet in paths of peace to lead. " I did not mean that thou should'st tread the way of life alone. But that the clear and shining light which round thy footsteps shone Should guide some other weary feet to My bright home of rest, And thus in blessing those around, thou hadst thyself been blest." The vision faded from my sight ; the voice no longer spake ; A spell seemed brooding o'er my soul, which long I feared to break. And when at last I gazed around, in morning's ghmmering light. My spirit fell, o'erwhelmeS. amid that vision's awful night. I rose and wept with chastened joy that yet I dwelt below — That yet another hour was mine, my faith by works to show. That yet some sinner I might teU of Jesus' dying love, And help to lead some weary soul to seek a home above. And now whUe on the earth I stay, my motto this shall be, " To live no longer to myseM, but to Him who died for me." And graven on my inmost soul this word of truth divine, " They that turn many to the Lord, bright as the stars shall shine." HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. Ofttimes the circumstances of the writing of a song or poem is of as much interest as the production itself. We all have "Favorites," and thousands of readers go into ecstasies over this and that one, when, if they but knew the history that was no doubt attached to it, how much more highly it would be prized by them ! It is our aim in this department to bring out the double value that is attached to many of the best productions of the day by giving the circumstances of their writing. And further, in making our selections it has been our aim to give the most popular and interesting, and at the same time to bring out as near as possible the different thoughts of sentiment. As a matter of entertainment and historic facts, we com- mend this department to the careful perusal of our readers, and can assure them that an exceedingly interesting knowl- edge can be gained by becoming familiar with the follow- ing pages. "GUIDE ME, O THOU GREAT JEHOVAH." This was one of a collection of hymns written by its author, William Williams, at the suggestion of Lady Huntington. She had read one of his books, and was so much moved by it that she at once solicited him to write HISTOET OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. a collection of hymns. In this collection was this much ■used hymn. The collection was used in Mr. Whitefield's Orphans' Home in this country, and the hymn was very familiar in America before it became popular in the coun- try of its author. Williams, who is often termed "the "Watts of Wales," was born in 1717, and died in 1791. He early gave his life to the ministry, and at the age of twenty- three received deacon's orders. He was eloquent in his sermons, and was very successful in bringing his country- men to Christ. His talent extended to the production of hymns, and with grand effect. By these, and by his min- isterial work, he became widely and popularly known. Olivers, a brother Welchman, supplied the music to " Gruide me, Thou Great Jehovah," and thus it is often taken that he was the author. t "ROCK OF AGES." What soul-inspiring sentiment has been awakened by these beautiful lines ! What Christian comfort and heav- enly hope it has brought to the army of weary warriors " battling for the right ! " Thousands of Christians have been consoled in their dying hour by the redeeming love of Christ these lines impart. The place it holds in the affections of the Church is possibly greater than that of any other hymn. Its popularity is surely not surpassed by any. The author, Augustus Montague Toplady, was born at Farnham in 1740. His father, ere many years of his life had passed, died, and young Augustus was brought up under the Christian training of his mother, receiving his education at Westminster school. Of the experience that led to his conversion, which took place at Codymain, an obscure place in Ireland, in his sixteenth year, he hav- ing by chance heard an impressive sermon delivered in a barn by an illiterate layman, he thus speaks in his diary : ir- \ "BOCK OF AGES." " That sweet text, ' Ye wlio sometimes were afar off, are made nigh by the blood of Christ,' was particularly delight- ful and refreshing to my soul : under the ministry of that dear messenger, I was, I trust, brought nigh by the blood of Christ in August, 1756." Taking up the ministry of the Chm^ch of England, he worked and wrote with seK-exhausting zeal. His only failing was heated language and dictatorial stand in de- bate. In 1775, owing to failing health, his physicians sent him to London, Here he entered a new field in the pas- torage of the French Calvinist Reformed Chui'ch. In the Gospel Magazine of March, 1776, he shows the enormity of the debt of sin by numerical calculation, and demonstrates how Christ has cancelled this great debt and redeemed the soul. Afire with these thoughts, he com- posed the beautiful lines, just as given below. As sung to-day, it is somewhat changed and transposed from the original : Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee : Let the water and the blood, From Thy riven side which flowed, Be of sia the double cure, Cleanse me from its gnilt and power. Not the labor of my hands Can fulfil Thy law's demands : Could my zeal no respite know. Could my tears forever flow, AH for siu could not atone. Thou must save, and Thou alone. Nothing in my hands I bring, Simply to Thy cross I cHng : Naked, come to Thee for dress, Helpless, look to Thee for grace : Foul, I to the fountain fly : Wash me, Saviom*, or I die. EISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. WMlst I draw this fleeting breath, When my eye-strings break in death : When I soar through tracts unknown. See Thee on Thy judgment throne, Eock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee. At thirty-eigM life passed away, his last words being, " It will not be long before Grod takes me, for no mortal can live after the glories God has manifested to my soul." Other hymns testify to his ability as a song-writer, but " Rock of Ages " will live and grow forever as one of the brightest stars in the firmament of song. "ALL HAIL THE POWER OF JESUS' NAME." It was written by Edward Perronet, son of the Eev. Vincent Perronet, a somewhat noted English minister of the old school. Young Perronet in early life joined the Methodist 'Church, and became a close friend of Charles Wesley. His opposition of the union of Church and State was so strong that he expressed himself in some of his writings to such an extent as to incur the displeasure of the latter and lose the power of patronage, which had secured him an appointment under the Countess of Hunt- ingdon. He died in January, 1792, having for a number of years had charge of a congregation of Dissenters. How emblematic of l^is life and faith is th^^j^and fa- miliar hymn ! He seems to have put in it the inspu'ation of his soul, that led him to give his life-strength in a work to bring many to the throne. Fighting bravely on against the cruel prejudices that made life a continued effort, strengthened by his faith, he made at last death triumph- "ALL HAIL THE POWER OF JESUS' NAME," ant and gained a glorious entrance to heaven, " To crown Him Lord of all." Others of his writings -we have, but none to compare with this. We give the original words. AH hail the power of Jesus' name, Let angels prostrate fall : Bring forth the royal diadem, And crown Him Lord of all. Crown Him, ye martyrs of your God, Who from His altar call : Extol the Stem of Jesse's rod, And crown Him Lord of all. Hail Him, ye heirs of David's hne, Whom David " Lord " did call : The Grod incarnate ! Man divine, And crown Him Lord of all. Ye seeds of Israel's chosen race. Ye ransoms of the fall. Hail Him who saves yon hy His grace, And crown Hitn Lord of aU. Sinners, whose love can ne'er forget The wormwood and the gall, Go, spread yonr trophies at His feet. And crown Him Lord of all. Let every trihe and every tongue That bound creation's caU, Now shout the universal song, The crowned Lord of aU. HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. "PRAISE GOD, FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW." Few people in singing this grand doxology tMnk other than that it was written as a single verse, and for the sole purpose for which it is now used. Sung in all climes and by all civilized nations, suited to every Christian denomi- nation, to all times and places, and so dear to the Church universal, it must live and be sung as long as man remains to tell of our Grod, from whom our blessings come. The four lines were originally written as the closing verse of a morning and evening hymn, of some thirteen stanzas each, to be used in devotional exercises by the stu- dents in Winchester College, and in 1697 the hymn became a part of a work entitled "A Manual of Prayer," The author, Thomas Ken, was born in 1637, at Berk- hamstead, England, and received his education at Oxford. His love for holy music, and taking in early life to the min- istry, gave him opportunity to aid in organizing musical societies during the reign of Cromwell, who had ordered the organists and choristers silenced. In 1679 he was made chaplin to Mary, Princess of Orange, and one year later to Charles II. His duty was always performed in a Grod-fearing manner, and his re- proofs to the King's waywardness was given most point- edly. It is recorded that Charles would often good-na- turedly say, " I must go and hear Ken teU me my faults." To show how fearlessly he did his duty, we quote from Macaulay the following : " Before he became a bishop he had maintained the honor of his gown by refusing, when the court was at Winchester, to let NeU Owynn, the King's mistress, lodge at the house he occupied as prebendary. The King had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit, and of all the prelates he liked Ken best." On the ascension of WiUiam III., Prince of Orange, he was relieved of his bishopric, having stubbornly resisted JESUS, MY ALL TO HEAVEN IS O-OKE." the re-establishment of popery. Eednced to poverty, lie accepted the hospitality of Lord Viscount Weymouth, re- maining at his home, Longleat, near Frome, in Somerset- shire, for some twenty years. Under Queen Anne he was offered the bishopric again, but refused, wishing retire- ment for the rest of his life. In March, 1710, he died, and was buried in the church-yard of Frome. Says Lord Macaulay, "The moral character of Ken, when impartially reviewed, sustains a comparison with any in ecclesiastical history and seems to approach, as near as any human infirmity permits, to the ideal of Christian perfection." "JESUS, MY ALL TO HEAVEN IS GONE." How often a life of sin is followed until the soul is bur- dened with remorse so great it can bear no more ! The good in the man has been drowned so long by the evil that a reaction must come. It asserts itself — ^brings the man to a full realization of the sinful past, and the awful future that must come if he continues in his downward course. Such was the early life of John Cenniek, the author of "Jesus, my all to Heaven has gone," a hymn fully ex- pressing the resolves of a redeemed soul. Cenniek was a bright youth, of warm social nature, which made him many friends ; his keen perception made him familiar with the vices of his day. He was fond of cards, novels, and theatres, and he was classed as a smart but profitless boy. But he became restless and unhappy with aU this seeming enjoyment, daily the desultory life became less attractive, and his conscience continually brought before him the ruin he was bringing to both body and soul. He says, " While walking hastily in Cheapside, the hand of the Lord touched me, and I at once felt an uncommon fear and dejection." For some months he HISTORY OF FAVORITES IX SOJSfG AND VERSE strove with, his own strength to retrieve the past. He knew that he must die and suffer the penalty of a sinner, unless redeemed. He could not find the peace of mind he sought until one day he came across the words, "I am thy salvation." It showed him the way to the comfort he had been asking. Believing and receiving Christ as the only means of pardoning power, he at once found peace of mind and a hope for a heavenly future. His happiness was great, and he continually felt the presence of the Lord. Being of a poetical turn, he at once put in verse his ex- perience and thus originated the beautiful hymn Jesus, my all to heaven is gone. He died in 1755, being about thu^ty-five. His last years were spent in Christian work, and he made a strenuous effort with his former companions to come to Christ. The following verse, written by him a short time before his death, will show the peace with which he anticipated the end of earth. O Lamb, I languisli Till the day I see When Thou shalt say Come up and be with me : Twice seven years Have I Thy servant been, Now let me end My service and my sia. "COME, YE SINNERS, POOR AND NEEDY." The author, Joseph Hart, after receiving a liberal educa- tion, entered the profession of teaching. The first forty- five years of his life was indeed a checkered one. At times he would become deeply impressed with the earthly com- -^ "COME, YE SINNEBS, POOR AND NEEDY." fort and heavenly happiness given to a faithful Christian. During his early years these impulses for good often as- serted themselves and brought a restrained and prayer- ful life. Evil temptation finally claimed him, and, like most men of talent and impulses, he followed the scriptural injunction, " What thy hands find to do, do it with thy might." His influence for sin while away from the fold of the Lord, was waxed with the same enthusiasm that his strength was given to the right while following the Mas- ter's teachings. He became noted for his disregard of mo- rality and religious teachings : finally publishing a skeptical work entitled " The Unreasonableness of Eeligion." His own words best express the depths of his iniquity. " I was," he said, " in an abominable state, — a loose backslider and an audacious apostate." At last his conscience was bm-dened with more than it could bear. Remorse and re- pentance followed, and his penitence at the throne of grace was earnest and sincere. For a time, however, he was un- able to cast the weight of sin away, but at last he fully ex-f perienced the pardoning love of Grod. He attributed his conversion to the deep impression made on him by the sufferings of Christ. He thus expresses that experience : " The week before Easter, 1757, I had such an amazing view of the agony of Christ in the garden as I know not how well to describe. I was lost in wqnder and adoration, and the impression was too deep, I believe, to ever be obhterated. I beheve that no one can know anything of the sufferings of Jesus, but by the Holy Ghost." Under the inspiring influence of that experience he wrote the hymn Come, ye sinners, poor and wretched. HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. "LORD, DISMISS US WITH THY BLESSING," Ranks in popularity "with. "All Hail the power of Jesus' Name " and " Praise Grod, from whom all blessings flow : " like them it is used by many denominations and in many climes. Being so universal in public service, it seems to grow in use and favor, and though its author, Walter Shirley, wrote but few hymns, this one, which has proved enduring, will give him renown for ages to come. There is no note of any special event that brought forth the song, but it is the result of Christian thought and im- pulse. Shirley's hymns are of a high rank, and give the author a place among the first hymn-writers. His life, which began 1725 and closed sixty-one years later, was devoted to Christian work, yet full of severe trials. After obtaining great success in the ministry, he was forced to endure the remorse of a pubhc execution of *-his brother, Earl Ferrars, who had lived a licentious hfe and shot his steward because he showed favor to Lady Ferrars in her case against the earl's favorite mistress. From the execution Sir "Walter took up the duties of life a broken-hearted man. He expressed his gTief in the beautiful lines : Peace, troubled soul, whose plaintive moan Hath taught these rocks the not<»s of woe ; Cease thy complaint — suppress thy gToan, And let thy tears forget to flow ; Behold the precious balm is found, To lull thy pain, to heal thy wound. Come, freely come, by sin oppressed. Unburden here thy weighty load ; Here find thy refuge and thy rest. And trust the mercy of thy God : Thy God's thy Saviour — glorious word ! Forever love and praise the Lord. "FATHER, WEATE'EB OF EARTHLY BLISS. In Hs last years, unable to attend his parish duties, he often had his neighbors come in, and he preached to them from his chair. The end came in 1786, and he was freed from earthly trouble, for which his soul had longed. "FATHER, WHATE'ER OF EARTHLY BLISS." One of the most popular of Baptist hymn-writers is " Mrs. Steele," the daughter of WiUiam Steele, a Baptist minister of Hampshii*e, England. The term "Mrs." is given her not from the fact that she was ever married, but as a mark of honor to her hterary attainments. It is an English custom to thus address maiden ladies as a mark of respect, who have attained prominence and are entitled to especial respect. Mrs. Steele was an example of those patient sufferers, who teach their more fortunate companions lessons of thankfulness every day. An accident in her childhood made her an invahd for hfe, yet she made herself beloved by all, and was engaged to a gentleman of excellent attain- ments. On the eve of their marriage he was drowned. Weighted with this double sorrow, she found comfort in a drdly exercise of Christian acts, and the hours spent in hymn-writing. After her father's death, being left en- tii'ely alone, the pleasures of the world were naught to her. Yet she bore all her sufferings with the true Christian resignation, and her death came as a pleasant call to join friends gone before, and enjoy a heavenly home her life- work had earned. Her patient, devoted, and forbearing and Christian life she seems to have so fully expressed in her beautiful hymn : Father, whate'er of earthly bHss Thy sovereign will denies, Accepted at Thy throne of grace, Let this petition rise. HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. Give me a caJm and thankful heart, From every murmur free, The blessings of Thy love impart And help me live to Thee. Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine My Hf e and death attend, Thy presence through my journey shine, And crown my journey's end. Her life desire is most beautifully given in the above, and it was most graciously answered, and the crown was waiting at her journey's end. What an example to follow ! Deprived of strength and health, we all deem so necessary to enjoy life, yet she made continued sunshine, not only for herself, but for others. A happy home and a loving husband seemed about to be given her, yet she murmured not when this pleasure was denied : left entirely alone by her father's death, she seemed to seek the more to do Christian duty and glorify her Lord. No complaint was ever known to come from her. She never tired of serving and suffering for her Master, Her hymns are deservedly popular. The one just quoted is in- deed sweet, as it is so expressive of her life. "NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE." One of the most popular and widely known hymns of this age, and one that touches a chord of sympathy in every heart, is Nearer, my God, to Thee. It has followed the march of Christianity into heathen lands, and has been translated into many tongues. Benjamin Flower, an Enghsh author and editor of some note, had two daughters, Eliza and Sarah. Sarah, the youngest, was born 1805, but was soon left an orphan by "NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE" the death of a refined and ctdtui'ed mother. The attach- ment that naturally came to the girls for each other, on being bereaved of their mother, was indeed great. It was only to be expected, though, as they both took largely of the refined and sentimental feehngs of their mother. Ehza, the elder, gave her time and talent to the compo- sition of music and musicial attainments. Says a critic : " Ehza Flower attained a higher rank in musical compo- sition than before her time had been reached by any of her sex." Her sister Sarah, at the age of twenty-nine, married WiUiam Bridges Adams : but the cares of married life in nowise retarded her life's work, that of composing poetry. In 1841 she had pubhshed a dramatic poem entitled "Vivia Perpetua," in which she brings out the trials, sufferings, and faith of the early martyrs. The hymn " Nearer, my Grod, to Thee," was furnished Charles Fox and published by him in 1841 in his " Hymns and Anthems." At that time no particular attention was given it, but gi'aduaUy it attained a zenith of popularity from which it must ever shine. Her sister died in 1847 of consumption. During her sickness Mrs. Adams's care for her was unceasing. Their attachment in life had been so gi'eat that she never recov- ered from the loss of her sister, and gradually declining, she also died two years later ; but even to death's door her praise to Grod bui'st forth in song. As aU that was mortal of Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams was laid to rest, the following song of hers, expressing much the same sentiment of " Nearer, my G-od, to Thee," was sung : He sendeth sun, He sendeth. shower ; ■Alike they're needful to the flower ; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As conies to me or cloud or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done. k HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. Oh, ne'er will I at life repine, Enough that Thou hast made it mine ; "Where falls the shadow cold in death, I yet will sing with fearless breath ; As comes to me or shade or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done. "WATCHMAN, TELL US OF THE NIGHT," By Sir John Bowring, who was born 1792, at Exeter. He was from early youth much advanced, past his years, in learning and perceptibility. Under the influence of early Christian training he was a devout worshipper, and carried with every action through life a faith that by Christian consistency only could great ends be attained. His life was most successful, and positions of honor were accorded him. From a member of Parliament he was sent as Consul to Canton, and later became Grovernor of Hong Kong. The hymn was written in his thirty-third year, and to a degree expresses his Christian watchfulness. He seemed ever to be perceiving and anticipating the glories of Grod. THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD. One of the most beautiful of Sunday School hymns is I think when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus dwelt here among men. How He called little children as lambs to His fold, I should like to have been with Him then. I wish that His hand had been put on my head. And that I had been placed on His knee And that I might have seen His Mnd look when He said, " Let the little ones come unto me." "I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL." Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go, And ask for a share in His love ; And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, I shall hear Him and see Him above. In that beautiful place He is gone to prepare For all who are washed and forgiven ; And many dear children are gathering there. For of such is the kingdom of heaven. But thousands and thousands who wander and fall, Never heard of that heavenly home ; I should like them to know there is room for them all. And that Jesus has bid them to come. I long for that blessed and glorious time — The fairest, the brightest, the best — When the dear little children of every clime Shall crowd to His arms and be blessed. These are tlie words in full, and jnst as originally writ- ten. The author, Mrs. Jemima Luke, composed them while riding in a stage-coach on her way to a neighboring vil- lage school. It was her desire, as she was much interested in mission work, to write a song for this school that would enthuse a Christian interest. Inspired by this desire, she wrote the hymn under the circumstances named, and many thousand happy hearts have attested to the efficacy of the motive for which it was written. In some collections it has been eiToneously attributed to Mrs. Judson. "I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL" Was written on April 19th, 1845, by Mrs. Sydney P. Grill, who at that time was in Philadelphia, Pa. The ex- pression, " I want to be an angel," was just then made widely popular by an article that was going the rounds of ^ HISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. the Sunday-scliool papers, written by Dr. Irenaeus Prime. It was as follows : "A child sat in the door of a cottage at the close of a summer Sabbath. The twilight was fad- ing, and as the shades of evening darkened, one after another of the stars stood in the sky and looked down on the child in his thoughtful mood. He was looking up at the stars and counting them as they came, tiU there were too many to be counted, and his eyes wandered all over the heavens, watching the bright worlds above. They seemed just like ' holes in the floor of heaven to let the glory through,' but he knew better. Yet he loved to look up there, and was so absorbed, that his mother called to him and said : " * My son, what are you thinking of ! ' " He started as if suddenly aroused from sleep, and an- swered : " ' I was thinking ' " ' Yes,' said his mother, ' I know you were thinking, but what were you thinking about ! ' " ' Oh,' said he, and his little eyes sparkled with the thought, ' I want to be an angel.' " 'And why, my son, would you be an angel I ' " ' Heaven is up there, is it not, mother, and there the angels live and love Grod, and are happy ? I do wish I was good, and God would take me up there, and let me wait on Him forever.' " The mother called him to her knee, and he leaned on her bosom and wept. She wept too, and smoothed the soft hair of his head as he stood there, and kissed his forehead, and then told him that if he would give his heart to Grod, now while he was young, the Saviour would forgive all his sins and take him up to heaven when he died, and he would then be with God forever, " The mother took the child to his chamber, and soon he was asleep, dreaming perhaps of angels and heaven. A few months afterward sickness was on him, and the light "FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS." of that cottage, the joy of that mother's heart, went out. He breathed his last in her arms, and as he took her part- ing kiss, he whispered in her ear : " ' I am going to be an angel.' " Mrs. Gill was teacher in Sunday-school of an infant class. The subject was' "Angels," and during the lesson hour one of the little ones repeated the popular expression, " I want to be an angel." Soon after this same child died, and the hymn was composed and sung at its funeral. t "FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS." A BEAUTIFUL description of this we take verbatim from a voluoG entitled, "Story of Hymns," published by the American Tract Society, as given in an American religious magazine, which is as follows : " It does not necessarily take a lifetime to accomplish immortality. A brave act done in a moment, a courage- ous word spoken at the fitting time, a few lines which can be written on a sheet of note-paper, may give one a death- less name. Such was the case with Reginald Heber, known far and wide, wherever the Christian religion has pene- trated, by his unequalled missionary hymn, ' From Grreen- land's Icy Mountains,' so dear to every heart, so certain to live, while a benighted man remains to whom Christ's story has not yet been wafted. It was written in a parlor, with conversation going on around its author, and in a few min- utes' time. " Reginald Heber, then thirty-five years old, was visit- ing his father-in-law. Dr. Shipley, in Wrexham, having left his own charge at Hodnet a short time in order to de- liver some lectures in Dr. Shipley's church. HaK a dozen friends were gathered in the little rectory parlor one Satur- day afternoon, when Dr. Shipley turned to Hober, know- ing the ease with which he composed, and asked him if he HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. could not write some missionary lines for his chnrcli to sing the next morning, as he was going to preach upon the subject of Missions. This was not very long notice to give to a man to achieve the distinguishing work of his life, and in the few moments which followed, Heber builded better than he knew. Retiring to a corner of the room, he wrote three verses of his hymn, and returning read them to his companions, only altering the one word, sav- age, to heathen, in the second verse. " ' There, there,' said Dr. Shipley, ' that will do very well.' But Heber, replying that the sense was not quite com- plete, retired for a few moments, and then returned with the glorious bugle-blast of the fourth verse : Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, And you, ye waters, roll, TiU like a sea of glory It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature The Lamb, for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign. Amen. " It was printed that evening, and sung the next morn- ing by the people of Wrexham church." From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains RoU down their golden sand, From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain. They eaU us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Java's isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile ; 1 THE STAB-SPANGLED BANNER. In vain, witli lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strewn ; The heathen, in his bhndness, Bows down to wood and stone. Can we, whose souls are lighted By wisdom from on high. Can we to man benighted The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! O salvation ! The joyful sound proclaim. Till earth's remotest nation Has learned Messiah's name. Waft, waft, ye winds. His story. And you, ye waters, roU, Till, Kke a sea of glory, It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature The Lamb, for sinners slain, Eedeemer, King, Creator, In bhss returns to reign. T THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. In 1814, vyhen the Britisli fleet was at tlie mouth of the Potomac River, and intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner were sent in a vessel, with a flag of truce, to obtain the release of some prisoners the English had taken in their expedition against Washington. They did not succeed, and were told that they would be detained till after the attack had been made on Baltimore. Ac- cordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly guarded, with the British fleet as it sailed up the Patapsco : and when they came within sight of Ft. McHenry, a short dis- tance below the city, they could see the American flag dis- tinctly flying on the ramparts. As the day closed in the bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. Mr. Skinner remained on deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every shell that was fired. While the bom- bardment continued, it was sufficient proof that the fort had not surrendered. It suddenly ceased some time be- fore day ; but as they had no communication with any of the enemy's ships, they did not know whether the fort had surrendered, or the attack upon it had been abandoned. They paced the deck the rest of the night in painful sus- pense, watching with intense anxiety for the return of day. At length the light came and they saw that " our flag was still there," and soon they were informed that the attack had failed. In the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took an old letter from his pocket, and on its back wi'ote the most of this celebrated song, finishing it as soon as he reached Baltimore. He showed it to his friend Judge Nicholson, who was so pleased with it that he placed it at once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after, it was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, and took its place at once as a national song. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNEK, Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twihght's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the periUous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming ? And the rocket's red glare, and bombs bursting in air, Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there ! Oh ! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? On the shore dimly seen thro' the mist of the deep. Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines in the stream ; 'Tis the star-spangled banner. Oh ! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. HISTORY OF "SWEET BY-AND-BY." And wliere is tliat band who so vauntingly swore, 'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a countiy they'd leave us no more ? Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution No refuge could save the hii'ehng and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand. Between their loved home and the war's desolation ; Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the power that made and preserved us a" nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. And this be our motto, " In God is our tinist." And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. HISTORY OF "SWEET BY-AND-BY." Me. Bennett and Mr. Webster, a music wiiter, were in- timate friends. The latter was subject to despondency. One day be came in to wbere bis friend Bennett was at business — while in one of bis melancholy moods — " What is the matter now ! " Bennett said, noticing bis sad countenance. " No matter," said Webster ; " it will be right by-and-by." "Yes, that sweet by-and-by," said Bennett. "Would not that sentiment make a good hymn, Webster 1 " " Maybe it would," replied Webster indifferently. Turning to the desk — Bennett wrote the three verses to the hymn, — and handed them to Webster. When he read them his whole demeanor changed. Stepping to his desk, he began to write the notes. Having finished them, he requested his viohn, and played the melody. It was not over thirty minutes from the first thoughts of the hymn HISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. before the two friends, and two others who had come in, in the meantime, were singing all the parts together. A bystander, who had been attracted by the music, and listened in tearful silence, remarked, " That hymn is im- mortal." It is now sung in every land under the sun. SUWA^nEE RIVER. Quite interesting is the history of the darky melody, " Suwanee Eiver," from the fact that the song was written and the name fitted to it afterwards. It is not often that an author finds his subject after his article has been penned, but in this case it was so. We give in a conversation be- tween two friends the circumstances which gave it its name. " Did you ever hear how ' Suwanee Eiver ' was wiitten ? " " Do not think I ever did." "Well, Steph Foster — Stephen C. Foster was his full name — was in the zenith of his popularity when he wrote the words," said my friend to me. " He had written the song in the frame house on Sundusky street, in Allegheny, but he couldn't find the name of a river that suited him. Finally he went over to the office of his brother, Morrison Foster, sat down on his desk, and said: 'Morrison, I've got a new darky song here, and it's complete except the name of the river. I want a Southern river with only two or three syllables. Grive me one, won't you % ' " Morrison suggested several, but they didn't suit. Then he took down an atlas, ran his eye over a map of the Southern States for a few minutes and finally said: ' Here's a river in Florida by the name of Suwanee ; how will that do?' " ' That's it, that's it,' exclaimed the song-writer, jumping from the desk. ' It's just what I want,' and picking up a THE TWO ANGELS. pen, he inserted tlie name of tlie river that has since be- come the title of one of the sweetest and most pathetic of melodies. I believe that Stephen C. Foster never thought very much of the piece himself until after it had taken its place among the popular songs of the century." THE TWO ANGELS. Besides the sweet sentiment contained in these verses, there is also connected with the poem a touching and in- teresting history. You wiU find in reading the department, " Homes of Our Authors," that Mr. Longfellow and Mr, Lowell were near neighbors in Cambridge. In a social as well as a Hterary sense, they were the warmest of friends, and the closest relation existed between the two families. On the night of Mrs. Lowell's death a child was born to Mr. Longfellow, and this gave subject to the beautiful Hues. The first angel represents the child of Mr. Longfellow, and the second one spoken of as leaving the house, referred to the spirit of Mrs. Lowell. The friend referred to is Mr. Lowell. As a reply to this poem Mr. Lowell wrote "After the Buiial." THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o'er our village as tlie morning broke, Tlie dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same, -Alike their features and their robes of white ; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame And one with asphodels, hke flakes of Hght. I saw them pause on their celestial way ; Then said I, Avith deep fear and doubt oppressed. HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. " Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest ! " And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in weUs The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain. That oft before had filled or haunted me. And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice ; And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best. Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with hght, " My errand is not Death, but Life," he said. And ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped. 'Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine. The angel with the amaranthine wreath. Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, "Whispered a word that had a sound Hke Death. Then f eU upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin ; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room. Two angels issued, where but one went in. AH is of God ! If He but wave His hand. The mists collect, the rain f aUs thick and loud, TlU, with a smile of hght on sea and land, Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death ahke are His ; Without His leave they pass no thi-eshold o'er ; Who, then, would wish or dare, beheving this. Against His messengers to shut the door ? "AFTER THE BUBIAL." "AFTER THE BURIAL." Yes, faith is a goodly anchor, Where skies are as sweet as a psabn, At the bows it lolls so stalwart. In bluff broad-shouldered calm. And when o'er breakers to leeward The scattered surges are hurled, It may keep oiu- head to the tempest. With its grip on the base of the world. But after the shipwreck, tell me What help in its iron thews. Still true to the broken hawser. Deep down among seaweed and ooze ? In the breaking gulfs of sorrow. When the helpless feet stretch out, And you find in the deeps of darkness No footing so soHd as doubt — Then better one spar of memory ; One broken plank of the past — That our poor hearts may cHng to, Tho' hopeless of shore at last. To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the heart its sweet despair. Its tears on the thin worn locket, With its beauty of deathless hair. Immortal ! I feel it, and know it ; Who doubts it of such as she ! But that's the pang's very secret — Immortal away from me. There is a httle ridge in the church-yard, 'Twould scarce stay a child in its race, But to me and my thoughts 'tis wider Than the star-sown vague of space. MISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. Your logic, my friend, is perfect ; Your moral most di*earily time ; But the earth that stops my darling's ears, Makes mine insensate, too. Console if you will, I can bear it, - 'Tis a weU-meant alms of breath ; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made death other than death. Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, But I who am sickly and weak Would give aU my income from dreamland For her rose-leaf pahn on my cheek. That little shoe in the comer, So worn and wrinkled and brown. Its motionless hoUow confronts you, And argues your wisdom down. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. When Mr. Longfellow was quite a young man and teach- ing, lie passed every morning, noon, and evening by the blacksmith's shop, which was on the road between his home and school. His daily passing and re-passing soon made him familiar with the " smithy," and often he would stop and pass a few moments in friendly chat and watch- ing him work. These circumstances gave rise to the poem. Some simple memoir has been put up in honor of the blacksmith, and from part of the "spreading chestnut tree " a chair was made and given Mr. Longfellow by the children of Cambridge on his seventy-second birth-day. He gave it a prominent place in his library, where it can be seen to-day. -1^ THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, fi'om mom till night. You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village beU, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Simday to the church. And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice. Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singiag in Paradise ! HISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough har.d he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — ^rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begun. Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! A PRISONER FOR DEBT. This poem by Mr. Whittier was suggested by seeing an old man thrust in a prison near his home and kept there for months because he had some trifling debt which he was unable to pay. It is said that this poem by Mr. Whittier in America and some of Charles Dickens's books in England did more to break up the custom of imprison- ing people for debt than any other influence. THE PEISONEE FOE DEBT. Look on him ! — through his dungeon grate Feebly and cold, the morning hght Comes stealing round him, dim and late. As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed. His hand upholds his drooping head, — His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; A PRISONER FOR DEBT. And o'er his bony fingers flow His long, dishevelled locks of snow. No grateful fire before him glows, And yet the winter's breath is chill ; And o'er his half -clad person goes The frequent ague thrill ! Silent, save ever and anon, A sound, half mvumnr and half groan, Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer's bearded Up ; sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chained and desolate ! Just God ! why hes that old man there ? A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, Grieam on him, fierce and red ; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear. And, or in wakefulness or sleep. Nerve, flesh, and pulses thriLL and creep Whene'er that ruffian's tossing hmb, Crimson with murder, touches him ! What has the gray-haired prisoner done ? Has murder stained his hands with gore Not so ; his crime's a fouler one ; God made the old man poor ! For this he shares a felon's ceU, — The fittest earthly type of heU ! For this, the boon for which he poiu-ed His yoimg blood on the invader's sword, And counted Ught the fearful cost, — His blood-gained hberty is lost ! And so, for such a place of rest. Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest. And Saratoga's plain ? HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. Look forth, thou man of many scars, Through thy dim dimgeon's iron bars ; It must be joy, in sooth, to see Yon monument upreared to thee, — Piled granite and a prison cell, — The land repays thy service weU ! Go, ring the beUs and fire the guns. And fling the starry banner out ; Shout " Freedom ! " till your hsping ones Give back their cradle-shout ; Let boastful eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame ; Still let the poet's strain be heard. With glory for each second word. And everything vdth breath agree To praise " our glorious liberty ! " But when the patron cannon jars, That prison's cold and gloomy waU, And through its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind and fall, — Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer ? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry ? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb. What is your carnival to him ? Down with the law that binds him thus ! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of God and human kind ! Open the prison's living tomb. And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code To the free sun and air of God ; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Almighty's hand. CUBIOUS LITEBART PBOBVCTION. CURIOUS LITERAEY PRODUCTION. [The following is one of the most remarkable compositions ever written. It evinces an ingenuity peculiarly its own. The initial letters spell "My boast is in the glorious cross of Christ." The words in italic, when read on the left-hand side from top to bottom, and on the right-hand side from bottom to top, form the Lord's Prayer complete :] Make known the gospel truth, our Father King ; Yield up Thy grace, dear Father, from above ; Bless us with hearts wJiich feelingly can sing : " Our li£e Thou art forever, Grod of Love." Assuage our grief in love for Christ, we pray. Since the Prince of Heaven and Glory died. Took all sins and hallowed the display. Infinite being, first man, and then was crucified. Stupendous Grod ! Thy grace and power make known ; In Jesus' name let all the world rejoice. Now labor in Thy Heavenly kingdom own. That blessed kingdom, for Thy saints the choice How vile to cotne to Thee is all our cry ; Enemies to ThyseM and all that's Thine ; Graceless our tvill, we hve for vanity ; Loathing the very &eing, evil ifi' design — O God, Thy will be done from earth to Heaven ; Reclining on the gospel let tis Hve, In earth from sin delivered and forgiven. Oh ! as Thyself, but teach us to forgive ; Unless its power temptation doth destroy, Sure is our fall into the depths of woe. Carnal in mind, we have not a glimpse of joy Raised against Heaven ; in ms no hope we know give us grace, and lead us on the way ; Shine on t